I know only one thing. When I sleep, I know no fear, no, trouble, no bliss. Blessing on him who invented sleep. The common coin that purchases all things, the balance that levels shepherd and king, fool and wise man. There is only one bad thing about sound sleep. They say it closely resembles death.

The pain was the world. The mind could not find a place outside it. He could hear the pain, staticky, in his hand and wrist. He closed his eyes again, briefly. He could feel himself contained in the dark but also just beyond it, on the lighted outer surface, the other side, belonged to both, feeling both, being himself and seeing himself.

The reason we all like to think so well of others is that we’re all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer terror.

At any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face.

Betrayal. We betray to be loyal. Betrayal is like imagining when the reality isn’t good enough... betrayal as hope and compensation. As the making of a better life. Betrayal as love. As a tribute to our unlived lives... betrayal as escape. As a constructive act. As a statement of ideals. Worship. As an adventure of the soul. Betrayal as travel. How can we discover new places if we never leave home? You were my Promised Land, Poppy. You gave my lies a reason.

And yet the slightest attempt to convert any meaningful idea (of one’s own—this is the main thing) into words leads inevitably to the thesis: for pure thought, all human languages are foreigners.

Fortunately, some are born with spiritual immune systems that sooner or later give rejection to the illusory worldview grafted upon them from birth through social conditioning. They begin sensing that something is amiss, and start looking for answers. Inner knowledge and anomalous outer experiences show them a side of reality others are oblivious to, and so begins their journey of awakening.