The further on we go, the more meaning there is, but the less articulable. You live your life and the older you get- the more specifically you harvest- the more precious becomes every ounce and spasm. Your life and times don’t drain of meaning because they become more contradictory, ornamented by paradox, inexplicable. The less explicable, the more meaning. The less like a mathematics equation (a sum game); the more like music (significant secret).

...the reasons just reassemble themselves in different patterns every time I think about it.

Because no retreat from the world can mask what is in your face.

The melody faded like a rainbow after a storm, or like winds calming down at last; and what was left was calm, and possibility, and relief.

The moon rose, an opalescent goddess tipping light from her harsh maternal scimitar.

The nature of the world is to be calm, and enhance and support life, and evil is an absence of the inclination of matter to be at peace.

Was it an accident that I saw Fiyero, I wondered, looking at the manager with new eyes, or is it just that world unwraps itself to you again and again as soon as you are ready to see it anew?