At first, there is no sense of anything. Then, there simply is. A blackness that does not cloak, for it is the cloak, the thing. It is existence. And it is warm. Warm fluid in the black and gradually, color seeps, into being. Red, not ruby but maternal. Red of blood, not of bleeding, but of another, of life. And the red glows.

In the blackness and the living, fluid red, existence becomes an aquatic cornucopia of life, movement, and possibility. Nutrients flow along a slender lifeline, nurturing growth from the inside. Time is nothing and growth is measured by feeling, until suddenly it dawns that confinement is very real and uncomfortable, though still red, still warm and wet and surging with food and blood and life.

It is only when other come into existence, that you become aware of you. Before then, you were one, one with this generous deity called mother, whom before was just a lurking, nurturing part of you, and now is separate. However, together, touching for the first time, you will never feel more close, or more alone.