Though my muse is not alive she nevertheless enjoys some apparent will and motive force. Her composition is maintained of gravity, and her limbs and appendages are driven of starlight and wind. Her attitudes and moods are as varied as the composition of rocks and soils, and her intellect and modesty the product of vast space and deep time. Some very small part of her does have an organic pulse, this is true, though this soft rythem is utterly drowned out by the roar and cacophony of nature’s inanimate rush towards entropy. Though my muse is not alive, her words and law-like meaning nevertheless ring clear in my brain whenever I muster the courage to look past the warm company of fellowship, and the reassuring clamor of minds, to the intense dark beyond the firelight, and the deep abyss beyond life.