I just spent some time reading poetry. It seemed many writers were stuck in a hole. Every one seeming to try to write something down,that could lift the soul up, just one more rung. Supposing perhaps when the summit came near, nothing left in life could cause trepidation or fear. I cannot see for the life left in me, that the pinnacle of mine bears any resemblance to a line. Life seems to me a series of arcs, some falling sharply some long and smoothly up. The end of our life is not for us to see, but belongs to the remaining whose memories,slowly add up to the average me. I am not trying to be pessimistic you see, cause I love life here and would love to stand tall, from wherever my place in the line when finally I fall.