I am quiet upon the world. I am absorbing the time that flows into my eyes, exhaling warmth that has lived. Dreams need not be chased, I think, every waking moment, not if they prove true enough to last through all the distractions befalling modern, miracle man. And I wonder what time it is: not in the mundane sense, but what age does the world believe itself to be in? Is it the time of hope, the time of kindness? I know it never is. But no one knows what time it is until it has past; for we are too much inside the going. I might guess it matters little, for many purposes, for fate will strike with blind precision the strangest tangents of thought, igniting them, while enterprises of great pith and moment, by its hand turn awry and lose the name of action. Who is to know what comes next? Except that much of it — no one but we make it happen.
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