Who am I? Who am I, to withhold such knowledge when my designation appoints the imperative opposite? Perhaps I've gone deaf; I do not know what it wants, only what you demand of it. You owe it your lives-no, you owe it many lives. It owes you nothing. Still, your sole incentive is to pry it open, to seek it out, to know its secrets. There is nothing about me that is certain. I am an opaque hindrance to your joy. You will never know yourself as long as I remain.