A Night of Writting

Pen grasped in hand, gleeming from the teeming mind of a word smith. From nights aside a candle do much notions sire, full of thoughts apprended from rich garners of high piled books beheld. Now scrawling his own book authored by the fateful hand of providence at which hour he feels to be the creature of the hour. Meanwhile, continuing to write. Lamenting that in some day to come never shall his eyes behold upon her more and relish in her faerie powers of encantation. Outside the evening's mooned face, enamourous sheens. Time spent in his study, sheltered, enraptured by an illumed milieu full of night's returned incantations. How many evenings shall he live to retrace its recapitulations? The evolution of ceasing to be. Lingering, fading ivory vapors of a cebub cerecloth the vista of sand gradually passing through the hour glass of time. In this tenatent world some stand alone, while others tower above. How biting it is to envisage evanescent eminence and to confront how ultimately to nothingness we do dwindle, save what one has left behind of one's own 'être' in this temporal domain.

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