18.

At some point the conversation becomes so enthused it turns into self-proclaiming poetry, we run through the fields shouting Save The Beast while the trees feed on duskbread. Gods of night move like knives through the unbroken light of morning while beneath it all hums the Om of Swords, clashing displays of the elegant victories of Eternity become attenuated thrills in the day-to-day, star-dazzled clay or a forest puddle filled with tadpoles, a nine-banded post-classical rainbow in the metaphysical mood change of a moment, a glimpse of something special behind the invisible equals sign, the unlikely ampersand of ultraterrestrial life.