The lost vision was numbered, if it be known, but the number was no help in finding it: it was gone. And they could have felt maudlin about it, imagining it to be the finest vision, the truest vision, the most necessary vision. But it was not like a dream that passes swiftly in the morning, leaving behind traces that hint at some unsurpassed picture into a world of wonder. It was not like a briefcase left carelessly in the lavatory of the airport, releasing hope of its recovery over long days as attempts are made in vain to recreate its contents. And it was not like a thought that taps meekly at the back of the mind, asking to be paid attention to, or at the least written down for later consideration, that rebuffed takes flight leaving a remembrance of wasted potential. The vision was lost, gone, and it left nothing behind.
klik if you demand tedious explanations of every little thing.
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