"Who has the answer?" a tiny voice cried.
"Who holds the quill that was dipped in the wind?
And where are the words in the Master's own hand?"
The mountains were silent, and heavy in thought.
The oceans turned over and into themselves,
taking furrows of light to their innermost depths
with a thunderous pounding that could not be stilled.
The tiny voice called out again for the answer,
but hollowness hung from the girth of the sky.
Yet somehow a secret seemed ready to fall --
like a pendulum's swing that was poised at its peak.
Then a slow-moving river of absolute truth
spilled a trickle of clarity over its banks.
The small voice was splashed by a drop of awareness,
and knew that the answer was never the purpose.
The question itself was the reason for being.
And softly, the universe sighed.
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