Come bless the world, and the superabundant human entities who transcribe its thoughts and dreams. Come praise the world; the rich, the poor, the minutiae men who stand on corners showing their wares. Come extol our obsolete mythology; the unseen ally in the middle pages of the half-written work called time.
Only the rhythm shall survive the fall of time, for the rhythm was in the beginning; the rhythm preceded the beginning; the rhythm is Lord of All Hosts; it buzzes and pounds; whispers and hums; laughs, cries and screams as it turn, turn, turns. It offers no explanations; no expectations. It is the question that no one has thought to ask.