Living a life with regrets is like carrying tacks in your pockets. I keep as little in my pockets as possible; hands, sometimes, but those serve me best staying dirty, breathing life. Back before artists claimed the title, before poets and painters had degrees and musicians agents, synesthesia flowed more freely: when the senses got into the ring together and had it out over just what a painting smells like and what it sounds like and what glorious meal of meat and wine it has you convinced you’ve feasted on. You don’t argue with a nose that’s smelled the wicked seas and traveled places so far away it took days, weeks, to get to—back in time—back into long forgotten seeds. When was the last time you planted or built something? Or felt the sick ache of fear turn over into awe—just awe—for the brilliant silence of darkness or awe at the magical touch of light in a picture? Be small for a moment. Consider all that’s bigger than you. Feel that everything is bigger than you. Stay there! And then welcome yourself here. We’ll feast on wine and tacks.