You point at your hand and you see your hand. You point at the lamp and you see the lamp. You point at the place everyone calls your face, and the finger arrives at something stranger than a face. It arrives at the room. At the window. At whatever you happen to be looking at.

There’s no edge where you stop and the world starts. Just the looking, and what’s looked at, with nothing in between.

You spend most of your life assuming you’re behind your eyes. Try once, plainly, to find the one who’s behind them.