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p>”Your face, my thane, is a book where men may read strange matters.”

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p>Lady Macbeth to her husband, Shakespeare’s Macbeth

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p>

A pixie hovering over a placid pond stared at her reflection in the water beneath her; it stared right back. Her eyes widened at the image for it undulated in waves like a winded tapestry. She expressed mute surprise that her gossamer wings–relatively insubstantial and tiny–could alter the water’s surface with the ripples they wrought. Inconsequential, insubstantial, insignifigant? Hardly. The faintest murmers can echo with cavernous results, and so do our mortal acts–however paltry in intent or appearance–reverberate through the human continuum.