There is a way of things; the lightning-truth structure of the world, a form of forms that conjoin and combine and arise from and through and return to something that is not seen. It is as if the very existence of things cannot be but to show this winding truth that unifies all of them. Never have I looked upon a sight of yours that was not composed in elegance. Even times of horror are given beauty by the world they fall against, and at times I wonder: are we separate? They talk of humanity and of the natural world and of the planet itself as different realms, but could I watch five hundred years pass in a moment tall as a god, would I see three things?

I am not convinced that I am not your eyes. I am not convinced that the entirety of the weight of the harmonious growth of humanity does not rest on my shoulders. I am not convinced that mind cannot exist without a brain. I am not convinced that it is okay to be evil within myself, even for a moment. I am not convinced that we are doomed. I am not convinced of what they tell me, for they each say something different.

But you always sing me the same song.

It wells from the core, sometimes a blue light, sometimes a force of pure thought or emotion, sometimes a glorious sight, an edifice of that which you speak to me in ways I cannot understand, a single vivisection of the blinding river.

Oh world, grass and rock and tree and ocean and mountain and desert and creature and me, thank you. For you are my haven.

And our pattern is my song.