The Museum of Eterna's Novel

CHAPTER XX. EPILOGUE

All destiny is: a downward gust of wind hitting the crazy swirls of choking smoke from the chimney, and, from heights it sometimes is able to achieve the velocity of an anxious escape.

Nevertheless there’s intellectual perfection, and love, clear and warm hearts, limpid mobility, a pulsing clarity, the line made by the waters of the sea, clear souls, always pulsing with some Sentiment— these are the hearts of great matrons, and of the Lover.

There is also the perfection of adversity for the destiny of a full and clear soul. Eterna’s sorrow is too much, she wanted totalove, and out of desperation, she made herself a slave to chastity, which is love’s frustration. She shouldn’t have done so.

Don’t love the President, and don’t hate him; there is no worse bedfellow for Intelligence than Heat. Intelligence, which has a singular being, should not be curious about the Heartbeat. It’s despicable.

Everything’s done, but nobody’s contented.