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When I look at you, I see myself. My body holds you—distant, unjust, like society’s promise of justice—yet everything hoped for, everything yearned for, returns you to me. It returns me to myself.

All activity falls away in the presence of who I truly am—not the self you see, not the one you cradle to your chest like a prized possession, something that is, in the end, only dust and bone, a vapor of conjecture.

To know me—truly know me—you must know yourself. You must know nothing but the divine, the sacred, the holy.