Miracles. Events with astronomical odds of occurring.
Like oxygen turning into gold.
I've longed to witness such an event. Yet i neglect that in human coupling, millions upon millions of cells compete the creat life, for generation aftee generation until finally, your mother loves a man: Edward Blake. A man she has every reason to hate.
But out of that contradiction, against unfathomable odds, it's you, only you that emerged. To distill so specific a form, from all that chaos.
It's like turning air into gold. A miracle. And so, i was wrong.
Now dry your eyes, and let's go home.