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          Something like indescribable, we find intuition seeping from little cracks in the folds of reality. Little bits of everything that we want to know, and as we use it and try to take it into reality we think to ourselves: What is this mad mad thing called life? But no translation is necessary, that is the maddest of all things. Like trying to make words from a violin concerto. Flowery Powerly nothing describes it best.
          We follow those promptings, and with a little divine help we get it right. Just like sensing can follow reality, true reality, and never go wrong. We all follow reality, just different shapes of it. Different aromas, words, realities of the same thing. Going to the same place. Truth.
          Finding that the world likes to see so much of results, but perhaps more of how those results came to be; The journey of their crawl to the light of day, rather than just the fact that they made it: We see that those who cannot explain in a logical way must learn to explain in a differing and evocative analogy. And so with intuition it becomes like: Like the many beautiful and aesthetic facets and objects of life. Bubbles and sunsets and the smell of good books. Etc. Etc. Etc.
          Keep our own journals do we (do we?) all, in our languages each own for documentation.For the world through our eyes. Intution and wonderful sense.