That Which Is Imagined Can Never Be

Leavening The Flat Bread Of What We Know, With The Yeast Of What We Dream May Come To Pass.

We Each Die Countless Little Deaths On Our Way To The Last. We Die Out Of Shame As Humiliation. We Perish From Despair. And, Of Course, We Die For Love.

The World Had Seen So Many Ages: The Age Of Enlightenment; Of Reformation; Of Reason. Now, At Last, The Age Of Desire. And After This, An End To Ages; An End, Perhaps, To Everything.

In This Sense Love Is Of A Different Order To Any Other Phenomenon, For It May Be Both An Event And A Sign Of That Invisible Mechanism I Spoke Of Before; Perhaps The Finest Sign, The Most Certain. In It’s Throes We Need Neither Luck Nor Science. We Are The Wheel, And The Man Who Profits By It. We Are The Star, And The Darkness It Pierces. We Are The Butterfly, Brief And Beautiful.

After All, Where Can The Glorious, The Goofy, And The God-like Stand Shoulder To Shoulder?