Preamble
The world's turning is a quiet, finite march. The sun beats and is blocked by clouds and shimmering rain. Fire stains the earth in gray and black. Blood pours and soil turns. Rivers run an impossible, beautiful blue, sometimes, somewhere. I've been pretty upset about this whole silly deal. I've been desperate for something really unambiguously amazing to stumble upon or into, instead of the provisional entertainment we fashion to distract ourselves from the grim silence that meets our cries for coherence. Turns out, I've been right where I've needed to be. The cosmos doesn't owe us answers. We simply have the opportunity to answer the question we are being asked, however we'd like. There's a freedom and, yes, a peril in that, but it need never have been terrifying. Life is a soaring, miraculous, often painful singularity that has no real alternative to be compared to. It just is: fun, beautiful, awful, whole. Life is a surprise. Death is going to be a su...