Heraclitus is standing at a crossroads in this fragment, and Sullivan marks the spot carefully. The logos he names is not yet John's Word, not yet the principle that will eventually crowd out everything it cannot organize — it is still, barely, a thought-process with structured form, held simultaneously in the cosmos and in the human being who can attend to it. That double location is everything. It means logos here is not transcendent in the later sense; it has not yet migrated entirely upward. A human being participates in it by thinking with a certain quality of attention, not by rising above the particulars of embodied life.

What gets harder to see, once you know how the story goes, is that this moment was genuinely open. Heraclitus did not know he was handing a weapon to the later tradition — the weapon being the idea that the structuring principle of reality could be named, abstracted, and addressed directly, bypassing the mess of *thūmos* and *phrenes* that Homer's figures had to work through from the inside. Sullivan's caution about the exact nature of logos is not hedging; it is precision. The openness of the concept in B 114 is real, and closing it too quickly in either direction — toward divine transcendence or toward mere human reason — loses what Heraclitus was actually doing at this hinge.