Angels speak a middle language not entirely of this world and not entirely of another. Middle language is a prayer to the nuisance of what is. The writer and the poet speak not to the world but for the world. Middle language is the eruption of flaming emotion doused by chards of frozen, winter ice. Matter informs consciousness and consciousness informs matter at the cosmic level of interaction.The internal landscape is as vast as our external universe. It is the world of the eternal kingdom that comes to save humankind from its own self-destructive powers; it comes to show the way of Nature. Words help to construct incomplete images, one psychiatrist says words trigger photographic tin-type images that hold the key to a memory, a joy, or a trauma. We write to see clearly. We are reporters of life as it transforms itself, first in middle earth and with deliberate awareness in our souls. It attaches and moves through everything as waves and particles of energy. We know we are alive. We can feel emotion in the body. We can even move emotions through concentrated breathwork. Words are to humankind what song is to morning birds. They provide directions and choices, choices that come from our multiple authenticities. We are fragmentations of right things, floating in weightless space or a flowing river. The same river is always different, water is a metaphor for life, a poetic image of mountain springs, and frozen glacial ponds. We are puzzle pieces until we finish arranging and re-arranging our animate inner landscape, one piece at a time into a coherent self, a linguistically and intuitively aware connectivity to body and mind of our multiple authenticities.