There is something within me. It is a thought. It is an idea. It is a concept. It circles, warily, subtly, relentlessly, below the surface. It waits for the moment, for the perfect moment, for the shining moment, for the inevitable moment, to rise from the depths and break the surface and become. I do not know what it is going to become. I only know that the thing that waits is not terrible, save in the sense that beauty is terrible. The thing that waits simply is. It waits and it circles and it is.