The mystic treads a lonely path. Onlookers from one side sling the profane at him, those watching from the other side sling the sacred. The mystic is bespattered, caked in a mixture that permeates through all his words and deeds. Followers and detractors are lured with equal ease (or difficulty), attracted and disgusted by the claims of insight and privileged knowledge. Both sets are passionate and problematic. As year is plastered over year, and the grass grows green above the mystic’s grave, support might increase, but so might the original message become distorted or diluted. Meanwhile the detractors might fade away, train their gaze on a different mark—shooting a moving target is more rewarding. But perhaps, more worryingly for the devotees, these mockers and scoffers may move on because they feel the foundations have been blown asunder and leveling rubble is too much of a chore. Whatever it is that transpires—adoration, neglect, degradation, respect—it is somehow irrelevant, for the mystic is forever a man of the elsewhere and the subjunctive, whose intended audience is never realized, but always in realization.