Mei, our pet dog, signaled her eagerness for a relief. I took her out to the front yard. Under her paws came the creaking of the first fallen leaves. Nocturnal singing by crickets filled the air in the early autumn night. Freight train whistled its way in the distance. The two-day old full moon silently relayed the light from the late morning Sun above East Asia. Forty-four years ago to the hour, a crying infant boy slipped into this seemingly flawless wonderland unbeknown for the disquieting jumble and tumble of the day. Life has been beautiful. Just look back and around. The artists standing firm in the yard are painting themselves with self-made colorful crayons. Without peeking from outside, how do the artists know when and where to mint and deposit the load of pigments in their own gallery after the first inkling of the seasonal chill? How did the weavers stitch up their own green sweaters earlier in the spring? How did the florists arrange their name brand bouquet and enchant the buzzing insects with overnight brewed nectar from under their sleeves? How did the baker shops harness the solar power long before our energy crisis? Why did the vegetarians donate their own flesh as bread for the herbivores who then sacrifice for the carnivores who freely offer their corpses to the microbes? Who waved the magic wand in the beginning and breathed life into existence? Who decrees that life in such rich diversity must surrender the grip to longevity in its present shapes and forms? A forty-four year old becomes a child of curiosity for a night. Knock. Knock. The crickets are still singing their post-courtship love songs.