Somewhere, high in the Himalayas, there is a snowy plateau. 364.25 days each year, a frozen wind buffets that tiny plain. Updrafts, from that very same wind, carry snow and silence against a frozen slate face ever upwards. Finally, the tired gusts deposit their payload on a small outcropping that is almost, but not quite, at the top of the world. On this ledge, against all odds life stirs once a year. On that one day, usually the summer solstice, that wind ceases its duties and rests. In the space a tiny white flower exists; huddled and tight from the cold. On that day, this flower opens its petals to the wispy clouds, and basks in the rarified air. If conditions are right, and this does not happen each year, a crystaline drop of dew condenses on a single petal. Which petal it picks depends on the exact state of the universe at that moment. And inside that dewdrop, lies the only truth in the whole world; That you can neither prove, nor disprove its existence.