The time is now and if I do not write, what good are all the hours of my life? Too long I lingered in the shadows, pale imitations of a dream, whiling away my time with fancies and with fantasy, but NOW those shadows I shall cast, that stand out bold and clear, distinct from every meager spectre of the dying day. What good the empty page? Yes, just so. The page. Who ever heard such pouring forth, extemporaneously, there is not time enough to send my thoughts to shake the fount and center of the earth. But here is this, I cannot form but wish a form to life, exhale my breath as prayer and come an empty vessel to that humbling page. And all those spectral auditors, the shadows spectating even as I who came a member of that formless audience beyond the form of Life, a story, Truth; a witness in the dark to the illumined forms of Love spelled out upon the stage, and those spellbound amazed listeners will heave and sigh, breathe, gasp in my breath as I, exhaling, now send forth words. Not my words but words unto themselves, that struggle out their meaning, flare and die, even as their light illumines and inspires. How shall we fare when entertainment's cheap, the word a silver seed stolen, ransomed, bargained, begged, thrown away out in the gutter? I cannot see the fruits of what will be but toil upon the circle's edge, a leading spiral spinning, spinning, yet never to reach the center nor see the whole complete. Here's to the rim, the narrow path, the ledger lines of profession, duty, fate, or is it will? To bind myself to words, is this my choice?