I listen for the words unsaid, and I hear the alternations between the ambiguities, the cold sweep of decision when the knife of reason cuts to the quick. Or so it would seem. I look for the colors I see every day, for they bleed so easily into everything else, and we wonder why the going of this life seems so gray — it is all so vivid, all the time, and we ignore it. Or am I fooling myself? I imagine that I see, at least sometimes, what the others miss, but then I wonder what it is they are seeing when they smile, some picture they hold in themselves I will never know. How do they hear the words, “I love you,” like I have never heard, even in the silence? For I listen for the words unsaid, and maybe there is a reason no one says them. And I look for the colors I see every day, but perhaps I question what I see when there is no mystery there, at all. What shall I do but wonder? In imagining there is more to it — shall we not find ever the more?