An awful conclusion it is, one without investigation and trial; a sluggard doesn’t plough in season, so at harvest time he looks and finds nothing. Fountain lies within, nothing can go wrong with conscious efforts, shutting down the committee in your head would do more good.
Little foxes that ruin the vine, a thief of time, no standard, so many falls pulling keys from the present so a future can’t be unlocked. Every pen writes, every bowl holds something, they have been structured like that. A Potter takes so much time to make a beautiful pottery, sacrifice for success, you have a brain, moldable it is from the beginning, carrying all that is required to turn a life around, put away limitations.
From the foundation of time its been settled, stranded it can become when fruits of carelessness are reaped, nothing to bring forth when required, to whom much is given, much is expected, purpose are deep waters, only understanding can draw them out.