You can make use of raisins. Dreams in your pocket and dreams deferred, until life becomes the ‘sum of sums’ and death ‘the long division’. Raisins you can make use of, not so this.
Not so the slow loss of matter, moment, in the long stretched-out waiting. A matter of moments. The quiet of normalcy laying down the road, sedated by enormity. The horizon closing in like a bread-box. At first energy, then silent strain, then struggle to kick the traces, until wound and weakness rein you in. You stand there, do or die, people. Desperation, emphasis on quiet.
Hope and dreams are hung on the pegs of objects, plumb line to heart, straight line to happiness. We measure what it will take to get ‘there.’ We pay ‘interest’ on requisite action, until endurance skips event to event, and all becomes immeasurable and stretched too thin to pass through time.
They go, too infinitesimal to suffice and too stupendous to be useful.