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I think that you have to ask yourself what you mean when you use the word ‘connected’ in this day and age. Because capacity to be immediately ‘contacted’, is not the same as connection. Connection entails a certain robustness, depth, and valence, of intimacy, that is surprisingly lost in this ever-increasingly image-driven, instantaneous, and disconnected culture. Without true connection, nothing else matters. Because you will be locked out of the very depth that is requisite to the full experience of sharing time, space, and being, in any meaningful way, with another. No film, no book, no photo, no art, alone, or as cultural shadow proxy, can substitute for the presence of that unified flow. For connection, implies interconnection, and interconnection, encompasses everything. In a way, you have to speak to the moment, with the entire tapestry, torrent, and font, of history, undercurrenting your every action and word. The subtext and context must necessarily be, astronomical, and simultaneously, as tactile and unassuming as a simple cup of tea. With such emptiness, you can possess everything, and travel anywhere, in the wild and unrepenting grace of your soft animal body. The kind that people cease everything to approach, not to take from or to give to, but to *share* in, the shimmering attention to detail, permeating and emanating from the all-knowing soul. The look, in the deer’s eyes, that reserves its majesty, from your unequal step too close. The snap of a twig. The flutter of a dove

The champagne flutes, in altruism’s toast