Which seed is he? One erupts into an ecstasy: spews
color, fluff and thrills: another germinates toxicity –
whatever swallows it, it kills. He seeks unending evidence
of the miraculous: he will do anything to find and follow it.
"Only connect," he says, more for effect than from
experience. Forster was naive. Sometimes all it's possible
to do is grieve. But what should I believe? To him,
the Universe is one baptismal font and feast – and he
is both the baby and the priest. To what more sensibly
availing well do I elect to go? What the hell do I know?