Perhaps the idea of life as a single something finished is as fleeting as a whirl of smoke from a winter chimney. One life doesn't follow a single path but many, changing unremittingly over time.
Maybe for some life starts out as a squawking flock of geese flying north, shaped like a flame, that later becomes a crowd combing the beach for diamonds washed to shore from a pirate's loot. For others life begins as an approaching wall of black clouds dissolving into a purple sunset, eventually culminating in a quiet pile of leaves decaying on the back porch.
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