So different is the world outside my home (letters and sounds, pictures that live in different colors) so different, the world beyond the space of language! There is a certain rhythm, though that flows within, no matter what a rhythm of the soul that speaks a different language (not from the earth, nor from the mind) a certain motion of the waves calling the words out of caves (the mind is hiding them). A different view, a different state, a different way of being (while isolated from the world) into the poetry of seeing.
