You must have a hope that will let you stomp and sing at any cold dawn. You must not wait to love the student who loves you and would like to kill you. You must read the story again and again to the child who receives you with a bovine stare. You must get up every day to punch in not dreaming on transcendence, not desiring new heroes or gods, not looking the other way, but looking for the other way and ready to talk to everyone on the line. You must not wait for official approval nor general consensus to rage. You must come again to kneel in shiny, rock-strewn soil not to pray, but to plant. Yes, even now as ice caps melt and black top goes soft in the sun you must prepare for the harvest.