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Elusive passion hunts its own source, lost in the tangles of self-consciousness. Freedom knows the boundaries, preaching the possibilities which lie inside the migrator pattern of word and deed. Such dogged pursuit, yet the results of such a strenuous search yield naught but exhaustion. The worry of the sand-filled glass trickles out in measured increments, filling the void with nothing but the absence of time. It is not a gift, but a lifestyle change: wresting control from the ego and transferring it to the self. Becoming not who one wants, but who one is meant to be. Acceptance.