Indeed, a person of vision carves his own road, but it is not merely for slaves and the baggage train to then travel thst selfsame road.
How many times have we not traveled familiar roads or those well-worn, time-old and perhaps even venerable or worthy of esteem? Man is after all, a man of his own community, affixed to at least one circle, overlapping traits and commonalities with his fellows, perhaps even overlapping some with his very masters as much as his peers?
Do we fault the stars, or attach our own stars, even while our feet are upon the terran base?
Perhaps it is which, when indefinite, one is honed in fact to a purpose he has not chosen, byt is trading his hours, pieces of his precious life, to some definitive end, just as the very terminus of that man himself is a definitive point in space and time.
This, under the milky-gray cloud cover, having sat screaming inarticulately into the ether and then, in wickedness, in the space of a throng of lost seconds, awaiting the reverberations of same.
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