The story about Tarot is the story of an exhibition; sometimes it is so absurd to see the whole exhibition, sometimes we go for days in a row without meeting a painter who may be timidly squatting in a corner waiting for someone to approach him. It is possible that we could learn more about the pictures from that conversation than from all the pictures combined. Sometimes the whole exhibition is just a reflection of one single picture, or sometimes the whole exhibition is everything but a whole, but we remain under the impression of one picture and because of it, we neglect all the others. Or even if we have looked at everything, after returning home, we have the impression that we haven’t actually seen anything. It is all such a futile job as such an author does not exist in the usual sense of the word. It’s futile to meet him, partly because we are him, all this time. The author of Tarot is not the one who drew it but the one who holds it. This is an elementary paradox of this device, and all that can be said about it is – it works by the law we think it does. Thus, one opening can be completely useless in the hand of another Aspirant, and as long as they have a sense of what works in their case, it will work. Tarot, like Ji Jing, is a machinery of synchronicity, it is the currency of Samsara, and as long as that wheel rotates, it produces whirls. But it still requires some attention to detail.