Bound in shadowed fetters and hurtling through a starless darkness, a tossing, turning storm without light, I wonder how, amid all the chaos, nothing good ever just happens. You would think, I had thought, that this randomness would be equal parts good and bad—big highs and big lows—but experience in this madness has taught me that good things are, in general, complex.
A good is never just a good; it’s a series, a building up, some sort of consistent direction. The steps themselves, how I see it now, might not seem good in themselves, only becoming good in the fruition. No, there is no good in this madness and toil, for nothing builds upon nothing, and nothing remains.
Tale Told 