Trust the hours.
But distrust anything
that robs the divine of your life.
Listen to the pulse of the battered clock, closely.
The hours have carried you everywhere, up to now.
The stone will start to breath.
The green growing grass will start to speak.
The earth will remember you,
and offer you her luminous place where
you can talk about your dreams and despairs.
The meandering walks and tinkering by the creek.
The countless hours reading Proust and Joyce.
To think whether you should eat roasted chicken or Chinese food.
To stop wondering about God, questioning about evolution, and in the between.
The uselessness will be something.