At some point that last worm of sadness turned heavy and inward. The entire lot became wizards. Wizards, wizards in the war torn east. Wizards in the Congo. Wizards that had been raped. Wizards that were hungry, now their suffering diffused by light. The sadness, turning its trail, disappeared. The heart collapsed in and in its place sat only magic. Each day the saddest people in the world made bread and cheese from their hands, grew back new hands. Each day they picked plums from their mouths and tried to ensure none of their children would ever be wizards, ever again.