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There is a price, you being different when money is meaningless and all that matters is another creature seeing what they see, knowing which fantasies inhabit each one – what experience has laid down sending each to their far corners to dwell in a haven of unique and delicate madness, where the unsaid matters most urgently, and all words that are easily said, are never required, since such common things, need naught. How unlikely finding the misunderstood further out, as if all the impossible faces flying apart as random seeds, discover past all chaos, oxbow lakes formed through an alien grace not yet descended on those who, already knowing their way, through an act of hearing all that is not given, yet left to be opened, only by you. This is how I remember, not by nameable facets of stone, but through the air we breathe, displaced by growing things in their marvelous slopes beyond shape, where the mind fails to hold any substance to be called its own, blown through endless rounds of small bullets, flashes of current, the wind that knocks down anything trying to stand on false feet – and arms, understanding their strength, that hold without tiring in the aftermath. To observe the plotting of a maze as creatures rummage to find the switch never hearing above the din of walls, this is the difference; the price is exile along the broken stretch of travelers unaccustomed to their own perception within a fabric of dream, held together simply by a chance they might be seen, and more, looked to, to be revealed.