It has always and ever been the wood, the stone, the brick, the water, the trees. Sometimes the soil whispers. There was never any real hope of getting away from it; I might as well have been in the dream where one is trying to run, and goes nowhere.

 So perhaps I should just try listening, instead, and feel honored to be psychic-chotic. If I was Sylvia Brown, I'd be making money. As it is, I am making mischief. At least I'm good at it!