The flash of light arrives unbidden,
a sudden strike of lightning in the dark wood of the mind.
It is easy to mistake the initial glare for a lasting fire.
Yet the flash possesses no warmth of its own.
It cannot sustain the cold season.
The true work belongs to the stone and the mortar,
the patient frame that catches the heat,
and holds the embers long after the flash has faded.
A life is not measured by the sudden glare of its beginning,
but by the steady architecture that learns to contain the flame.
Ideas are cheap commodities bought with a moment of inspiration.
Any stray flint can strike a flash.
The rare art is the heavy masonry required to keep the house from burning down.
Genius provides the initial glare,
but only the internal structure survives the heat.
Many are blinded by their own flash,
only to freeze to death in the ashes of an unbuilt home.
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