On modus operandi

Ha!
Engaged to his art he was, so wrote the chokehold cajoling poet...

I'm on my last hours in Tábor-- roughly 36 of 'em left, it's two in the morning, and damn... yeah, should I return home? Were for it not the nag of filling the vault with bullion, I'd seriously have to consider that initiative. Life throws one miracles, certainly. I cannot explain the life I've been given; and I choose not to question this with any great depth. Yet?
Yet, yet, yet... I know the force of optimism. I also know some of the of lives I have lived simply MUST be left behind. Tábor represents something l never want to leave. It's been no picnic, yet (yet yet yet) it's been huge, mind blowing... I've discovered strengths and methods in patience I'd failed to see, allow, or understand myself capable of. Returning home in a week, I can only hope that this rejuvenation will furnish me with future adventures. Time will tell and the time is late, so I should schlep off to bed.

Postscript. I wrote this last night and decided to sleep on it... you know, see if those words had any currency in the waking light. It turns out that they do. I still question the giddy optimism I feel, finding it to be such a contrast to another world-- the world called home. It's not home per se, but who I'd allowed myself to become there. Filing the application to CESTA was me putting blind faith into processes I knew I had but also knew the person I was at that time wasn't up to snuff. And so?
The words will remain.
Damn straight.

(eyes used for tooth support)