Viscera. Blood and guts. Skin and bones. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

Or a night in the forest, a walk on the shore.

Which is reality? Self? Others? Both?

Here the mysteries of Nature,
Here her wild and tumbled heart,
Speak to me of hidden meaning,
Say to me, If dust thou art,
Oh what beauties dust is heir to,
Ageless, timeless, unafraid,
Who can say there's no one there to
Share with dust what dust has made.

You are you. I am me. We share an awareness of otherness. Otherness is visceral. Otherness is real. It is Self that is mysterious, mystical, fleeting, perhaps ultimately bodiless.

Fleeting, but enduring. We remember a past that no longer exists. We experience a world that remembers only itself. Its visceral self. Not you and me. It is our dream world.

Remembering a past that no longer exists, we dream a world that is yet to be. And together, all together, we create that world, moment by moment. We make it our own, as much as we can. And we remember it, as much as we can.

Together, we remember it all.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on.