I went down to the city on the plain when I was not yet ten years old, only a short time after I had discovered who I was and whence I had come. My story is simple, the story of struggle, so well known to all who come into this world, and I am writing for you, my son or daughter not yet born, so that you too may know who you are and whence you have come. Listen to the tale, which is also yours, and is told for love. Come back to me, come back to this time before you were born, to a golden morning in December as the sunlight frosts the city roofs, and a thousand singlets of smoke rise to the pure blue heavens in which I place my trust . . .