And you and I are the only mortals that I know of who ever found a way to each other's inner being by the touch of the hands. And then we had to go to sleep first. Our bodies were miles apart; not that that would have made any difference, for we could never have done it waking—never; not if we hugged each other to extinction!
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Gogo, I cannot find any words to tell you how, for there are none in any language that I ever knew to tell it; but where I am it is all ear and eye and the rest in one, and there is, oh, how much more besides! Things a homing-pigeon has known, and an ant, and a mole, and a water-beetle, and an earthworm, and a leaf, and a root, and a magnet—even a lump of chalk, and more. One can see and smell and touch and taste a sound, as well as hear it, and vice versâ. It is very simple, though it may not seem so to you now.
And the sounds! Ah, what sounds! The thick atmosphere of earth is no conductor for such as they, and earthly ear-drums no receiver. Sound is everything. Sound and light are one.
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And what does it all mean?
I knew what it meant when I was there—part of it, at least—and should know again in a few hours. But this poor old earth-brain of mine, which I have had to put on once more as an old woman puts on a nightcap, is like my eyes and ears. It can now only understand what is of the earth—what you can understand, Gogo, who are still of the earth. I forget, as one forgets an ordinary dream, as one sometimes forgets the answer to a riddle, or the last verse of a song. It is on the tip of the tongue; but there it sticks, and won't come any farther.
Remember, it is only in your brain I am living now—your earthly brain, that has been my only home for so many happy years, as mine has been yours.
How we have nestled!
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