I was happy.
How strange to be so separated from everyone and yet in a flash of insight I felt pure pleasure. Pleasure that whelms from within that is as hot and bright as a scorching sun and yet it was nourishing. Tangible as music is, and permanent as heat. There was nothing that brought it forth, it was (is) there always. What happens is that we layer silt on top of it. Sometimes the silt gets scraped off by an event, or a friend does something loving, a good dinner, or an emotive opera, and we assign the pleasure that comes from within, to the thing that scrapped the silt off, rather than to the pleasure exposed.
Then I thought, how much silt do I have? Where do I get it from?