We are impious to the imperious, improper to the oppressive, enigmas to the oppressed, insignificant to our masters, dreamers to the masses.
We have searched the origin of our species again, and again, and again through history, through memory, through theory and reason only to find reasonable doubt. The truth, that which is dissolved when diluted within the yawning, bemoaning, wail of this passing age.
But we are as copious and ubiquitous as the stars. An ambient, ambivalent nebulous breeze, sneezed across the cosmos.
In dreaming we perceive, and in perceiving we see, distilling time, space and fate. We wish, and in wishing we create that which is already in creation, according to the purest of machinations.
When we touch we feel those subtle currents of the aether that are the ever-present, ever-loving, ever-longing, incarnations of consciousness.
The Philosopher's Poet 