Every step forced the skin under the blisters to pull apart. Every time this happened, granules of sand lodged in the wound and gouged the flesh painfully. His feet felt absurdly overheated while the midnight winds tore through his jacket and bit his skin. By his best estimate he was over fifty shepherd's paths along in his journey. Not for the first time did he wonder if he would survive.

 My name is Alair. This is not a fiction story. After you read my story you will think, however, that I made it all up with my very vivid imagination. In fact, it may not take you that long to come to that conclusion, it may only take until the end of this same page. Be that as it may, I felt the need to begin documenting my travels into the reality known only as T2. It will be difficult to accept what I say and some readers may just find it impossible. This is why the group I am involved with is secret, our findings are secret, what we do is secret, and the secret doesn't even have to be well-guarded - no one would believe it. Several times in our history, our secret has been touched upon by either off-beat news reporters or curious scientists. In these instances, it has all been written off as either a hoax or a weird, but harmless, religious cult. The reader can make up their own mind, so let me begin at once.

My name is Ataman Mindaugas and I  play semi-professional ice hockey. I am a tough-guy defenseman, which means I do not score goals (unless by freak accident) and I'm usually on the ice when someone from the opposing team is asking for a broken nose or a bloodied lip. Please do not get the wrong impression, I am hardly the size and shape for this work. Unfortunately, I was never fast, so I realized that if I wanted to play hockey, I had better become proficient at doling out pain and tolerating a lot of pain. I managed to become fairly good at chasing down the smaller wingmen and slamming them into the boards and surreptitiously ramming the end of my stick around their floating rib when the referees cannot see.

  If a child is raised in a faithful, religious household, he comes to believe, both as a matter of habit and as a matter of obedience, certain propositions about his faith. In fact, prior to his gaining the rational skills to reason logically or conceive his own opinions, he already has these notions within his mind as he has the concept of his own name. So ingrained are these ideas that the child does not realize the existence of people who believe other than himself and his family. Indeed, this is because he cannot conceive of reality being different than what he has been taught.

I have, on occasion, found myself ruminating on the power of the intellect; specifically, the intellect's connection with the external world and other intellects. Hardly is there a final complete definition for what a human is. Various slanted definitions have been proposed which describe man under particular auspices; for example, man as rational, man as animal, man as emotional, man as creative. Further, there are many debates on what is meant by 'the intellect,' since some thinkers use the term 'mind' and others use 'soul' and yet others use 'brain.' It is common for such discussions to enter into considerations of personal identity and a person's existential experiences. Thus, in wondering about the intellect's connection to other things, a large number of other problems arise so that any answer proposed seems to rest on a prior answer and so on in infinite regression.

Grant me, Lord,

 to know and understand which is first, to call on Thee or to praise Thee?

and, again, to know Thee or to call on Thee? for who can call on Thee,

not knowing Thee? for he that knoweth Thee not, may call on Thee as

other than Thou art.   Or, is it rather, that we call on Thee that we

may know Thee? but how shall they call on Him in whom they have not

believed?
~ St. Augustine of Hippo