Are we like cave artists from some distant time, leaving proof with our horses and buffalos and stick warriors that we were once here? Do we love feeling and beauty so much that we want to share it, however imperfectly, with others, one eye fixed perhaps on immortality. Or perhaps it is just a flower blossoming on a tree – the sap of life itself, rising up and flowering into a cascade of gorgeous blooms. Yes, it is simply oneself, bursting into life as a poem, a painting, a song. I like this the most.