A soul can laugh a hundred times never hearing the joke. He sees the painting in the artist's mind. In each pen he reads a book. To him, autumn is trees falling on the ground, and spring is when children are born. At a single word he hears the speech. After a sentence he closes the book. Each second winds up the day -- yesterday -- chasing its tail in fiery, golden circles amidst the clouds. As past and future grow intimate before his seeing eyes, he draws up the sofreh of Time, binds it in knots of perception, and makes it into a ball, a fist, a point.