The walls are adorned with the art of dreams. The bookshelves are filled with dream words about dreams within dreams ad infinitum.
Outside the picture window is the elementary energy we dream as nature.
I step outside and I am... reality.
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
~from Song of Myself; Walt Whitman
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