Upon a mass far greater than you or I, lye an inkling. Not that of worry or spite, but of regeneration- a variable of hope, if you will. It stretches across a void that sees no ending, yet enables space to growth. I seek there with naught but a shovel and a seed. Thus far, the soil had appeared with little of life upon its’ surface, balancing only quarrel and question. Yet in less than a span of months it obtained its’ consciousness.

However, mark my words: I was so prepared in my efforts, that it remains unattained. Somewhere- far beyond the valleys stretched upon thought, it grows. I can choose of two options: wait for its roots to reach my lingering being- or seek it out again on my own.

Well- truly, which have I ever been shorter from faith upon?