Ancient sage with wisdom as old as time, often quoted but never quite rhymed; his teachings form a path to virtue, yet he never wrote a single book for you.

To gold, To gold, In times of old. Mixture, Mixture, Immortal elixir?

If it don't fit, you must acquit, though we all know he was guilty.

In the cave of shadows, this ancient thinker saw forms that danced beyond mere illusions, his dialogues still echo in academia's halls.

The first was tied to emancipation, and sadly, assassination. The last are parts of a tree, or what may float in a latrine. Together we stack with simple notches, building cabins in frontier fashion.