in the reclusive recess that is my silent mind lurks an insatiable question… would i dread its failure to avail itself? what then becomes of my whence-perchance-probably-possibly- all synonyms akin to those words… of course i’m negating to mention that i’m leaning on “tomorrow’s failure to pitch” to test anticipations patience. if tomorrow was suddenly unavailable- became scarce or maybe, just maybe in this newly fashioned warming globe found only on the black market… what a price to be fetched ha? if one could hold the world at ransom by withholding the promise of the next day… is that power to be wielded maliciously to effectuate it? if you asked a man of genuine authority he would probably without shame wantonly prostitute her- tomorrow- to turn a profit since yes power would corrupt a man to pimp the secret promise she- tomorrow- unlocks. could i be such kindred to power? are my feet precise enough to slip into that shoe without getting unsightly corns? insatiabilis- my dreadful horror- my question- my named recluse… if tomorrow died a conscious death what would be my eulogy?