I have no grand purpose or plan. If I wake up in the morning, I give thanks that I can still see and feel and ache and eat and walk and work and imagine I am here — here, without needing to know what or where this is, or if any of it, including myself, really exists at all — here as a butterfly is here, created by the need of color and pollen and breeze and dream — here as a god, here as a child, here as a lost soul and here as one found, here as the mist, here as a signpost, here as a deep musical well, here as a gravestone and epitaph, here as a boy, a girl, and their clumsy first kiss, here as the next breath and here as the last . . . and isn’t it a lovely, wonderful thing, the miracle of my blessèd ignorance and helpless imagination in this grand meeting place, this urge to communicate, to whisper whatever comes to mind into the nearest and most kindly attentive ear? And who is it, really, that answers? You? Or have I imagined you as well? Are you but my own selfish echo? And when I answer you — what then? How beautiful it is not to know! How fortunate it is! However you care to define love, whatever it means to you, whatever you sense or dream or know about this divine moment of our meeting, I want you to know I am grateful for it in every fiber and cell. And if you are not grateful, I am grateful on your behalf. I am grateful even if you don’t really care, and I have been but a moment’s distraction. I don’t mind that at all. Does a butterfly worry about such things? A star? A snail? Why should I?