Play gives the soul its form—the body whose moments animate the sublimely true. Without this form, there might not be a soul; or at the very least, the soul would be lost upon us in life. It would crush against the world, passing before us as nothing more than a shocking spark, inexpressible. The matter of life and the matter of living recede from one another at one moment and collide again in the next. Living happens when the soul, essence, and truth of those colored coverings is discovered in ever-higher degrees of approximation to the spirit—its most powerful actualization is in love. Rather than in love, living is defined by love. The soul of love, falling everywhere like hapless leaves into water, sinks below the surface with the thousand husks of summer if one forgets its supporting body. Love is that eternal breath and illumination that cannot but be both wind and leaf—the object and its path. One cannot begin with the hollow and move subtly to its shaping parts, however silent and transparent they might be, and hope to glean an understanding. Love is the moment of the two in unison, the moment of unity in disjunction. And this love conferred upon disjunction includes many shades of longing, sorrow, and aching, each with its own formal elaboration of the infinite. It is that eternal stuff that enlivens the present and highlights the nearness of infinity. It does not care for understanding, only truth. But such nearness of this infinite soul also threatens life. The thing that feeds can over-fill; the heart and passion of life tempts the sundried embers toward a house fire like a dry, cold wind. It teases the empty onlooker into believing that there is a third position of knowledge. The onlooker is not a third position, but an imaginary stance that denies truth in exchange for practicality.