An unseen world dances before bright green eyes. She watches with keen attention through a pane of glass, wondering why there must be such separation between within and without. A leaf cascades to the ground as her eyes dart to follow its trajectory. In all things that appear simple, there is great activity. Ears twitch and rotate in the direction of a faint sound. Footsteps? Perhaps, people have returned. It is of no consequence. She is working at the moment—cataloguing the hour's sights, sounds and smells in her mind.

A patch of sun melts into the carpeted floor, an irresistible invitation. She penetrates the light and absorbs the warmth with her body, now curled into a perfect shape. Ah, illumination has many uses, she muses. Bliss. Time passes. Again, it is of no consideration. Later will come and go, as it always does. When her dreams cease, she rises slowly. Her arms stretch before her. Her kind have been masters of asanas generations before yoga became popular in her town. Her legs bend to release excess dreams gathered during slumber. Her shoulders drop the weight of the world. After sleep, it is always a new day.

A member of her family left a brown paper bag upright from his grocery shopping excursion. This is a situation to be remedied. She rises onto her toes and peers inside. Nothing! It's just what I was hoping for, she excitedly thinks to herself. In emptiness, all possibilities await. The bag tilts to a side and falls. The opening is a doorway to another land. She accepts the offer and crawls inside. More time passes. Her dreams are full and bright. She would be tempted to express that sleep is good, but pauses. How could anyone not know that? To impart that wisdom would be redundant—it is such an obvious truth. It, too, is of no consequence.

Someone walks into the room calling her name. Doesn't he know where to look by now? The top of her fortress is shaken by some infernal tapping. She opens her eyes marginally. Is this really worth the effort of opening my eyes all the way, she questions to herself. Of course not. Is anything? But, she obliges. She loves him. He lets her take care of him and she lets him think it is the reverse. Love is the highest truth. The details merely are semantics. At his encouraging, she emerges from her comfortable world. His hand touches her head gently, she rises up to greet his every movement. He talks in a language she understands, but cannot speak. It is of no consequence. The most vital messages are communicated, yet unspoken. He praises her for her beauty. She purrs in agreement. This, she thinks, is a good arrangement.