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As I sit, molded to a flattened plane of nothing more than breath, I hear every opinion, every faulted memory of who we were before we had thought, before we had meaning. There is the truth we lie to every time we have an opinion that becomes so strong that it blurs the lines between heaven and hell, us and them.

There is only one life, one life that goes on forever, but when we take it for granted, we say the wrong things, we propel the wrong notions—not because they are real, but because we believed they were when we lost the touch of a hand born out of an intelligence no one can name and no one can find. Not without surrender, and not without the breath eliminating the self, eliminating the lie.