Vlad Tepes (1431 - 1476 CE)The theorists are mistaken. Like all philosophers who prate of elegance, or truth, they are misled. They know only that which can be discerned in the short span of small lives blinded by their own, encroaching, mortality. The pulse of a star is slow: God's blood clots only heavily into matter, a magma thickening below the crust of the visible, returning to engulf all the billion incidental galaxies in oblivion, creating and annihilating with equal indifference the brutal and the kind. Little creatures with little lives, credulous to fear that I rely on your substance; such easy prey ill becomes a Prince. I would disdain to hunt Kings.