To me, there is nothing quite as gratifying as an inquiry into the secret affair of life. Thus when a friend joked about how I might have spent my birthday reading a philosophical book, I gladly confessed a fondness for it. I suppose for many, for her, a birthday ought to possess all the vociferousness so peculiar to daily routine; one has to have all the fun in the world before retiring at sunrise of the next day. After all, the occasion comes only once yearly. How differently we both think; how disparate our impressions of life. For this reason, I think it wise that I set myself upon a separate path; look to the other stars for navigation.