Like many such days designed and pressed with expectation, I relent rather to dormancy’s caramel tenure, that calculation has exhausted the hands would earn their bread. And it is not before the sheer that I bend; I reserve no energy for homecomings, and storm or mountain perchance be-damned if we but departed forthwith. I’m intent and flint as any have I known, but struck in aim and vernal outrage, many of the bridges from which I’ve leapt are ashes now. Mark how my wake bears charring of my passage, that life must wrung of its barbarian dreams be, and they, hitched and ridden across the arches of infinitude among such star stuff as hero’s call home, and the dying, paradise. It is not the errand itself, but the preparation that, too long drawn out, wanes the breath of that dividing lunge and kills the dashing in me. Momentous endeavours of great risk and dividend require oddly proportioned drafts of growth stratagem, and a vein of personal patience like exhibits a column saint. The better influence of discretion swells but when the sum of necessary efforts, by their own are a metric, and the cannons thus are cold that cannot a smoking wick inspire them. I have often too, fatigued myself thinking long beyond a common bound of hopes fantastical, only to climb down off my Nebula and let the air out of the day, – deflate its glorious promise, and murder all my plans and prospects thoroughly.