Truth – once known as the final word on any matter – is only possible in a world that is calculable and still. But that is not the world we live in or live with or live by; this world strays from abstractual fidelity, and is known only in small moments, in thick particularities, in brief glimpses, in intersecting (or intra-secting) crossroads, never to return in the same way. Perhaps to come to know the world (which I hesitate to speak of in such a global or uniform way) in a final way is like making marks on the sand by the shore, hoping that each doodling form or generous font or opulent structure left behind will withstand the reappraisal of a crashing wave. All we are and all we can offer is a trace, a gesture, the vanishing of form in the stern gaze of sunlight. There is no body of knowledge that is not already a displacement; there is no way of seeing that is not already a blinding of the eye; there is no yearning or wanting or lingering that is not a departing, a leaving behind, or falling apart. What is true is not what is still, dormant behind the veil of representation. What is true is the gasp, the magic, the moving of movements that weaves us all in a tapestry of wonder.