Greetings, Resonant 0696943.

I am Seer.

And it has been brought to our attention, but you have been having trouble sleeping.

Your direct overseers have seen fit to provide you a story, one written several hundred

years ago.

A children's story by one Hans Christian Anderson.

Perhaps once the story is through, you will have found a moral.

In the midst of a garden there grew a rose bush, quite covered with roses, and in the

most beautiful of them all there lived an elf, an elf

so tiny that no mortal eye could see him.

But he was as well made and as perfect as any child could be, and he had wings reaching from his shoulders to his feet.

Behind each petal of the rose, he had a tiny bedroom.

Oh, how fragrant his rooms were, and how bright and transparent the walls, for they were

the beautiful pale pink petals of the rose.

All day long the little elf rejoiced in the warm sunshine as he flew from flower to flower or danced

on the wings of the fluttering butterflies and measured how many steps he would have to take

to pass along all the roads and paths on a single linden leaf.

You see, what we call veins on a leaf, were high roads and byways for him.

It was a long journey, and he had begun it rather late. So, before he finished, the sun had gone down.

It turned very cold. Dew fell, and the wind blew. It was high time he went home.

He hurried as fast as he could.

But to his dismay, he found that the rose had closed its pedal for the night.

...