Everyone has their own unique experience with how the world works.

"Wir leben alle unter dem gleichen Himmel, aber wir haben nicht alle den gleichen Horizont." "We all live under the same sky, but we don't have the same horizon"

Wir leben alle unter dem gleichen Himmel, aber wir haben nicht alle den gleichen Horizont.

There is a world elsewhere.

The waking have one world in common; sleepers have each a private world of his own.

The waking have one common world, but the sleeping turn aside each into a world of his own.

Everybody has a secret world inside of them. I mean everybody. All of the people in the whole world, I mean everybody — no matter how dull and boring they are on the outside. Inside them they've all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds... Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe.

All men, while they are awake, are in one common world; but each of them, when he is asleep, is in a world of his own.

We also live in strange places: each in a universe of our own. The people with whom we populate our universes are the shadows of whole other universes intersecting with our own.

Maybe each human being lives in a unique world, a private world different from those inhabited and experienced by all other humans. . . If reality differs from person to person, can we speak of reality singular, or shouldn't we really be talking about plural realities? And if there are plural realities, are some more true (more real) than others? What about the world of a schizophrenic? Maybe it's as real as our world. Maybe we cannot say that we are in touch with reality and he is not, but should instead say, His reality is so different from ours that he can't explain his to us, and we can't explain ours to him. The problem, then, is that if subjective worlds are experienced too differently, there occurs a breakdown in communication ... and there is the real illness.

I don't think the world is the way we like to think it is. I don't think it's one solid world, but many, thousands upon thousands of them — as many as there are people — because each person perceives the world in his or her own way; each lives in his or her own world. Sometimes they connect, for a moment, or more rarely, for a lifetime, but mostly we are alone, each living in our own world, suffering our small deaths.

To different minds, the same world is a hell, and a heaven

Every person is a world to explore.

Each artist seems thus to be the native of an unknown country, which he himself has forgotten, different from that from which will emerge, making for the earth, another great artist.