y carries for me the sense of enigma and, when I'm being all math-nerdy, of variance.
y is a question, a place-holder and unlike its often-time associates, Wh,
y can stand alone without looking the fool.
y takes the shape of a tobaggon,
flying down a hill in winter,
the rider half blown back by the wind
and clinging for dear life.
y is a sentence in itself, no punctuation needed
y is a philosophy, a lifestyle, a pursuit.
y needs no introduction, lives in the mouth of every child and gone unanswered,
y confuses, frustrates and sends grown men on adventures.
y is a myth and a mystery,
a character always remains,
a thought in every mind,
a friend in every life.
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