So we went out into the landscape with gusto and thus became it and of course lost it. Emerging everywhere we saw chaos, pattern and abounding specified distinctions — throbbing mutation and oozy drifts. At some point we decided to ask for the truth. A voice came swiftly. “How do you want it?” “Do you want the truth quick and fast, like in a jack rabbit skin? Or perhaps in an alpine manner with some gruyère cheese?” It seemed to see us looking absently at the sky. “Oh, maybe you want it Deimos-esque — cold and barren. Or via the sun’s warm gestures of radiation. We could also formulate it as we would to a jelly fish. Or spell it out through a toxic sequence of a vibrio alginolyticus infection.” Seeing that we were a bit dumbfounded, the voice tried further. “What about dimension? Maybe you don’t want the truth volumetric, you’d prefer it flat. That’s really no problem at all either. Hmmm… Symbolically? The stumps of the old Great Bristlecone pines store some really nice myths that could do it. With canned laughter? Tied with a bow? With a mirror and candle?” Then frustrated we said, “just say it as you would here, now, in this landscape, with this stuff!” The voice went quiet — a cold wind whipped up whistling between and over the boulders and whirring through the leaves of the creosote bushes. We shuddered. Then the voice came back, “You know what really likes that style of windy truth? An empty skull on rocky hillside.” “Fair enough” we said and hightailed it out of there.