tell me about the rooms.

one is filled with all kinds of sensual delights, smells, tastes, furs, touches, heavy jewelled goblets, warm fire, all the things you can saturate yourself with endlessly and never be filled.

the other room is perfect simplicity. one mat on the floor, bare stone walls, bread and water, one window where you can see the full moon glowing soft and luminous. a perfectly disciplined rhythm, cleansing solitude and absolute and utter peace.

and, of course, there are rooms of torture, where you are being forced to tell the truth endlessly. but as you know, one can never tell the absolute truth, so they/you must keep hurting you with all kinds of physical, psychological anguish.

and the room with mirrors, endless mirrors, walking through, looking at yourself, seeing yourself reflected from every possible angle. and you begin to laugh, shout, cry in this non-stop reflection of being.

and the garden, oh the garden. just the oldest smells of moss and wet earth and rain and green in all stages of growth and decomposition. trees where you can sleep like alice. where you feel the spongy soil under your feet. where you hear the birds, insects and the interwovenness of plant existence. where you feel how you will die and fall apart and be consumed and dissolve to become part of another ectoderm, one gentle enough to incorporate you.

yes, i think i know what you mean by these rooms.

there is only one room.