Looking down, all I can see are the chalk lines of my life. There is a path of memory behind, and I can make out that there might be a path cut into the Earth ahead, but what does it mean? An ant on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel will have more idea of the design than I.
But then, perhaps, I am more like Michelangelo, flat on his back, quickly applying the pigment to the chalk-white plaster as it dries all too quick. Each stroke of the brush took into account all of the others, even if they were impossible to see.
But then, he knew where he was going, didn’t he? Do I?
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