It Is Surely One Of The Curious

The Iron Did Not Remember The Blood It Had Once Moved Within, The Phosphorous Had Forgot The Savage Brain.

We Are Rag Dolls Made Out Of Many Ages And Skins, Changelings Who Have Slept In Wood Nests, And Hissed In The Uncouth Guise Of Waddling Amphibians. We Have Played Such Roles For Infinitely Longer Ages Than We Have Been Human. Our Identity Is A Dream. We Are Process, Not Reality.

I Am Not Nearly So Interested In What Monkey Man Was Derived From As I Am In What Kind Of Monkey He Is To Become.

Certainly Science Has Moved Forward. But When Science Progresses, It Often Opens Vaster Mysteries To Our Gaze. Moreover, Science Frequently Discovers That It Must Abandon Or Modify What It Once Believed. Sometimes It Ends By Accepting What It Has Previously Scorned.

Nothing Grows Among Its Pinnacles; There Is No Shade Except Under Great Toadstools Of Sandstone Whose Bases Have Been Eaten To The Shape Of Wine Glasses By The Wind. Everything Is Flaking, Cracking, Disintegrating, Wearing Away In The Long, Inperceptible Weather Of Time. The Ash Of Ancient Volcanic Outbursts Still Sterilizes Its Soil, And Its Colors In That Waste Are The Colors That Flame In The Lonely Sunsets On Dead Planets.