Morning, again. Another lovely patchwork of green and gold, light and song. My own words don't come to mind as much as this, the ending of a book I love, Fahrenheit 451. I ponder the inexplicable quality of life, of the work of being alive, and my unconscious brings this passage to the front of my memory. So I offer it here:
But now there was a long morning's walk until noon, and if the men were silent it was because there was everything to think about and much to remember. Perhaps later in the morning, when the sun was up and had warmed them, they would begin to talk, or just say the things they remembered, to be sure they were there, to be absolutely certain that things were safe in them. Montag felt the slow stir of words, the slow simmer. And when it came his turn, what could he say, what could he offer on a day like this, to make the trip a little easier? To everything there is a season. Yes. A time to break down, and a time to build up. Yes. A time to keep silence, and a time to speak. Yes, all that. But what else. What else?