He sees this abyss before him. It goes on down and down forever, endless depth meeting endless depth. Logic says to avoid stepping close to the precipice, yet for that heightened sense of adventure, that one little tiny flower perched on a branch extending outwards into the everlasting gloom, he will defy the voices shouting at him, warning him not to take a step further. The flower is fragile and of the purest white, its five petals glistening with dewdrops. It did not compare to the exquisite rose or vibrant orchid. It is plain. Its only allure laid in its location. The more unreachable, the more dangerous, the more precious. Edging closer and closer with his eyes fixed on the flower, he falls into the darkness, scratching himself on the thorns near the flower. His splattered blood stains the flower crimson as he begins his long trip down to a place he can never know about.

And the flower watches impassively, waiting for the next person to fall in love with it.