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It has been a long time since I have gone through a bout of depression with strong suicidal tendencies. I still think of it once in a while, in passing, as though suicide were an immovable grove of trees along railroad tracks that I speed past at 60 miles an hour, its edges blurred, its roots unseen, a flash of mottled green and blue that is forgotten by the time I hit the next station and think about other dimly-lit, mysterious trains. So in this temporary solemn time, I wonder about my days, the hours spent, the weeks to come and recall a passage from a book by Jose Saramago: "...to speak of yesterday, today, and tomorrow is simply to give different names to the same illusion."

The flesh and bones, the blood, the tears, the gifts! To know the almost unknowable in an instant of hope that transcends the hopelessness and fear of circumstance. Words devoid of meaning and energy give way to living destiny and impossibly endless fate. The universe is at once an exhalation of the slaves and sigh of the sages who oil the machine and grace it with poetry and preservation.