Surely, think I, this insidious, creeping malady cannot make us turn on ourselves, reawaken old hatreds, ignite old fears, stoke mistrusts, feed blind greed....salve nothing but disregard in moments still so possible with potential.
Surely, think I, this being called Man, this shell, this thing that is me, too - with all of these tools - cannot forget the Breath on Clay that made him Whirlwind, realized: miraculous Accident of the Ages, exploded and knit together, over millenia, like molded rocks, shocked back to life, and fulcrum wiser.
Surety: the thing of children, comforted. The Mirror of the Ages, held. Time, still, for Patience, achieved.
Agony, that it has taken so many patients. The Lesson learned, again.
