↓ Transcript
A shattering that rent sound and soul sent glass spraying across Harold's bedroom.

He huddled in his bed, a child in the night, as his visitor breached Harold's slumbering security.

"O father, my father. Come hither. Dance, sing, and see."

"We've song in the treetops. We've a feast to feed!"

"Made by my hand, my gift to thee."

"Father, sweet Father. Are you not proud of me?"