There was this image as it once was, existing but not present, as if waiting to be seen. A velleity at birth, when the bright angles of incidence gave it breath, alive but losing the life of itself. It encouraged the uninterested to be spectators, satisfied by the penumbra of procrastination. Then, some asked, βIs it giving?β Some beatific scrap held the disappointed secretly pleased, wondering at the simultaneity of the fragmentary and the fulfilled. For most, the dream remained a hoped-for desire, fading; for some, it became more than an image, it became life itself and love. And so tomorrow and tomorrow awaken the expectation that moves into the cave of the soul and exchanges nostalgia for potential. The image, cloaked in flowing forms and fraught with its imperfections, is paralyzed by hesitation, yet comes alive through love. Love nests the penitent within the inspirational expanse. Progression, like breathing, patterns purpose into practice. So carry the dream through remorseβs unknown, beyond the shadowed faces of the bitter dead, and dwell eternal in its numinous victory.