As I made my run to the edge, preparing the leap that would prove my faith, I heard a poet, or a wayward priest, or maybe a criminal, someone who said something true. I held my leap and went back for more. Others flailed into space screaming “NO!” as they spun out of sight. A very few leapt whispering “yes” -sad, but at least it was something. The rest fell in silence, old habits hard to kill. To say a criminal knows truth, saves lives, is no more believable than to say it of a priest, except the wayward. Do not say it of a poet, he may close his book and never speak again.