The philosophers declared: We can’t really choose what we want.
Passion, wearing a robe crafted by goddesses, of an unimaginable fire-orange color, etches treasure maps in my mind, while
Reason, in dirty rags, shackled by the ankle at birth, observes, imagines grain by grain, shaping a sand castle of luck.
To fall after fall, not fearing fear, stumbling through a uniquely crooked path drawn on the beach, walk the walk towards the End.