I am in Target, trying to find those small travel-size kits of shampoo and soap, drifiting away from the task at hand, thinking about Pascal burning at midnight in his room, his eyes ablaze with God, stitching his epiphany next to his heart. We are not at one with this world. We lay foundations for homes we will not inhabit. Tea cools untouched. Books lie open to chapters we will not finish. Under the gray sky we are restless, weary, walking without vision, with shortness of breath. If we think God is up there, we are lonely always. If the strong man could know when the thief would break in, he would bar all doors and windows. The door is unlatched, Silent One, Mysterium Tremendum. Enter at will; set ablaze this heart.