The evening sunlight smears the horizon across scattering waves of an open sea. By gentle existence of its own delphic rhythm, it is without knowing– certain. The shuffled pebbles of Shale and the blooming clouds of Aster will lie still in this seeming contradiction: how will every angle, of broken fragments and unfettered chaos, find purchase to relieve these unbodied shadows?

Yet still here by surprise, those yellow sunglasses lay on the backseat to become only a memory; you drive on.

The foundries of passion, untouched by serenity to accept the emptied effigy of cold-stone, will roar. It clammers. It pounds and screams overwhelmed to love and eager to divine what purpose is left– anything but the gratitude of finding that those shapeless remains are still only you.

A song plays that draw a daydream. Like a warm autumn breeze, like a patient stab, it assuredly sings however faded. But you walk on.

This path you brandished you lit with your carried torches. You waded into the bramble brazened to find another curious sunrise or the temperate beating of friendly hearts. But unrelenting, the dampened earth demands from the broken, of what only they can seek. It claims from the lost, of what only they will find. At the end of the footpaths, in the muddied swamps, there is a mere reflection. And as you stare and sink under the weight of the things you lost, in only this certain moment, it calls on you to give– to find what you have left and give. For any million words, you can’t return. But you may gather the courage to brandish your sword and charge onwards. To find the sagacity and perchance in love you may not perish.

To share the sharp laughter and tranquil sympathy of those you have gotten to know or those you will come to know. Because wherever you stumble, we’ll be here again, lost in the bramble to face the quiet peace and perhaps this time to return our wisdom to the swamp. For this is our humanity.