Its like an artist, madly scribbling as if digging for golden ore inside himself, mining the lining of a deep domed atrium, pencil being the only lead available to this crazed alchemist –both he and the element, the basest of things– running the margins with no regard for form, tossing now-heavy pages behind his head without a further thought to the rubble behind him, like a dog caught scent of a long buried bone still fragrant. All the while hoping some passerby, in awe of just the sight of such a lunatic, picks them up, his pages, recognizes some happenstance of a transmuted nugget, shiny, having met the sharp scything pick axe by coincidence in his sweating and fevered fervor (more focused on the digging than its product, he is); some golden truth –the future in the past, perhaps– and shakes him from his trance and toil just in time to live a bit of life unchained, having shown him the glory of his gold, it’s relaxing qualities of warmth and promise…even if for a day, from that miner’s imperative: mad-driving madness for redemption in dirt and bone and gold and glory. He misses his whole life but finds it in filth, where digging creatures, tricksters, and philosopher kings alike all find their glowing and golden godliness. Filth is home and to filth we return-some know this in their bones as they dig for their own marrow and morrow. Some shy away, disgusted, and die in agony and never rest the good rest, at home in the dirt.