I come upon this world as a beggar swelled up with pride. I come upon this world as a criminal who feels he is deserving of all graces. I come upon this world as a poet with nothing to say, an adventurer who is afraid to go out his door, a soldier who cannot pull the trigger. I come upon this world not really as a paradox, as might seemingly be implied, but as this complicated mess called a human being, who has made the world hard on himself and then complains about the world being so difficult. For all the infinity of God, He is made of the simplest stuff of all: God is love. (Remember? Love is so simple we’ll never understand it.) And one who lives in that way, the more, the more, would he see how the tangle would clear. Or at least, this is how I theorize things would be; I am myself not in quite the way of saintly devotion. And I blame everything, and everyone in the universe but myself.