Where is the primordial garden in which my fascinations know their genesis? What draws my mind so forcefully toward an idea, a model, a person, an act, a story, a metaphor… a moment?

From what stygian pool of my soul’s depths do such dreams as are mine rise to sculpt my hope and imply the measure of my destiny? What is the nature of the waters that flow there… and at whose behest do they move?

And where, indeed, is the compass of my desire… with which I might take reliable bearings… but against what stars?