The work never seems to end. One article near completion, and another calls.  How this town is precious to the world the way it is I shall have no words for today.  Another call returns the matter to the point of origin, the design, in the Grand Design.  How many worlds, big and small, call everyday I cannot begin to explain how a telephone should be designed in the future, oh, the far future, if only there were 2000 hours in a day.  Frontier, where we all are, all my friends, and a few of my enemies, all wanting to move forward in each their own motion, that takes a million million million seconds to decipher and recollect, and here I pen only two hundred words a day.  The brain has no final capacity, virtually no limits.  How many children have I passed that I looked internally with regret that I could not give a few choice words to, so they may know the extraordinary strength they possess, the incredible hurdles that must be overcome, to reach that plateau, that pasture, when we know we have arrived, finally, to this land to do our work.  Alas! I think that there are many many worlds: the geopolitical worlds cannot begin to comprehend the extents to which we could grow and blossom like spring daisies and daffodils upon this green pasture below the bright blue sky.  

Here now at the age of thirty-nine and almost four and zero, it strikes me how leisure and wonder are both possibilities in the world's potential.  There is still much unsaid and undone though much have been uttered at least by those about and much have been done too by those about.  I am best inclined to suppose I have done little, but in retrospect, it all seems like without recognition much goes unseen and so unrecognized.  Pity the fool who steals the glory - I joke.