Cherish each and every piece, forget all the parts. Life only grows larger as we age, unwinding in lovely humbling ways, night and day forever intertwined, precious and aloof. The murmurs upon the wind, the palaver of stones beneath the tide, the rumblings of heard, flock and swarm. Too many tongues for any one life, too much hardship and beauty for us all.
It slips the mind as you count the hours, the clamber of thoughts up the blind well, the notion of that unknown depth settling silently around. Work the fixtures, dust the frames. The pictures change while inside we never age. Disease and ordinary wear and tear grind us always, but what precious dust we become. What we will never name always outweighs all this knowing.
Words become idols, ideas perfect forms. We are enmeshed in the mistakes inherent in our language, caught in the web of our compounded lapses. From the breath of rarity we assume the weight of the inevitable. From the compounding of coincidence and an unfathomable passage of time we invent creation, and root our reasons from whatever is left behind. It is this, and only this. But the gift is this will always be too much to take. The gift is this, and it is always another measure more. Tomorrow until there isn't one, the rift of dreams until there is no waking. Bear witness, and tell no-one what you missed.