There is a funny paradox in our existence. A beautiful flaw. It is not our significance but our insignificance that defines us. Our universal and ultimate truth. Our mortality. So often asked, "how did they die?" and seldom "how did they live?" Our curiosity on the unknown - massive, but our knowledge of the known? Limited. How rare we are, yet how common. The truth is we are insignificant but everything else is significant. The true meaning of our life is a selfless one. The removal of one's own self in the path to knowing oneself. It involves a great sacrifice of false significance. It involves a true acceptance of our circumstances & a renunciation of all expectations. And for those who reach this realm of understanding also have the knowledge of the solitude that accompanies such thought. But one must master such solitude to find in good company with oneself and things. Words and foliage; art & wonder.