As I gaze upon the lonely star which rises in the east, prefacing the morning sun, I wonder if life really does exist outside the realistic realm of practicality. I would conjecture that it does not; but alas, my skepticism rears its ugly head. Life pours forth from my being, stemming from a single bud and multiplying into a sea of scions--each shoot reaching for its own identity; its own fulfillment. I believe my marrow to be of principled substance, yet I contradict even my own predications within the very bowls of my soul.

I love. I learn. I live.

My simple desire is to sit with another on such a venture; however, I know what is impossible. Just as my facile words pass into the vastness which is the aeon of the unheard, so are my juvenile sentiments of romance vanquished by the starkness of conventionalism. Perhaps the wind shall one day bring upon me a great pilgrim who might guide my cynicism to a place of reconciliation. Perhaps one day from the crow's nest the lookout will shout "hope does not avoid us; It awaits us yet ahead!"