I need to tell you that many of you don’t have the charts for forging your own path, manifesting mantras, or making up bad food and wine pairings because you care more about highest price than art and labor. 

Many of you have charts for taking what this life will reveal on cue, and finding out how much water added to liquid soap turns it back into water.

Many of us are here to live the deepest abrasions with no prize at the bottom, to perfect how we appreciate our garden, or a bird’s plumage, or know who we are only when our hands are in the earth. Or, are so overcome with an image of finned, furred, and feathered energies in sleep, we have to wake to write it down in the middle of night.

We get to lick the eyes of collapse or insomnia and drive to water because if we are awake anyway, it might as well be with the slicked and terminal night creatures. Many of us take on the greater work of a precision soul craft, burying the seeds of agape, philia, and eros that will crack and push through sprawling, embarrassing buildings of industry and shade what’s so holy, and everything that’s left and well after, into the only after.