For nearly thirty years, a diffusory and ambiguous lad has been roaming the Chicago deserts, clumsy in seeking and wounded in mission, guided by little else than shadows of a distant light and memories of an autumn Wind. Stumbling was precipitated by a Beginning not remembered, yet lived (or rather, dies) in deep recesses of thought, word and deed — but despite all these false anchors, these ouroboric wormhuts, haunted chambers and levers and pulleys created in bones and Death — there is still a Path, a Schoolhouse, a Playground. There are forests to gather from and leave, and forests to get lost in forever. There are parking lots to get robbed in. There is a Church to leave all that's been given to you (because everything we have is gift), so no one can rob or rust you. And there is a sky, and stars below it. And below the stars, there are humans and other insects. Have you thought about how you’re a caterpillar, yet you can remember being loved? The Curse and the Blessing are neighbors, and as the lad grows into the man, his mission is to transmute the Adamic curse of his working into the blessing of his Work. In one person's lifelong pursuit of art, music, and writing, may one person be inspired to look for the light from which the shadows were made. And why not journal this adventure on the internet, for you to see?