Here is the thing. It is night. Past midnight night. And the lass who writes these posts has a ten hour work day ahead of her, commencing in the early hours tomorrow morning. It does not do for her to be occupying these onyx seconds with text when sleep is calling. Yet regularity is key, it is pivotal, and if one cannot do one's job oneself, one should at least have the good sense to delegate to one more adept. This journal is a job to be done. It must be done. It must pound like a heartbeat if it is to live at all. And so, though I am duty-bound to brevity, I leave this page in the capable hands of my Moriarty, Mr T. S. Eliot:
"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time."
Yes! Life as an intrepid journey to one's starting gate! We have been gone so many years, and shall be gone so many more, but know that, far-gone though we are, we're only seeking our front door.
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