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Can that which has not been seen be recognized–or just stumbled into?

Time is a fierce foe of the future-focused; and deadlines, aptly named.

Both songs were broken, marred by mishaps and restarts. Each, though, found favor.

A band of bristled trees, a field of frosted husks. A gray, cotton sky.

It has not happened yet. But still I will give thanks. Bended knees aren’t weak.

I, too, will turn out all right in the end, but mine is a suicide.

Prostrate in a cave blanketed black, a Godly voice answers his call.