Another interlude, another day; insouciant blossoms exude in perennial Arcadian fray. Beatitude in existence, forsooth, is buttressed by its decay.
"My Brother, my poor Brothers, it is thus;
This life itself holds nothing good for us,
But ends soon and nevermore can be;
And we knew nothing of it ere our birth,
And shall know nothing when consigned to earth:
I ponder these thoughts and they comfort me."
"A discerning one might easily regard himself at present as the animalisation of God." -Nietzsche
I've been thinking.
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