Once more I contemplate the empty page and whatever could be gleaned from its eloquent silence – as if it were possible for its personification to latch onto my thoughts and coax them to work, churn, tumble and breathe, the first few breaths of a new weazened dawn that has yet to ever supersede the night. It is, though, in the finitude of our ever-coddled, frail dawns that one speculates the infinitude of the finite; or rather, in the very limits that seem to deplete the human being of his humanity, that the humanity comes to meet its most noble calling: that to ever be what it has been crafted with seamless artistry to be, and what it has been vested with and destined, by boundless graciousness, to become.

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