To thee we are not given. Yet, if so be it, could the squiggle of our narrow lives, or the then annelidous turnings of unremembered hours, joys, fears, and variegated emotions, affections, dusky dreams, could they all birth something truly full of wonder? Could they struggle to conform the disenchanted pieces of forgotten quests with the new born visions of connected passions? These are the questions. To us they are given, ripe, with that small, fruit-borne smile that quaintly, sweetly says, "journey far, suffer much, but find...find in the journey itself joy enough to slake the thirst that only such a journey may inspire." The smile is not in vain. The curve upon the lips is real. The vision flickers low, but questions may beget, and offspring, not in vain, shall, with grace and time, populate my tortuous hearth.
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