What exists is imagined, and what is imagined exists — our demons and gods, our presents, futures, and pasts, our truths, our errors, our facts. Observation, reason, instinct, fear, madness — these are all of the dance. This is my experience, and so this is my guess. It is the ultimate solitude — there can be none greater than my knowing, and none greater than my not knowing. It is glorious. It is meaningless. I am its source. I am its destination. You may take me for a fool. I will not contradict you. You may say I am lost. I will not deny it. You may say, If you would only. I will harbor no grudge. If you really do know better, then I am happy for you, and I am happy for all of those who are touched and guided by your wisdom. Maybe someday I will have the good sense to join you, and together we will live your understanding of the perfect life. But if, in all honesty, you do not know better, if you have doubts, why not say so? If you are afraid of dying, for instance, why not express that truth? There is no shame in it. When we meet in the street, when we meet in art, in song, in print — in the name of love, let us confess these things. Let us acknowledge our chains. Let us reveal our dreams. And let us never tell our children, Wake up, you are only imagining. Imagination is wakefulness. What is is what seems. What seems is what is — and to me, that is poetry.