In this thick hour, there is a jest and a feint that goes unnoticed by the world. And the heroes of meaning — they have trouble comprehending each other, and sometimes, their own selves — they lack anything of magic. So we may find, in our own little world, that what we have dreamed — even if it comes to pass — we never seem to gain what we really are looking for, the point: the wordless yearning that has been with us ever since we learned how to wonder, which we ask reflexively, not even realizing that we do. One wonders why. The jest: it is merely a question; and the feint: our answer to it all. We believe there are everyday heroics that are surely remembered by the God of the littlest sparrow fall — and we question why it all must be like this, and answer because it must be so. We ask and ask, for the answer we conjure in our lack of the proper wizardry never answers anything. There was, though, one hero of meaning that seemed to have something, but something so simple, it so easily slips from our grasp: to love, it has always been an impossible thing, but we find we do it anyway.