From the wonderful, safe, salty water of the womb, we simultaneously search for the opening and are thrust brutally into the cold, stark reality called life and upon emerging, scream bloody murder. We have to breathe. And in that act it is as if we have fallen (or been pushed or both) out of the saline serenity of Eden's eternity. Some, by grace, recover enough to stop crying for themselves and begin caring. Others grow like octopi with tentacles reaching, grasping, sucking, thrusting, consuming, grinding, swallowing, digesting, expunging. Octopi have to survive, too. Some say that is too bleak a picture of the human condition, too black and white. We all have a bit of the angel fish and the octopus. Some say if it can be imagined, it can be realized or already is. Some read suspense novels of international espionage. Some read history. Some read scriptures. Some don't read. Some cringe at what has been and pray for what may be. If it can be imagined, it can be realized or already is – heaven or hell or both.