There is a moment after the moment when all reside with self. The excuse that enervates wanes under its own gravity. And all the compulsion that sells evaporates like the joy of so many fleeting beats. But this life, judged always and everywhere as if chosen, is not joy in form. It is the catharsis -- the release of the unwished for and eternally unbecoming. Watch even as they wield the grand attempt, so unobservant where the passion spreads thickly. Curses! For the moment after the moment when the energy that enervates dies its trivial death.