Sometimes, if you look quietly and purposefully into the eyes of an aging dog, or peer acutely into an ink black sky on a cloudless night, or perhaps regard the faces of those whose time on earth has etched lines of both wisdom and despair across their countenance, you will sense it. You will sense it when your mind is still and without passage. It is the exquisite, excruciating complexity of contradiction. It stitches it’s maddening quilt with threads of innocence, and fear, and birth, and guilt, and passion, and death, and light. It comes to us as the destroyer of lambs, bearing the nobility of the wolf. It stains and exalts all of us. It moves us to some aching, haunting epiphany that all that is above and below, sacrosanct and defiled, anguished and jubilant – each is pining for the other. It is forever engraved on the spirits of the living. And written across the echoes of the dead. It is…life.