All of what you see before you, all of it is merely my 10,000 interpretations of a day in the life. And I know I will never get it right, this one day that I have, that I try and live, over and over again. That is how I see it, at any rate: all of us only have today, this one day: our Lord told us not to think of the morrow, and yesterday is not but a memory, so what else do we have? We were all of us caught at birth by an incredible stream whose beginning and whose end we will never know, except maybe in story, given this gift called today. And some of us decided to write about it, this thing we are living in, or paint, or sing. For everything under the sun having always been around, it can be surprisingly new, from time to time; and this illusion itself of time can be quite novel in its tapestry. But I have seen the secret, that all we have is this one day, this being it: today: and I will see if I can describe it, what I see, and hear, etc. For I think that when we finally sleep, it will be a long time to wake.
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