The wicasa wakan loves the silence, wrapping it around himself like a blanket – a loud silence with a voice like thunder which tells him of many things. Such a man likes to be in a place where there is no sound but the humming of insects. He sits facing the West, asking for help. He talks to the plants and they answer him. He listens to the voices of the Wama Kaskan – all those who move upon the earth, the animals. He is at one with them. From all living beings something flows into him all the time, and something flows from him. I don’t know where or what, but it’s there. I know.