Walk long enough on a bum leg and you might get worse or more likely you might get far gimp notwithstanding. What if all things do conspire for your good? What if the sky-wide cover-up by Big Business, Big Tech, Big Reality cut and pasted to your screens is so convincing that you’re left dying of thirst holding coconuts heavy with sweet water and nothing but your front teeth to negotiate the shells? Is God so generous as all that cosmic harmony singing you to dreams of mystical hilarity wherein every particle of life laughs to tears together at fun that pokes no pain into souls as shy as trilliums? Creation as coordination of every single speck of something into the wild success of the project: You impossibly hard to wrap your head around so try another bit with more give, perhaps your heart-- you can’t make towels out of coconuts. What if, indeed, you belong? Always did? Always will? Then pound your hand grenades into fireworks and holler ¡FIESTA! For nothing can separate you from the gift of Earth not even a weakened will to receive. Just put the stick down and stop seeing piñatas in the darkness beneath the blindfold. You’ll never smash your way through to sweet. If you dash the coconut against the rock you spill the precious water.