Piercing the void—the nothing, the darkness—a light, glowing soft tones of red—pulsing, insisting—strobed from behind an unobtrusive nothingness, a slit in the fabric of the universe, where more often there was only inky black, millions of miles of it. And in this light, the only brightness there is, is nothing, nothing but impossible-to-tether, uncontainable Essence. It travelled but moved not, it existed but rode the shaft of brilliance without being noticed. Essence in itself looks like the ever-present lack of something, for it cannot be seen, except by its ripple, its almost unseen glow, but it is most certainly there. It is what makes all humans into who they will be. It is the anything which makes them one way or another. It is what we are—Essence.