Turn, earth, and may always these clouds remind of thankfulness of what remains above even as it pours down, with caprice and truth. What is beyond order, but futility?; is anything beyond that? Does the One who is All question his own absoluteness? I fear I would, for how could I know; thus I certainly am not there is comfort in trusting, too cowardly to embrace futility thus I weep, to doubt the one I love and love not. To cease to exist seems preferable to failure, but again I seek the solution of one weak -- namely myself. I am not made to be futile, but good and slowly, in an instant, I shall become who I am, outside time.

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