[Book.]

Sometimes I think that I am tired of these dreams. I get lost in some of them, and some of them get lost in me. It is not a wall that God has where all the good poetry and equations are written; what He has is a well wet with thought, from which some may drink, and into which some have drowned. If you’ve ever had a taste, you would know what a temptation it is to jump in, to swim in it, to be one with the pure flow. But it is quite another thing when you’re choking on it, have it coming out of your nose, unable to decide what is real and what is the fantasia that long has swum in those depths. Some of the dreams I recall are not dreams, and they have happened to me in real life, however far removed I have located myself from such solidities. Some of my memories are dreams awoke in secret, threaded themselves into my waking timeline. And I fear I shall never sort them out, know for sure what is life, and what is the monster.