I tend to go about my daily life within reason, but without rhyme. A perpetual, insulated, pseudo singularity. Bland, short of sight and narrow of mind.
But from time-to-time I forget that the rhythm of time does not gyrate with the movers and shakers, nor step to the beat of the many moons, feasts and stars, nor observance the high and most holy places. For thyme is not sprinkled to the letter of the law and its diverse doctrines and recipes, but scattered with liberty, abundant in levity and bereft of mortal brevity.
This is the great taste of life, the never-ending marinade.
It was written that eye has not seen, nor ear heard. But I have indeed tasted, and it is good. Indeed, we have all tasted, and now savour that inner saviour.

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