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They do not do so. They have names; reality does not. How is it, in any event, that they so invest themselves with such importance? What a piteously naive arrogance is therein displayed. Are they truly so unaware of their small place in the yard of existence, so ignorant of the length of space and the breadth of time, of the flight of galaxies, of the journeys of streaming light, perhaps touching nothing for a hundred thousand years; are they unaware even of the patience of stone, cogitating its memories of a molten youth? It is hard to accept that they are the offspring of stars, a freshened reconfiguration of antique components long ago expelled into the darkness, but are we not all such? They are so tiny, and so generally useless, an active rash on quietude, a small noise, perhaps brave in its way, in the night. But are we not, in our way, as well? When the Nameless One stirred the cauldron of stars did it intend them? Are they not a lapse of sorts? Might it have been distracted at the time? But in what workshop or cauldron was formed the Nameless One itself? From what unseen seas was it itself cast forth, beached on shores burnt by drifting, incandescent tides, and from whence came these, the tides, the continents, these, too, children of the mystery? Before the Nameless One, you see, is the Mystery. It is that which was, and that which is, and that which will be. And none have lifted its veil. - (Kur of Gor, Chapter )