and so it goes

Nights? An ordeal. Mornings bleary eyed and reluctant. Days are alright. Every day, a little before noon, an hour after the appointed hour, he steps upon the precipice of his work, takes a deep breath (and a cup of tea) and dives, deep, only to emerge long past dusk. Days glide by like a pebble hops over a lake, each hop stealing its momentum from the last one, and lending it to the next. And so it goes.

Every day he dreams. He daydreams of a secret and fantastic destiny, that doesn't always constitute money, but always always constitutes purpose and meaning, and creation. And so it goes.