There is the silence in which everything exists, and then there is the noise in my head that I have come to take as the natural background to my life. It has occurred to me that perhaps the trick is to begin to see the silence as the background and the noise as moving across it. The silence, the plain existence of things, is what is real; the thoughts are clouds.
The canary began to sing again. The sun had struck it, and its throat and tiny breast had filled with son. Francis gazed at it for a long time, not speaking, his eyes dimmed with tears.
"The canary is like our soul. It sees bars around it, but instead of despairing it sings, and see: one day its song shall break the bars."