Out there, within the confines of a conflict initiated long ago, within the echoes of a livid scream, with all the grace of a relief battered, shattered, broken on the shores of time only to be slowly salvaged and mended, amended and revised, reassembled and reborn with the assurance of a velvety cloud rolling through a sky forlorn, carrying moments drenched in memory and recollection, without which one cannot see the wisdom of what once was but is no more, without a doubt — without a shell of a single doubt — withstanding the temper of the shifting seasons, weathering the passing storms, whetting appetites and voracious cores with seven hundred thousand steps and seven hundred thousand more, the withering ray that shone on yesterday’s today is gone. In its stead, bright as the face of a child, stand seven wonderful dreams, within sight of our shores, without fear, without scores to settle or keep and lives to reap and years to go before we weep, and tears to shed before we sleep, tears and years of reconciled lore, beaming through the dead of night without the shadow of doubt, within the confines of a scream redeeming our weathered visions and rejuvenating our core, our core, our precious undulating corpus, writhing body, awakening the spirit within — the spirit that dwells deep within, without which life can never be, will never be, will nevermore be renounced and forgotten — the wonderful spirit of our wild nature, the wondrous spirit in us all.