We inflate our time and capture the world by accident. Does it punish us then? Does it perform, like nature, astounding acts of defiance? Does it, perhaps, send out the dust motes of a profound pessimism and seed them in the clouds that are always approaching? Are not our men always standing on watch? And then something pulls us back from the world and scolds us like a mother from old traditions. 'I warned you not to venture too far and now look at what you've made of yourself.' But even the mothers voice is not enough to save us. We must believe that something holy exists at the center of us and saves us just as the world turns to crush the spirit out. And when it pulls us back it reduces the vestiges of world back to dust motes. Motes neutered by our new expediency. The world is no match for the holy; worlds upon worlds are revealed by the holy. Treasure on treasure is revealed by the holy. Do we not shout for joy when the world becomes nothing but itself once again? We ask, were they as excited and joyful at the discovery of truth before there was an age of articulation? We see them in our dreams and they concur.

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