Perfect Pitch

"The Veil."

It names itself, as the Human mind named itself, with the weight and presence of sound on the lips, translated into a form that you can physically comprehend. Encompass. Envelop.

A touch of teeth and tongue.

A vibration of an eardrum.

Air moving through a chest cavity.

A taste of breath.

More than that. Not nearly as much as that.

That was the beginning.

"Be known."

This is next: you see the whorl and weft, the place where it joins itself in one smooth, unbroken surface of light.

Make an incision, and from the wound of light will pour forth colors you have never seen. You are pigment, the pigment closest to those colors.

"Be seen."

Wet matter set against that light, the light that determines what color you are.

But each color is a note, and each note is a mind. You are a choir. A chorus. You open your mouth to join it, and you are flooded with the taste of color, with the taste of sound.

The sound and color that you are, translated. A means for you to understand.

"Be heard."

You raise your hand and hold it steady.