Think in terms of distinction, the hands parted/pressed. When someone laughed, “Winning isn’t everything,” Joy made a pact with Faith. We knew then it was true.
Now, somehow, you’ve slipped through, into a succession of days that sweat, maximize results. Each action futile, an infertile belief.
Here is God’s loom. Pump the pedal, spinning the spindle; fate coils, unfurls. Behold the pattern, the warp and woof. Is this religion, or routine? Day and its tired ally, Night. Cyclical glow, the pulsing rhythm of sleep. Steady your foot. There was rest, then, too. Remember? Join hands.