So you wake and find that you have returned to the womb. There is darkness and sound, and then there is light and sound, the light being a diaphanous glow, dim peachpink or brighter ruddy red. You hear the rhythmic pulsing hearbeat, feel the surge and flow of life in, around, through, between - and the muffled cadences of speech. You are discovering music for the first time. In the resonating alto of your mother's voice you hear echoes of the violin, French horn. Other voices are less distinct, separated by a gulf of air, but you hear low brass rumblings of men, piccolo lilting children and a thousand other instruments, bells and strings and always the double-tapped bass heart that pushes through you. The world is sound, you lose yourself in it, seeing no more than the veins and skin between you and life your eyes relax, see without looking, and the endless extemporaneous symphony paints images into your sight.