Out of nothing there comes a time called childhood, which is simply a
path leading through an archway called adolescence. A small town there,
past the arch called youth.
Soon, down the road, where one almost misses the life lived beyond the
flower, is a small shack labeled, you.
And it is here the future lives in the several postures of arm on
windowsill, cheek on this; elbows on knees, face in the hands; sometimes the
head thrown back, eyes staring into the ceiling . . . This into nothing down
the long day's arc . . .