The designed world, the bought world, the ballrooms and hallways, I care very little about. When was the last time I looked at this manufactured world and marveled? I hold grudges against clubs. I forget most bars. I resist going into shops because they try to trick me into thinking otherwise.

Then I think about the way light cuts through the lip of a wave, or the silent timidity of a spider camped watching as I pluck a tomato from his home. The awe at looking at the universe way up close. And running my hands through a field and plucking a sprig and smelling it. How superior these sensations are.

I rub shoulders with the timeless world, and speak to the same brothers and sisters that my far distant descendants will. What they tell me is truth, and I try to hear it, but their language is muffled through my ears. But still I listen, because they are the closest thing I have to knowing.