For the great mystery is contained within us. It is flowing like wine and congealing like aspic. It is breaking our self-concepts into smithereens and dashing us into the pilings of the cosmic pier. The tsunami of the Self is bearing down on us and we are rushing for cover. No more time for tweeting and blogging and texting while we drive. Too late. It’s always too late.

How ironic. After posting the essay yesterday, a lady ran into the left rear side of my car in the grocery parking lot today. Crrrunch. Bang. Reread the paragraph above and make your own conclusions.