Life is our existence's continual essay, and the words we still in its premise are the repercussions of our dailiness. Should we find ourselves trapped in a moment, that is no period, no decimal - that is an ellipsis. And to continue on in the spire of our days, is our living's magical working.
let us not be devoid of value. let us not be mired into the stillicide of night. let us
become.
let us
think.
let us prosper, burst with a light's amplitude beating the darkness.
let us become flesh and not the frailty of bone. let us become the memory of our hands and not the pain of their labor. let us not be the languor of air but the promised swoon of it - this appassionata - this coming to ourselves in union with the soul's furtive hieroglyph - we will understand this when we cease to be and finally become!
This was supposed to be an essay, but there is poetry in everything, and it is, factual and pragmatic, inescapable.