In and out wash the tides of life, bringing fortune and famine. The Fates will decide. With sharpened scissors they stretch before them life’s string. Will today be the day, oh weavers of the tapestry of destiny? Ohh, but grant me a mere driblet of time, I beseech you, to dink ever deeper of that elixir of the gods, to soak up that brine of the depthless sea, to cavort in moonlight with the hen of the woods, and lie in the land of tilîxochitl and the Aztecs. Ohh seek not the measure of my life for hedonism yet sings its siren song. I am inextricably caught plucking tea leaves one by one, like violet flower petals dashed upon the roundabout breeze, as just washed sheets of linen drying in the mountain air, dancing daintily through each swirl of that wistful wind. I vow to leave no opportunity wasted, no buxom black plum unbitten, no gaily gallic walnut nor fresh root of ginger un-gnashed, until at last must those weary eyes I rest.