Let them bloom, dammit. Let them bloom, even as it snows.
Ripples always lie atop waterways; depth always lies below surfaces; white always threatens to burst through from behind black.
Someday it will all be over. Someday all things will all be over. Life does not continue; life does not go on. This is the nature of things and also the meaning of things.
I am not so very old yet, but of course someday I will be.
By then, regrettably, there is no doubt that I will have seen more than I have now.
An entire world forever awaits everyman; it remains for all practical purposes a mythological place, a legend, a heliographic mirage, a lost and remembered blessing.
There is no “entire world.”
There is no “tomorrow.”
All of these are ideology. All of these are cosmology. All of these are wishes made alone while running frantically from the pouring rain.
Sometimes there is nothing to do but play Marlon Brando’s part.