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August 13, 2007
The weeks don't really end;
they just continue on through the back
and into the next;
there are no brakes;
there is no anchor;
there is nothing but open sky on top,
terra firma beneath,
and the horizon to divide them
and whether for
cities or forests
or mountains
we lose sight of the end,
we press on ever forward in spite of it;
and one can always return,
but the journey changes everything;
Saturday and Sunday are just illusions:
the trade winds blow constant,
and my sails remain open to them,
and it's all learning not to look back.