A pile of pages strewn across the table, a sea of black dots. But that's all they are--splotches of ink, hundreds of these dots and lines, blurring into a black and white mosaic of contrasts. It could be meaningless. These ledger lines are a mysterious language unique to themselves.
Laquered wood. Fluorescent lighting, the reflection of light in the laquer of this wood. Metal strings on fingertips. This violin, this music, this path through the garden stretching around the corner. A path, beckoning, pleading.
The bow moves across the strings, but the eyes give away their complete distance from this dimension, the reality that so many people cling to for fear of the unknown. The path comes into focus. Motion, walking. The bow is still moving, but the bow is only an extension of the arm, the arm an extension of the body, the body an extension of the path. And this person, you, is still walking.
You can't tell where one world ends and the other begins.
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