By manner of signs and sigils have I conducted my science. For I never had the illusion that anything truly incredible came from anywhere but by or from what is higher than myself. If ever there were a genius stroke in any of my dabblings, I could explain forever just why I let the ink fall like that, but I will not be telling the truth of it: all of it would merely be rationalization after the fact, when what need be said of it was that it was where God touched me, a hint of the mysterium tremendum. Or perhaps it is not even that, perhaps only did I misunderstand the purpose of what is above, and could only askew report the path of the light; that what is possible is too wonderful for me to conceive, and I only can concoct a shadow of a shadow of such brilliance. I will not say that there is no logic to it, for it is science; let me say merely that the purest of any science is as dirty as the grimiest archeology, and it is up to the chance of winds where we dig that we come upon treasure. Or we keep on digging… and that is most likely the best we of ourselves can do.