The cter and cuter I think I get, the more and more what would otherwise be a decoder ring to the hidden secrets of Creation begins to sound like gibberish. The keys to the gates of Asgard lie in the exposition of the intersection of a map that we have without doubt written with our own hands in the kind of way that some artists might throw paint against a wall and marvel at the magically beautiful designs that sometimes appear as an act of nothing but a hand and force majure. I suppose I am not being kind or thankful enough to the arm that moved the hand, and the shoulder and elwow that certainly worked in concert to lay the paint against the canvass. I hope not to belittle it either, but there was really no action or effort involved in sitting still and allowing the paint to stick to it--at least, that's the microcosmic metaphor of what it is that I see in our history and art--a beautiful and intricate design that has appeared from the synchronized loves of the world as a whole, the active efforts of fewer, and at the very top of that symbolic stage is the director behind the Eye, the hand, the elwow, and the shoulders.
Of course that doesn't mean that we "shouldn't become immortal" and a significant amount of my writing revolves around the ideas that sickness, aging and death are easily overcommable maladies--especially in the context of "virtual reality."