It is one of those long barren periods where nothing of any real interest happens. It is as if something is happening, but it is happening elsewhere. As though life is lived through rumours and speculation, while what really matters takes place beyond the horizon. You turn to look into the distance as though distance itself will speak to you of what goes on out there, but the horizon is mute, bare. It is a long way away and your life seems even further away, beyond reach, almost beyond understanding.
Mystery is all you have to hang onto, as the world dissolves and reforms around you. Mystery hints at some meaning amongst all these shifting shapes. Mystery gives the illusion of purposefulness, of activity towards some sort of goal, something that will one day untangle before you.
But, now, in the end it is only the mystery that will remain.
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