I have been seeking a sophistication and beauty of intelligence in life, in humanity and – by an inevitability of existential or logical extension – in myself which may just never have existed.  Can we ever truly make our own meanings, our own worlds and our own destinies or are we forever bound to be swept away by the tides of tribal self-definition, poorly-informed consensus opinion and median intellect?  To continue to exist, we must in some measure submit to a compound ignorance and unknowing reflex of blind repetition.  What is the value of creative intelligence where acquiescence clearly has a higher premium?