The Earliest Conclusion

 

There are many rewards for a job well done, but there is only death for failure. 

There it is, a little blip in the data. A location, so far away, where the wind blows softly and the sun shines warmly and the water shimmers with life. Illusia. So far away. So she takes the discovery and shows it around. After a long time she finds two others who have the same results, the same location, so far away. They put the pieces together and there is some good news. Now there is a way to a better place, to a place where humankind can find some purchase to start again.

The new Earth. The fresh start. Where things will begin.

The old Earth has become unreliable. First the tap water became unpleasant, foul tasting, and then the drought got worse. Then the political situation changed and the loudest shouters had complete control. Now, they will do what it takes to make this whole thing work out. The question is, make it work out for who? Not everybody is a winner. This old Earth will not last forever and something must be done, say an ignored group of scientists. She is one of them.

Soon a cult comes about, a common dream, what do we need? First, the ability to sustain life for the journey to the new Elle-ysium. So far away. Then what is needed is the means to make the journey, which itself necessitates inventing a self perpetuating power supply, and finally there needs to be more known about what it would take to find a path through the shifting solar system, to the promised land. 

To that little blip in the data that now brings a promise of hope.

The funds to support the development of the plan and invention of the necessary technology to make the journey to New Hope are not easily calculated. What would go into the calculation of finding a home with sweet water and a better known future ahead for those who live in this new home? The eternal fields of summer. A land where water is as clean and easily found as it is in old pictures and legends. The way Earth used to taste.

There is an even bigger problem with what the data points to. Nobody can do anything about the inescapable fact that the journey itself is going to take more than one life span. The ones who arrive at the new promised land are going to be born on the ship. They will never know Earth. The ones who are leaving this toxic planet are not going to see this new land, they are going to die well before the ship arrives. This will be a gift to the grandchildren and all who come after, this is how a new world is nurtured and cultivated. This is hope in action.

How will that play out? The survivors who will be actually arriving at the new land have not been born yet but we know we will love them and do everything we can to provide a better life. If that is what it takes, its a gift to our descendants, directly from the present to the future.

Accepting the finality of life on Earth, its exhausted resources, causes a split between the needs of the weary status quo, the ones who have decided its better to keep fixing what we have, rather than throwing our money and resources into a bottomless pit of scientific adventurism. The doubters against the ones who have hope.

Secret meetings and court intervention allowed the first dreamers to get the whole thing rolling. How do you get from the basements and hidden places that the first meetings were held, to the migration of humanity to a fresh and fertile new planet? 

The first thing to do is to develop resource caches, things that our grand children will need to survive. Some important things can be sent up and placed along the way. Tools and food and precious water and fuel. Plus a little more. Treats and luxury and the stuff that hope is made of, music and rewards, supplies for continuing the journey.

What if it takes two generations to get to the new home planet? Or more? Would humans make such a commitment on behalf of subsequent generations? What if they had no choice? And when they get there, will they be welcomed by the indigenous inhabitants or will they repeat the toxic methods of colonialist manifest destiny?

I have found a small hidden stairway in the center of the house that goes from the top floor to the basement, but all of the doors on each floor in between are jammed or locked shut, tight. I have learned much about this old mansion, and there are many more secrets. The basement is where I have been spending my time.

For a man who cannot even remember my own name, I have a lot of perspective.

The air suddenly got really cold, which puts me on alert. I try to look at my hands but I can not see them, tis too dark. As I twist and look behind me I see a shadow on the opposite side of the room creep past on the floor, and I try to gather my forces to react and survive it again. I have done this before. I remember to do it all the time.

This always happens, so I prepared to fight back this time, instead of folding and giving in to it again. When I turned and was prepared to fight whatever it was, of course there was nothing and I was mistaken. I started to relax and exhale, quietly releasing the energy of the scream that was building up inside and laughing just to calm myself down. But that moment is when I saw it much closer to me, coming from behind to right in front of me. Huge. It was standing tall and about to tear me to pieces. The claws were so close, and they reached out to pull open my abdomen again, it always goes this way. I turned to run but again I could not make myself move in any way like running. So I turned to face whatever it was, and there was nothing but my own madness, tis empty now.

