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I love how the shape of events becomes clear in flashes of fleeting wonder and indelibly fade to be remembered again at some new intersection of experience and realization. How these moments of truth, great and small, work on us and in turn shape how we move through the world. My world is populated with magical places. Singular in their aspects, romantically beautiful, sublimely vast and moving, all ruled by their relationship with the flow of water around them. Growing up in these haunts we swam like fish, climbed like squirrels, built forts like beavers and explored the islands of my life as pirates, castaways, and explorers. The creatures that inhabit them possess totemic majesty and impressed on me a great love of animals as well as a curiosity for the mysteries of the world. It is no great wonder then that I am a hopeless romantic, an idealist and a storyphile, believing and breathing fantasy in every waking moment. Every stone and outcrop is the remnant of vast and awesome time so far beyond comprehension that it defies the parameters of logic and can only be grasped through the spelling of tales and the painting of pictures. My red may never be yours, but we can dance around it with words and images, brushing at its truth and hidden meanings. The world is a story to be interpreted.