This is still my stuff.

The sun sneaks its way ’round the back. The wheels just keep on turning, and the great mechanic they power hums apace; objective, indifferent, yet ultimately inspiring our tiny hearts, setting the scene for a fresh focus. Time takes its toll on our fragile frames, yes, on our rosy lips and cheeks; but also on our yokes of care. With every inch of each revolution, disappointments dissolve into distance; with each step of every rotation, losses themselves lose their very sting. “Oh, mundane earthly matters”, as my Dad had Galdós put it: “you are not worth a single sigh”. And so we rise, though sometimes our spirits sag, and this universal marker, this covenant of continuity, on greeting us grants a glimpse of how transitory are our tribulations; and so we forge, a degree more fixed, ahead. So it goes.