What we planted at the bottom of the garden will rise. And it will not live like living men. It may seem and move and breathe, but inside it will be hollow, an empty vessel filled only with loneliness regret and failed dreams. Having fed dark life into it we will have created a monster, and it will play its part well. Brother friend mentor lover. It will engage anger succor and breathe loamy cold into all it encounters. And at the end of its life we shall mourn, tip it back into earth, and wait for the next Spring.