The making of a tear is a terribly difficult job. One might tell you – if they so wished- that a tear was merely a result of chemical reactions that informed the tear duct that it is required to produce this salty liquid. One may also be wrong.

Each glistening tear is painstakingly made, taking hours upon hours of work. You're laughing now aren't you? You think it is ludicrous that one tiny droplet of condensed salty water could take so long to create. You imagine that the time between tears, those slippery drops falling so rapidly, would take hardly seconds to fall to their deaths with an unlikely whisk of the hand. You think the time is too short. That it takes moments, not hours. You are mortal.

Tear-crafting is a specialised talent taking lifetimes to perfect. Tears that are hand-crafted in ducted workshops are sterilised and equipped for that exact purpose. You cannot imagine the work that goes into one of your useless tears. Yes. They are useless.

It has taken thousands of years, hundreds upon millions of tears for this realisation to evolve. There is only joy in the making of a tear, an encompassing joy that surpasses all need for reason. Perhaps –in a time long lost – there was a purpose for this creation and destruction of tears. Now tears are merely a novelty, a hobby of creative minds and the embodiment of your soul's pain.

But your soul's pain is part of life. We feel it, we feed it and we play out the actions it cannot. The broken soul, cracked upon the steps of time, cannot move its way into your heart. It cannot slip its failing ghostly whispers of nuance, into your mind. It has no hands yet needs many. It is we who give it hands; we give it movement and we give it will. Your life revolves around our participation in your soul's desire.

You are still sceptical. You do not believe that these tears are not your own. But there are times in your short existence where you are unable to cry, are there not? This is just one example of our ability, not your inability. We work so very hard on these beautiful drops, the elongated spheres of shifting clarity that you so callously wipe away. We take our time, moulding together the molecules, adding the colours and the tastes to create the best tears that we can. Rainbow makers. Glistening baubles of pure fun. You have no concept of these ideals. You see our labour as a result of weakness, of childhood and of worthlessness. Eons of craft lost in the barbaric practices of a long obsolete species of being called humanity.

The human being is a vessel. You have no purpose other than to house our creations. As for those few empty beings, broken in mind, who cannot cry; those are the beings that we have left. We have removed ourselves from their decaying husks and moved on to a newer specimen: a welcoming child, mourning widower, or broken lover. Our sole purpose is to create your tears, let them fall from lidded orbs, and watch them die upon the slick surface of your lives. Such waste that I can hardly comprehend.

Yet, that, that is merely the beginning of so much more.