More than should be said I suppose.
I know a man--whether in the body I do not know, or out of the body I do not know*--who spent several years as a guest of the state. At one point he was in a place almost Gothic in its architecture, with arches, tile walls and vaulted ceilings. The slightest sound would hang in the air, reinforced upon itself and multiplied to a choir of angels. This song he sang with an almost Celtic glissando, so much that someone once asked if he were Irish--he isn't. But the sound would soar, till he could almost hear the voice of God. The years behind and those ahead would melt. His job was to sweep the floor, not that it needed sweeping, it was swept many times a day, but idle hands must be occupied lest they grasp that there are more of them than there are of us, or so he his keepers thought. So he pushed his broom and sang; God smiled.
*A secret code known only to those who know.
Click to view*A secret code known only to those who know.