A baseline human is to a witchling as a candle is to a campfire.
A witchling is to a witch as a campfire is to a volcano.
A witch is to a Constant as a volcano is to gravity. Or the color magenta. Or the warmth of a loving hug.
It's harder to kill Constants than it is to kill witches, and harder to kill witches than it is to kill witchlings, and just about as hard to kill a witchling as it is to kill a baseline human, but it's still been managed a few times. There are at least three emotions that your soul doesn't know how to feel because the beings which chose to embody them were ripped out of this world—unmade so thoroughly that they might as well have never existed in the first place.
There are other things missing too.
Holes in the world where there should have been more. Gaps in our vision, flaws in our imagination. Some things simply aren't possible any more. Some people aren't possible any more.
Reality isn't a leaking sieve.
It's gangrenous, slowly succumbing to septic shock.
The future was murdered and we're all stuck playing pretend in its rotten corpse.
