It was as if things were made from the essence of those things, tiny portions of their thingness, as different from each other as the things themselves, and if one unlocked the secrets of the thingness hidden in the things, reality itself would reveal its mysteries.

Cimmy couldn’t figure out what flowers those were, but their fragrance was deeply anchored into her memories, a strange thing, really, and she suddenly realized it was a scent from her Garden, roses, she was sure of it, even if she’d never smelled roses before.