Wanting to say how it is without changing anything is a kind of desire, but also a kind of worship. It is not enough to set things out, to unfold the latent plan, since the desire is accepted as explaining itself and you crystallise as the one who does this, as being named by that recurrent impulse, what brings you back to the task each day, pointing yourself in. If it is all in the mind what is the mind inside of? As if all of creation were worship, the angels shouting their praises of love and your awakening in a fibre of this immense chorus without knowing it, but taking it as your private silence, your own void, the echo taken to be the source. Even the most serene of desires is not invented but a gift that must be returned to its source in the heart of the heart of causeless being.