The broken man lingers about. An erratic path unmolested by intention. His preoccupation is deliverance. Perhaps we wait in abeyance perhaps we shred our hope and our dignity with a disdain for living. In any case he bides time. Time is not his master but ours.Unrecognized for evolutionary purposes we shuffle through days uncounted. We are suffused with the minutiae of living. Distracted by the bright lights and luminescence this world affords.
But in a background, behind a moldy curtain, in the distant darkened woods he waits. There are no stars out here between the moon and the sun. The forest lay silent, unwilling to reveal itself to Him.