Maybe, far removed from the window, there's a room where every labyrinthine hall winds up. If there's such thing as a soul it would wallow in this room and do it fiercely, as souls tend to do. Perhaps when all is peaceful and without distress or confusion, the light from the warped little panes reaches its most intense in the soul's backroom.

It is this secret nourishment that creates voyeurs. A clandestine breed, voyeurs could best be described as enraptured beyond participation. Even in a crowd, they're a lonely breed. A voyeur may only watch even another voyeur; they may never speak or bond. For as long as they are a voyeur, they are beyond things . . . only observing. When they give up the inherent voyeur inanimacy, they must also give up euphoria of their fix. Those who take the voyeurism with them are forever doomed or blessed to be fervently joined with their experiences - despairingly and reassuringly distant.

It is an addictive escape, journey and rest like any good drug can be for any good fiend. That is the truth behind it and, nestled in the branches that make up the hut of the soul recluse, it is known and regarded for embrace or battle. Beyond each fork in the rutted path of soul-room illumination lies anonymity. If one reviles the outsider they've become, then they're doomed to lurk namelessly, as any unfathomable monster does. On the road less travelled, monks, artists and eccentric senior citizens choose to revel in shedding every unnecessary room in the apartment building of their brain let the light come in as it hadn't since the shining stream of birth.

What lies beyond voyeurism? Let James Joyce tell you, as the stream of sentient Dublin dumps Leopold Bloom onto the banks of the Liffey, looking ever outward. He tries to scrawl something in the sand, but, as a monument to his profession and obsession he stops, leaving the mystery for only the wind and the voyeurs to look upon.

Could it have been that Bloom discovered the covert language of all voyeurs, whether they bud from the soul as transcendents or guilty neurotics? After all, how else could voyeurs communicate lest through the jolting intensity of subtlety? A single gesture of the hand could be as effective a window cleaner as a thousand verbal scrubs and polishes.

As the Buddha said . . . well, the Buddha had no inclination to increase suffering by speaking unnecessarily and in bad metaphors. After all, the moving mandala of the world can be on a park bench or the very axis of the world, for it brings all places into unity of seeing.

As Buckaroo Bonzai of the fourth dimension would say on this topic of hamster wheels and Mobius strips, "Wherever you go, there you are."

When everything seems surrounded by radiance because its never been properly looked at, when the lines of a face become an intricate etching rather than a connect-the-dots, and when every photon seems to have a secret mission and a smile, then the inner has grown to outer proportions. Its a realization welcomed with bright-eyed wonder and a balance of divine knowledge.

Perhaps if you were Bucky Fuller the photons would whisper to you, "I think I am a verb." Or, if you watched closely enough, you would see Leopold Bloom scattered throughout Dublin in his verbhood.