Millions, and millions, but particularly for reading, to you all, that without aforethought or malice I give pleasing thanks for piles of wonder. Fun, which having read past moments, crushed fine beneath the beauteous wheels of daisies and turned powder yellow on pages archived forever beyond my ken, ivory-whitened by storage regardless of desire, defined and textured, dropped over and across, it has been for me, without question or rancor. Deftly, though, while sets the sun, I pull now across the frame of linens built up over halves of decades work comprised, a blanket of ash and sticks raked from years' memorial. That wonder paused perhaps momentarily, between icon and idea, if perhaps momentary illumination or spark passed concept to execution to consumption, certainly, hope springs eternal. Without question or doubt in mind, gratitude which passes from mind to finger to key to symbol to eternity, all concept without end, passes thusly, perhaps, into the world.
Time and tide, though, are tapping their watches at the edge of the station, and though this end opens gaping, another beginning peeks through and asks if, maybe it could just sort of push along through, if we don't mind, it has a train to catch.