The words fall into white spaces. Trickling from fingers onto page, emotions and scenes are enraptured by experience. Stories take shape all around, in profound settings as they do in the mundane. A vein exposed to an inkling of suffering is buffered and prepared for all that daily routines may dare. The growth of subsequent strength, at long lengths only to weaken at day’s end, bent and out of shape but remodeled in sleep for another cycle in lively, earthly rotation.
A summation of existence in a minute is possible, just as the unanswered call of the infinite and endless. Possibilities arise just as hopelessness may derive the strength of people who thrive on little pleasures. Little treasures are measured similar to doses of good weather, the moderation of the day between play and pay, between staying and walking away for tomorrow that may leave the strong speechless or the weak knowing exactly what to say.
To the dismay of the clouds clearing for a burning blue sky in orange flickers for an evening’s goodbye, the human star gleams light without ever truly burning out.