Hug the whole entanglement without untying the contradictions. Don't try to make complexity simple: it already is. There is no need to see the many as one because the one never became many. Through the grace of this paradox, an iris teared with dewdrops answers all your questions, and your surrendered heart is wider than space. All you need is the hunger of silence to understand that the cry of the owl at midnight means precisely nothing. In that nothing, your ancestors gather round you, singing your name. At first light, the sky in a robin's egg is filled with invisible stars.