Tired Two

The purpose of all this is, perhaps, misdirection - a dialectic in smoke and mirrors, if you will. Though likely this soliloquy will flounder on invisibly, its vague anonymity serves sufficient, all the same.  Day two draws nigh as night  washes over this countryside, climbing from deep in the valley, up the hillsides, until a cloak of twilight floods across the earth entire.  And I have arrived victorious, though vici not alone.
Today is a tired day, and tomorrow will compound the effect doubly, I'm sure. Yet though the path still stretches on towards forever, I pray my accountability is kept, my planted seeds carefully parceled over yielding, fertile ground.
I'm drawing near, as sunlight for tomorrow, and I pray you see the gold around the mountaintops and praise the Lord the morning draws ever nigh. For this is a tired two, and I can't bear the shame without hope, or the hope without pain.

Patterns on the Wall

The venue both ancient and inexplicable, tenuous and transient; it caters to whimsy and adventure, but bides not long. It is an exhibition, mysteries shrouded in smoke and mirrors. The distinguishing characters blend naturally, no seam divides reality and chimera, but it exists, you know it must. And sitting in the audience, you grasp at each hint, until you realize you are only someone else's performance, the performers examining you in return, marveling at the mundane.