I look at the paint run off, escape, and the world dissolve; thoughts shuffle around, pushing and shoving to the roof of the mind. I look and for a brief moment Mary appears: the perfect circle, the Mother holding everything in her heart. Then disappears into the magma of the present world. A union at the holy gates which is direct, not human but shapeless and intuitive – and then again suddenly human, wrapped up in a steady, contemplative gaze, in the way of painting which loses the tangible and forgets itself, because within itself it has no path to follow. You move closer and it vanishes. Is creation knowledge? Part of the thinking mind doubts as much. There is no control whatsoever and nothing new under the sun, only endless toil. An erroneous sequence thus takes over. Here is the world as we know it: discordant, contradictory. Eva becomes Ave, and new gates appear.