Install many curtains in your home, my friend. Rugs and carpets. Colorful, exotic materials. Hand-woven, or gifted with meaning. Let them dance and swish through the air as you slumber. Maybe then you'll notice that they give a face to the wind. A voice to quietly moving things. The geometry of one's mind always fascinated me. I realized early on that most people lived in boxes not only externally but in their minds as well. That's why they dreamt of apartments all the time. Crude, rectangular abominations that had seeped their ways into their psyches. Perhaps the destiny of one's imagination, after having gone through this plain and brutalist world, is to have sacrificed the beauty that came before it, surrendering it to just plain, ugly things. Cars, a box they call their home - all the dull imagery of this temporary realm. And, perhaps, our realm has a way of enforcing the material upon you. It has you believing that function stands piously victorious over form. Yet I, and many such as I, know this to be false. The mind that has peered beyond the veil of mediocrity knows the secret of beauty. To the point where beauty becomes the primary function of a thing. Be it a symbolic representation of the grand potential of man, or a simple, more lasting tribute to the impermanence of his existence. In vision-dreams, where scarcity cannot exist - all things look different. They look different, primarily, because all things are that which they can be at their highest potential. There, in one such realm - its master had built great, reflective towers, with circular pools of shallow water surrounding each one. These spanned whole horizons. And the beauty of both reveled in the reflection of one another, endlessly basking in their collective glories. When I asked why they had built this, what function they held - the answer came simpler than one would think. [[Beauty]]. Their function was beauty. Nothing more. Because, through [[beauty]], the [[imagination]] is enriched - and the perfect form takes shape within the mind of even the most ignorant observer. It is the pursuit of this form that unfolds the very sacred geometry of creation itself and, imperfect yet, directs us to the absolute.