She shivers when she looks at the picture again, seeing the fear he painted around the town, the city, the way it poured off in confused tangled waves. She sees the fear around them, down there, small against the wall, the fear a beacon in the dark. If all indigos could see that, it was a wonder they weren't caught sweeps and sweeps ago. She listens, but her world is too grounded in the pratical for it to make sense. The idea of a being there who listens or watches--she doesn't understand what it means. It could be there, it could? But what does that mean, what does it matter?

"The moons...I really don't, I don't think we could agree on any of this. I don't see these things in the world, the moons are there, bright and lighting our way in life, but they're simply beacons in the dark. Stones cast up or the eyes of lowest and highest--they...they make good stories."

She touches the water, feels the layers of color swirled in mass, "This--this though seems more real. I know powers work in ways I'd never understand, I don't know how Mituna lifts things without seeming to think. I don't know how the world looks to Terezi or how Seeing things works. So this--the colors and shapes and whispers of fear, that--"

It seems plausible, real, a picture of the way things feel. IF she painted how she hears things, it might comes like this, colors bright around things, showing the noise, but she doesn't see it in colors in her mind. His whole way of life is a mystery to her, from his religion to his power.