All is dark. All is tranquil. One satinesque gleam overpowers my eyes. my tired pupils
dilate and calm. One lonely strand of pearls, like a feather, runs daintily along the wood,
leaving its mark of pure, exquisite beauty and bringing with it a most terrifying promise
that we, too, are leaving marks. Its stark white stands out against the envious shades of
grey and black that hover nearby. I cling to the hope that this, my gracious covenant
will deem me unworthy of being published into history as a wretch. I plea–my God,
let me not be as still, as unbreathing, as the wood, nor as boastful as these pearls!
We weave our own ways, not knowing that in doing so, we consign ourselves to history.