“Gone is the pale hand of winter, here is the first flush of may, and soon I will discover whether birds of the summer fly in circles or just fly away.” – A Fine Frenzy
This endeavor. Of great height. Once I longed to be taller, with my toes rooted in the soil and my fingertips brushing against galaxies. But these growth spurts stretch my ligaments with an aching strain. A strengthening of focus, yet an absence of self-indulgence. This is the cost of the maximum potential. To expunge the schlock of excess luxury. To fly is to abandon, what to abandon you may not know. But to sit is to waste away, I will face this great unknown.