What is life? What is it to live? We travel to lands where even the sky speaks in different languages, we look into plated museum displays of ancient mystery–mysterious because of its ultimate uknowability. What is to be found beyond the established habitual confines of what is daily taken for granted? Only new forms to be learned, new boundaries, new vistas, new habits. But this shock of the new also jolts us into wonder. Wonder that we are alive, wonder that such temporal forms exist. Life is here, within us, even when the world has changed all around us, we are still what we were–an accumulation of things that could not be taken away or let go, the residual impressions of the river of life passing through us, the endless movement of fragments yearning for their source. Whether molded to cookie-cutter standards or strangled to the point of suffocation or wild like horses on the plains, it is life. Life flows ever onward beyond the grasp of conscious perception. We can get used to anything.