The sages claim that all truth can be found within what already exists; what, already, has been written. A current of knowledge flows out from the pulsebeat of the divine, given to the world in the tiny, breakable shape of words. Words, like knowledge, like truth, give life. The word truth itself gave life to me, and when its letters were scrawled unevenly upon my brow, I was made true. I was born in a dark place. I was born under a stretching, impartial sky. I was born of earth, of water. I was born of sorrow and all that exists to hold it. I was born as the heavens opened to pour out cold rain; I was born as the eternal cosmos wept for the world.

 Singing out from the depths of night was that which I had never known before: feeling. I felt with the depth of truth a resounding pain, and looked out into the black, weeping night for its source. Above me were two trembling hands caked with clay.

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