"A life of fear is a life half-lived."

Sweet flower full of love and rolling tongue, the flavor of such savory language as the Bard's on such a night as this.

Were it so that this my sad resolve to leave sweet Ronda to her fate, be it fair and joyous or disastrous, were merely dim recognition that my growing fear were "much adu about nothing" and not a tolling bell rung clear, with grieving.

My efforts having past the point of hearing, and now in danger, I, to keep myself from her retreating tide, must now withdraw and query not her progress high or low, but instead live, and fear not, for surely great must be the plan that hast carried me thus far, and I will trust in it.

What may yet happen is anyone's to guess, and it benefits me not to deprive myself of joyous resolve for such fantasies of dismay as I might (and do) construct for myself at length.

Again I shall strive to trust the order of my days, and put not tomorrow in front of today, lest I miss its blossom, and remain afraid.