account /əˈkount/

So many ills so many suffer and so often. The sorrow, the loneliness, the perceived injury. The jealousy and inferiority. Suppressed guilt and shadowy fears and on and on; a dreary roster of insanity. They weave their webs through all our days and leave a trail of suffering that is almost universally misunderstood. So accustomed to it all, it only feels like living; like the cost of doing business. But this living death is a tragedy born of illusions. We cannot see the bigger pictures; the miracles of our brilliant existence; our starring role in the great drama of the universe. We cannot access the only truthful perspective; the global perspective from the narrow channels, like foxholes, that we have dug for ourselves.

“We will pay the price but we will not count the cost.”—Neil Peart