I seek to praise the imperfections of an unfinished creation, not to kill with words or the names of god the epiphanies of which we all are capable, and by which we know and love it. The imperfection, the broken symmetry, the primal metaphor that cracked the universe into existence like an egg sizzling in the frying pan, made me capable of love and awe and idea and I can only be grateful, even as I curse its lash of pain and its sentence of death.