Goals, Beacons, The Long Night and The Lost Day

So here they come and go, work and play. Adrift, being slowly wounded by the pendulum swing of night and day. Everyday the cut grows deeper, until they are truly hewn in two, drifting slowly away from themselves, caught in orbits that never converge but on the most rare occasions, until they forget that anything is wrong at all.

Caught out in the inertial wastes of the search, with only hope’s beacon leading the way in the darkness.

The beacon is bright, its siren song beautiful…

Men need beacons, need the stars to map their course, even if the beacon is false and never found, even if stars are just wounds in the sky.