Dreams; such splendor. A door to a place next door that we so rarely open. Except in drifting night, when our intellect slides away, we step through without even knocking; for it is home. It is that place we all begin. A place we know since in the waters and is real to us there, where we can see before our biology gives us eyes. This is the kind of seeing that is true and real. We walk in the yard of next door but never go into the house until the last of our breath draws out the pathway to that second door. Three steps and a small porch hunker down in front of that house and hold an anchor there; in that place of dreams.