6672. Mist Upon the Windowpane

The storm has drifted beyond the horizon, leaving the sky vast and scrubbed clean, the stars breaking through the dark like sharp, brilliant diamonds scattered upon velvet. For what is there, ultimately, to substitute for that quiet stillness of the soul, that untroubled clarity which no mountain of bank notes nor scribbled ledgers, chased so breathlessly through the golden, wasted years, could ever purchase?

The heavy chains have slipped away; one stands unencumbered at last.

And yet, what is it that truly satisfies the restless heart of a man? Is it the devotion of a woman, the solid comfort of brick and mortar, the steady pulse of robust health, or perhaps some grand, elusive purpose woven into the fabric of the universe?

Answers do not come; they dissolve like mist upon the windowpane, leaving only a swarm of burning, persistent questions that flicker in the mind like candles in the mud. Let the autumn leaves drift where they will, tumbling blindly into the earth. The night yields, the light breaks open, and one steps forward to greet the radiant, glorious morning.