Oh, what ground we stand on.

Oh, this terrace of collision and space. 

Where is it that we call anew?

Where do we turn?

Facing old is unnatural and unseemly.

None is precedent for novel.

We do not injure or amend.

Is growth.

The encounter of plight and boon.

A singular path on which we began prior to our conception.

When travels end, we will return home.