Oracles of Sentience

"Before I knowed it, I was sayin' out loud, 'The hell with it! There ain't no sin and there ain't no virtue. There's just stuff people do. It's all part of the same thing.' . . . . I says, 'What's this call, this sperit?' An' I says, 'It's love. I love people so much I'm fit to bust, sometimes.' . . . . I figgered, 'Why do we got to hang it on God or Jesus? Maybe,' I figgered, 'maybe it's all men an' all women we love; maybe that's the Holy Sperit-the human sperit-the whole shebang. Maybe all men got one big soul ever'body's a part of.' Now I sat there thinkin' it, an' all of a suddent-I knew it. I knew it so deep down that it was true, and I still know it."
The Grapes of Wrath

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"It's not so much that we haven't learned to love, it's that we've forgotten why we are here."  She said the other day.  There
was only one voice in her head now.  For her, the insane voices of generations were solemnly and gently laid to rest a long
time ago.  She had become a prophet of in her own time, though not in her own land.  And it was serendipity that she was born
into an age of instant connections.  The internet provided immediate accessibility...

Not that many years ago, letters often took weeks to arrive and return.  And yet, connections were kept intact, people wrote
to loved ones, shared their struggles and intimacies, their sense of time and distance.  It should be so much easier she thought
in these modern times. So much tenderness and kindness can be found if that's what one is looking for.  Inside the words.  Inside
the writer coming across different time zones, unfathomable places never visited.  The heart is such a wasteland.

So much yearning, so much disconnection, disassociation, so many theories as to the how and why and when of things being as they
are.

Prophets are words that we remember.  Oracles of sentience.