The pencil tip touches the paper and

Looking at this I say, "a sad day has trespassed. A stumble, a poorly placed brick: yes there is always tomorrow, but today there is no excuse!" But what's done is done: time bears down at the same steady rate irrespective of the choices enfolded in the hours...now there is tomorrow, but no longer today.

The pencil tip returns briefly, recalled by the sobering thought. For I have wasted years already! Nothing more can stop the marathon in its tracks; the trudge must continue on. Repetitiously, deliriously, on this day of doubt.

Meager graphite scavengings, I send you off with today hoping that tomorrow may better find its way–although to rely on hope would be naïve. And as for this day which is fading and will never return: goodbye, with love.

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The desires of the mind pull in a hundred directions, each one an indulgence. How to confront this treacherous terrain? It is a matter of holding out long enough to get things done, but not too long so as to develop detachment from living (). Oh, it's sad way to live! How can the seeds of dreams and joy, bright eyes and good minds, take root in such soil? Find a way to lay down your arms, make life not a matter of war!