It is very quiet here, in the woods of green, red and yellow. There is no one around and it does seem that the flowing winds and rivers bring such pleasure to anyone able to feel that presence. A rustle, a footstep breaks the solitude of being and nothing, like a spell manifested as an intruder changes the landscape of hush, of solemn, of gravity. And he is the active player, the master and star, prima donna bearing the center stage with onlookers spellbound. Give him or her a name and it will be that, of love or lust? Or greed, maybe honor. Envy, maybe humility and that voice is carried in the wind, the river becomes life in the veins of a being and something for the house is no longer empty. It is enchanting, is it not? Whoever this dweller is, he makes up the music, the chords, the dance steps, the meaning. It is a cornerstone and yet it may not be because many dwellers can enter this solitude. How strange that rivers and winds carry their tales of emptiness and the audience never questions the tales.