I know too few who actively adore the great questions, or better still — origin. Too few who commence their day or thought with honor and adoration to the muses, and the heroes. Not the fatuous models of beauty or heroism, but their invisible sources.

Who honors the actual dynamism of the living truth as they may embody or become it, rather than the grave and solid rigidity of that which is rendered artificially true by thr
eat, repetition, continuous imprint, or spurious agreement?

Surely one who pursues understanding as though it were breath will find only offense in the relatively pornographic depictions of meaning, identity, relation or value found everywhere on offer.

Secretly, silently, one begins. With adoration in mystery. As it was in the beginning. This is, in part, the secret the infant brings to human birth. What may later be admitted in public or private is, in the end, of little consequence. Deep within, a spiral sings. Something sacred, shining, turning.