Closings bear some inauguration whose prolog was that which spawns it now.
Near at hand is a hello.
Is this extraction inevitable?

In a manner of pure symbioses, truly, but not entirely.

Wherein does permutation dwell?
Is change an absolute or metamorphosis
    Certainly, with certainty,
    Not invariably, but in actuality, constantly.

Can a dawning be alone without an ending?
Perhaps one more precious than it's callow precursor?
I suppose.
But not this time.

But I would never suppose to bid your passage,
Only to render a supporting foster where only the sum and substance of my soul exist,
And flourish to welcome, to nurture, and cherish
The substance you bear
And the sum I so deeply adore.

But I am constrained with a connection that does too profoundly yoke my consciousness.

An imperishability pierces so deeply.
Yet there is no matter, flow, light, connective.
Its bare drive pushes mine wherever it be and impresses it's rhythm upon it.

Why then it's unwavering prolongation without a meritorious confederacy to fulfill,
One that is fitting of this authentic magnificence.

Such a remarkable tariff is carried upon This Wonder, unused.
But I can give this to none else -
It is as
undetachable as its inception.

For what this would serve, but now does,
Would elucidate, but only enslaves.

My soul no longer alone, nor strictly my own.

But perhaps it is not what is sought.
Or sought as I.
(Or why).

Aversed, even grievously. I face the circumfused vivid vivification of the real recluse-
feared inconceivable junction in undivided profundity
    That rises from well seasoned transparency:

        This actuality maintains no occasion for me except unaccompanied.
    Not as I solicit, nor for the continuation.
It has mindfully rewarded me, abundantly, so there are no circumstances.
    I cannot feast upon it through another.
    A doom seems sworn in such encircled.

Life is a possessive lover.
And too literally altruistic.

March 28, 1995