Each morning as my wonder warps language into the metaphors that I will discover and convey as my own mind — each interval of insight in our silent relationship here — is more astonishing and ecstatic to me than all of science, art, or religion. For it is new, and private, unique and unrepurposed. It is the song my intelligence itself — singing like a bird pierced by the soul of time in the meadow of meadows; I make and become the signals signalling… and the long silence rings back. But one day… one day… somehow…

… the signal will find answer.

< and I know a secret about this silence >

Until then I live in a state of wonder; each morning and moment is a birth of births. Impossibility becomes discovery without prefigurations — and the fact that the seats in the theater are empty means only that the play is absolutely authentic. What play is more authentic than the one that happens to the audience who is at once missing, and some set of all possible audiences?