There is beauty in human frailty if only we look closely.
Beauty in human frailty because life is so many things at so many times in so many ways. And there are fathers and mothers and there are lovers and friends. And then there is enmity and tragedy: the shards and stains and yoke torrents running crestfallen over sheeny, tar-like rocks.
Beauty in human frailty because there is also laughter, only–only the laughter, a laughter that comes with knowing that life is, or in any case can be, so many things at so many times in so many ways and that we are still here, amid it all, after all, through it all and withal, and then too that there are pieces of eye and sky and turquoise flowers floating above the tumult and growing apart from robin’s death.