Transitions! Transitions!

[With apologies to the Fiddler on the roof]. The time for change has elided into its third free fall, and sliding into where? I know where, but where, really? Where am I going, what am I doing? Where I am headed, rudderless and pointing nowhere? And there's the rub-a-dub-dub, one man in a tub. I am like a wave in the ocean, nameless, rolling on and on, merging with other waves, occassionally carrying something with me, but in many ways unremarkable. An anonymous wave, an invisible man, wandering, at moments even seeming purposeful (illusion), yet undistinguished from any other. And unto this wave--me--much has been given; and therefore, much, much more is expected. So this ripple needs a task or to produce something in order to create the illusion of immortality. This wave is perfectly comfortable in general blending in with the sea around it, to be at one with nature rather than a stark monument. I mistrust the passing glories of the world. Mondo Cane would not actually be so bad. Jettison the Sic Gloria transit mundi. Mrs. Jackson was not royalty, more special than those around her, and anyway, she is dead. But there are all those bills to pay and miles to go, please, before I sleep. The observation behooves me to act. All good transitions need come to an end, and thus, on to Immortal porpoises! Andiamo! Subito! Hurry up, it's late!