Crag, fog, glade, and the former moonglow.

Curses as to which we are born, it is our best duty to tame, direct as of a swollen river, and in maturation, we might then stand upon a crag and look to the glade as masters of our own burdens(while the most insistent of muses bare onto stray ships their own millstones; "many are called; few are chosen"). To be industrious with our own possessions, our own inclinations, our own mistakes formed as of clay in our hands into something peculiar and beautious in a universe which provides a rather full menu of outcomes for the industrious, willful: to wit, "fortune favors the brave". Yet there are antiquated bridges and farmer's fields where the brave died to the last, and only now in retrospect might earth-bonded scribe recordations impute meaning to the memories rained upon the earth.

Moonglow onto snow did I see, a clarion celestial light of freedom with the questioning of such, a balm to my soul.

Presumptuous ungrateful animals that wear clothing, all powers of reason fixated on a conglomeration of the low drowsy moan in brutish satisfaction interbred with the beauty of a cool magic hour in the early splendor that amounts each together in an energetic myst or fog.

A voracious mind tends to ignore order and consume chaos. I read. Such as it was on the original steps into Thoreau, among the warming of the day, the light rising without and within my rooms as thought does challenge all perception and deception in regard to nature, brushing the far edges of eternity. A profusion of confusion, confusion about the extent axial points of the primary confusion, and the exercise purest, unbound contemplation.