Whither Goest Thou, America, In Thy Shiny

And I Will Die, And You Will Die, And We All Will Die, And Even The Stars Will Fade Out One After Another In Time.

Something Good Will Come Out Of All Things Yet — And It Will Be Golden And Eternal Just Like That.

Struggle To Sketch The Flow That Already Exists Intact In Mind.

Mind Is The Maker, For No Reason At All, For All This Creation, Created To Fall.

There Is A Blessedness Surely To Be Believed, And That Is That Everything Abides In Eternal Ecstasy, Now And Forever.