I wait for the convergence of all things. I do what I can to accelerate the process. For in me is the belief that time will resolve into a dew upon the light of a new dawn. That things will happen and people will act, that plans will come to fruition — if not in the common of occurrence, then in the rare instance of hope that comes to be fulfilled. I wait for the rain to fall, which will precursor the greenness of spring; I wait for the moon to be full, that I might see the color of your eyes in its pale glow. I remember to plant the seeds that the waters are drunk, and I remember to invite you out into the forest, out into the night, when the looking out will cast the proper magic. Anticipation may be a delicious thing. And the future not always to come to an end, or even then, that beginnings may sprout from the bleakest of aftermath, after the most final of ceasing.
C'est la vie