Ah strain, it piles over. To triumph or perish. Live forever, in high spirits and digging always your way up, or lay down in the sand and be dust.
But, do you not know, we’re in paradise?
It seems the blinking stars would only swallow the cries you never make, and so you forget while everything is sailing along calmly diligently. Until the day arrives that you discover at last you are standing at a chasm of your own making, and it asks with a bellow that dashes about the valleys and is gone, ‘who are you?’
It sounds remarkably like your voice but you’d swear you’d never made a sound.