Sometime in everyone's life, withered leaves will not grow back and one autumn will not pass to spring. Sometimes we know. Suffering. The constant visitor hidden like a shadow silhouetting our life. Every slow winding hour, we move closer to when limbs falter and senses numb. Endings ever lie hidden like a corner sudden at the far end of a thrilling road. Sometimes we are sure, we are more than the frame of bones. Suffering is inferior, deliverance is the greater truth. But: we don't care, the thrill of weakness is more attractive than the calm of Self. One momentous journey, out of the false-lit comfort of familiar darkness. These that stalk us: disease, old age, death. One man could see it all in one evening what takes us many lives, may be.