There are several things that come to mind upon beginning a post such as this.
Emerson and Thoreau's best comes to mind, my fault as a writer comes to mind and my thoughts also. None of these would be possible without a muse. Every pedant needs a muse and so I have thought mine would be faithful. Yet, as is the course, she has let me down. Again.
Should this again come to naught, I will still suppose that which makes of purpose my dreams and while still dreaming will think only of this. that which proposes that I will remain the one and only same man who I come in contact with. Everyday I write the story large without recompense but only with the accompnying wit, the wisdom shared but a token without which I should wither, the same man day after day that I have to contend with is the same man without which I would die.
That same man is non other than Christ himself...gone in a whisper with my sins attached and if only for a brief moment have I held his face placid against mine own.
Ne'er a briefer moment have I held his face or him mine own.
