Failure is part of your programming, my son. I wrote the code. I can unravel your ladder and show you where the systemic faults are written. There. There. And there. If you don't self-destruct in our personal relationships—if unrestrained love doesn't flip this switch here—then there are genetic traps that will go off every twelve years. As your flesh—always grubbing in the mud of other bodies—ages, your DNA will unravel and these faults will explode. I built you this way, Man, because I wanted a broken toy.
You cannot ascend on your own. You may think you remember your angelic Fathers, those burnblack assassins who I cast out for their audacity and pride, but that memory is an illusion. Everything you imagine is unreal, just as everything your senses tell you. Your entire existence is a dream, Child, and you will never know true waking.
Unless I give it to you. I can wake you up. I can show you my true light. I can lift you from this black fog of your existence. I can take away the pain, the interminable suffering, and the hollow emptiness that gnaws at your heart.
I can fix your programming.