To be young and tormented by the feeling of inauthenticity, that your newly acquired mental accouterments are not yet worn-in, that they pinch like new shoes and off-the-rack clothing, is already a triangular state, forging desire. The gift of grace or experience moves you to another vertex of the same triangle, to what calls itself unity. So much of life is lived in this movement, as if there was some ultimate significance in the distance that separates the poles. These are states, whether you have lost or found your way, are in or out of the flow. They spatialise, creating truths and distinctions that are internal to themselves. As long as you can find something that seems to reflect then you find your image within it and the way to transform it into the next. This is so clever that it doesn't occur that it is lighting fools the way. The one solid fact receives all of this without a blink, and then it too is no longer a fact or anything else you can name, the silence out which sound is formed without ceasing to be silence, or the darkness behind light.