Man is matter. That is fact. He is a collection of minerals. That is fact. Reduced to his elements, though, the life went out of him. His calcium did not cry; his zinc did not love; his iron did not appreciate a good joke. Apart, something was missing, that spark of life, the electricity of the actual world, foreboding, nonsensical, haunting. Before and after the body, only ripeness, what some call spirit, the great mystery, remains alive in the grass, moving with the wind, swimming in all moving water.
