In February of 1981, on my way to a Grateful Dead concert, I picked up a young man named Alfred Brundage on a highway outside of Bloomington. He was heading to Chicago for a Native American spirit dance. We smoked a joint and he said something so simple and so accurate about the nature of the universe that I have spent the forty-plus years since trying to fully absorb it. The man didn’t have a PhD. He didn’t have a permanent address. What he had was a sentence and that was enough.