As the sun rises, the shafts of light that come in through windows gradually make their way across floors and walls, illuminating everything that they eventually encounter. Houseplants in particular find salvation once every day, at the precise moment when the sunlight coming in through the window touches them for the first time.
After that, for the duration of the day, the glow of their leaves in the realm of the sun is a hymn; they sing it silently, in perfect meditation, with a kind of gratitude that humans can never, ever match.
The globe is today littered with wanderers in search of their eponyms, each one of them playing a quintessentially modern game invented by often unseen scoundrels in order to feed an all-consuming avarice. The eponymous are long gone out of this world, chased away by crusaders on the one hand and scientists on the other.
The Protestant ethic is not synonymous with the embrace of the eponymous, despite appearances. Calling is not name; calling is function. Name, on the other hand, is essence.
Essence in 2007, however, is fully deprecated—yet it is held, often (and paradoxically) by the wisest among us, to be more ubiquitous than ever before, the quest for the sacred by the named having given way to the quest for the eponymous by the accidentally nameless.
There is one dead plant on the windowsill fully illuminated by the sun. It is difficult to determine whether this is a transcendental form of salvation or the most vacuous and infuriating of damnations.
I am happy and very much in love.