Many Of Us Who Walk To And

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.

Each And All, We Are Riding Into The Dark. Even Living, We Cannot Remember Half The Events Of Our Own Days.

Every Man Contains Within Himself A Ghost Continent.

Without The Gift Of Flowers And The Infinite Diversity Of Their Fruits, Man And Bird, If They Had Continued To Exist At All, Would Be Today Unrecognizable.

It Is Surely One Of The Curious Paradoxes Of History That Science Which Professionally Has Little To Do With Faith, Owes Its Origins To An Act Of Faith That The Universe Can Be Rationally Interpreted, And That Science Today Is Sustained By That Assumption.