A sense of dignity is essential to a sense of destiny. Without this support, fear of tragedy extorts us daily, often unconsciously. Then we take caution (and precaution) beyond rational bounds and common sense. Hence the birth of superstition.
How heartily do others inspire our hope despite the port that compels, especially when these contradict where they sail? How much in their presence do we embrace ourselves? How much of ourselves do we surrender amid bids and barter? Do bids breed resilience or resignation instead? Do we discern ...
How much of our regard hides contempt for their radius because of their recrudescence? How often do we seek surrogates to support our need to connect with something more humane? How ably do artists embrace this task, however restricted their role?