Something in the fabric of who we are is missing. There is a gaping hole verbalizing its presence, sometimes with soft throbs. Sometimes with aches. Other times it goes for the jugular. We are all aware to some extent, but we press this world's life experiences closely into us, reveling in the good or reeling in the bad, somehow hoping to drown out that relentless background chant, "Fix me." Basic necessities have no effect. Encounters or relationships with others may temporarily assuage, but then in the eerie quiet when I am alone with me the hollow ping, ping, ping escalates and I'm once...