I had done more in the two and half months prior, walking, living, writing, talking, seeking, growing, changing, than I had ever done before. But finished? Nowhere near even close to there. More than miles yet to do. I have lives yet to live, universes yet to contemplate, distances to be lost to and revelations like mountains stacked like blank pages in an empty journal. Not to flip through, but to write on, and permanently stain, and make it so that no one will call it empty again.
No matter what it contains.