I wonder about it. It is my estimation, & that of others in the Learned College, that we have worlds within us. I consider it & turn it over in my mind, look at the eyes of people on the train. Read the words spilt out as ink. I will say-- I will always say-- that I can't accept that there are others, or Others, in everyone, behind their faces & shirts. So I think inside most is nothing, not a lacunae or void but solid stone, solid flesh. Then there are others, who are world-builders. There is the Rememberer, who is also called Narcissus, who has inside of them only the history of their own Self. There is the Namer, who dissects the world, calls a thing a new thing, or a new thing he calls Nothing. But inside of some there is a new world, of digested & created from the old, as a star is born from a nebula, & they are calle Demiurge. This is apart from any question of Self or Other, really-- this is perhaps more akin to the Mind-delusion. Perhaps there is the Critic, as well, the Maw, that is like a Tree whose roots drink of the worlds within others?