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...ng. But no words can interpret the shadow of a dream and no dream can be transplanted into the minds of others. What do we have, but memories, when the activities that drive our purpose fade away?

But what good are memories tomorrow?

Yesterday is the slimy track behind a snail. It exists, as an indication of life’s passing, not as a description of its character or a painting of its life. Today we have and “now” is the only place we can call our own. Within the stillness there is movement. Where is the insightful eye? Where is the sense that detects the destination of the current's flow that carries us silently into tomorrow?

Here, alone, I am the battlefield; within me there is war. Imperfection and destructive trends are my internal enemies. Death calls for satisfaction; with her web she cloaks my ignorance and with her poison she numbs my insensibilities. Today, I will not neglect the light, nor the space between Chimera and tomorrow…

I look out to the horizon, ever moving, yet to my eye, ever still. What awaits us over the edge? Is it, like the horizon, forever unattainable? What stagnant pool of drudgery will we cross on this voyage of discontented discovery?

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