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Perito Moreno There is a point at which simplicity folds in on itself, becomes complexity, incomprehensible. Repeating patterns, the fractal bases of natural elements, the harmony of light and form, they seem too abstract to be planned and too perfect to be accidental. There may be something more to it, the anthem behind the rustling of autumn leaves, the secrets written in ripples on a still pond. Maybe we are captivated by these elements because we have already decoded the meaning within the mystery, somewhere deep inside feel the faint pull of some universal message, and are simply waiting for the words to be invented to explain it.