We live in a world of adjectives, everything qualified, everyone framed, all experience passing through the filtration system of a language, the mind and semblance of a body; nothing pure, no one exempt, all experience “imperfect” though this adjective need only disturb us as a diminutive connoting corruption if we believe perfection to be anything more than a myth, any more real than a unicorn, a phenomenon that can, will, or has ever existed beyond the pale of a fairytale. If we agree on this point, even in the most tentative and tenuous of ways, what this means rather shockingly is there is no “there” there, not straightforwardly or simply. We have only ideas of things, never the things themselves. Facts? What are those? Are they different substantially from beliefs, or, more likely, do they differ by degree only? Any relation requires a modicum of faith—not religious, but pragmatic—for the sake of moving through the world, an essential act of trust that such and such is the case, even if it is entirely possible we are myopically deceived at each step along the way. What are we then left with but perspectives, yoked to assumptions, wrapped in convictions, hidden within opinions, our whole lives attitudinal, a posture modified, again and again, according to the ever-shifting substrata of our conscious and unconscious becoming and the genetic and societal structures we have inherited. How lovely, that life would cradle us within a liminality, with implicit permission to be imperfectly! There is freedom and joy in surrendering to the partiality of our reality, frustration only when we insist on knowledge without mystery or comprehension unconditioned. It is both beautiful and heartbreaking to behold what we do fractionally, knowing just beyond the event horizon of any relation is a darkness at once inspiring and annihilating, a hiddenness that will not let us in, eternally shy, and silent. The opaque is the opus of humanity.