There is no utterance for recognizing that these, too, swim towards a completion, never to come again, but to be always. 5 Who but the least of them can give assurance that to exist - to radiate out of a name - is to form a decahedron, in which the wars of history are forsworn for the sake of a pure principle, a stellar mountebank of guidance. ...it was - coming out of the theatre, where the least desire had been crowned a king, and no one looked to see spring was returning, for the shadows of intrigue and ambition forbade it - the sole cardinal announcing like a trumpet, a silver Buddha or toy elephant, sang without voice of a unique recurrence, and stopped once at the top of the opera stair: that these too have no name, yet, unassailable, exist to tantalize their lost forbearers with a sense that they too must have been. For the virtue and the edge of modernity are the capacity for larger myths endlessly repeatable - so blue eyes blare not only the milk horns, or the garden's hedge but the vast sea that slays the sword as if a thousand thundering heard quite far away, had jumped instantly and voicelessly on one vital truth - as dark and drowning as the first storm that blew apart the mountains.