A lone tree stands far off in an empty field. A piercing image, it seems to contain some sacred presence, it calls out to you – not in its own voice, but a voice that has rested deep within your sleeping mind.

The voice speaks without words. A solemn inheritance from a time before you can possibly know; familiar in a most mysterious way, yet – as though from another world – all too distant at the same time: the way the deaf might meet an orchestra once heard.

“How shall I deal with this?” you wonder as you look from afar at the lone tree, swaying in the silent field, and how shall you indeed? For there is no way that you can respond to it at all.