It is only with the heart that one can groove rightly, what is essential is invisible to the sublime.

There is the one with the downturned mouth, pityglazed eyes, heaven itchy in his navel, raggedy clothes, attempting with solemn determination, with stalwart effort, day after day to sweep that circle of light into his dustpan, that uncooperative prick of light which refuses to be colonized by thistles, refuses to go gently into that good dustpan, but this man, he is, despite the taxation on his brain, the ennui flagging his vitals, the innate exhaustion, he carries on as only fools can, from a young age FOOL stamped on his working papers, and that vocation was branded into his being, FOOL, we see him daily at the same spot on the street corner, that same small worn rugged patch of universe which is his and his alone, the moving picture always the same: him, broom in hand, trying to sweep that dancing impish bastard of light into his dustpan. Never have we witnessed folly and determination so equally matched in distribution.

–Excerpt from None So Distant