No sign as to where or when he let go. End of the trail again? For some this would be the end of the trail, but not for me.

"I see your credibility, more than just my air," and breaking sadness, that the case had ended. They hoped another ministry would soon come their way, arctic hope.

The moon sees all, and remains silent. I think so.

Why does this keep happening to me, endlessly? I know fairly well what is going to happen next, tis going to come from behind me again. This time I laughed and pretended to bend down to tie my shoe, abruptly kneeling low and thus evading the blow. I could feel the air crush above me before I heard the swoosh of claws and sinew, tearing the air where I was supposed to be. Turning I jumped and caught it by surprise. This time I grabbed the beast and I fought with everything I could muster from the floor of my soul. It screamed. I felt about and found the huge knife, I took it in my hand and I chopped at the neck and with great triumph I did fully slay my night monster, it felt like the first time, and I already knew I was wrong. I knew I was awakening and I tried to calm myself for what always happens next. Always the same question. Where am I now? Look at my hands. There is blood this time.

Just one or more items of business I haven't finished, "Above all, we must keep firmly in mind what it means to be a human being."

What if life were just a dream?

Here comes one now.

Who died? Why won't they tell me? My thoughts are wandering, like my words now. There was a gasp from everyone, unto whom all eyes turned, her glorious blond sunshine and blue skies.

I lay still, enjoying that I was now awake, perfect peace, and I watched the night release its hold and the glorious blue sky of day assumed control of the world. 

Waking up can be the first celebration, from nothing and darkness into a silver new day. I have learned to give thanks for each new dawn. Tis my only religion. Tis a new chance to make a good life from the ashes of yesterday. I lie here and listen and enjoy the transition into daylight. Tiny birds.

I am going to learn all the secrets of this old ruined mansion. The snow is coming. I am alone. I am learning. The days pass by somehow. The nights are cold and long. I should be hungry but I am not. It is under the covers with me.

Tis her head, tis just her head, tis all bloody and torn, her eyes were only a memory blue, then she looks at me fiercely through the gore. “Kith me.” Her tongue emerges from her torn head. Tis a wet bubbling sound. I am holding her heavy head in my jumpy hands. “You don't love me anymore!” She weeps gobs. I do my best to answer her. “Sure I love you baby...” because I must mean it. I do mean it. 

“Nno No NO YOU DON'T” She is howling. Her words just gush and burn me. 

There is nothing more I can say, I gently return the bleeding severed head to the pillow. It continues to howl and weep. I tell her I am sorry but of course that does not help, instead the effect of my words are more like pouring gasoline on her reeling stubborn embers. I place another pillow on top, but the howling continues. I sit on it. Time goes by.

Time goes by. Lots of time.

"Who owns a house with towers over on the Hill?"

The scientific study of dreams is called Oneirology. An Oneironaut is a term sometimes used for those who lucidly dream. There is something slick under the blankets with me. I roll over away from it, ignoring it. The smell of her hair is really strong. I close my eyes and think about our newest sin. She is the rebellious age, wanting freedom from her father, and so I must play a role in that. It would be I or the young coachman. Lucky her, she has two or more dramas underway. She just waits for the next best minute and then reaches out and takes me when she wants me. I know better than to ever initiate any romantic encounters with her, because I don't need to! I am an actor, this is the role today. I also know that by and by I will be the next to be betrayed, the next that she rebels against, that list is already fixed. But for now, she is my secret heaven, such a bit of heaven on this horrible wretched Earth. Tis all so short.

I do not know how I managed to get my boots on, my pants from yesterday are ruined and I just left them. I took another pair from somewhere, my jacket is in my hands and I am running through the forest, away from the road. Why is this happening to me? What have I done? Did I wash the red signal off of my face or is there some guilty evidence on my face that is screaming out to the world too? It was just her head, eyes so blue, but they are all that is left, the rest is crimson hell, chewed by an animal. How long must I run? Can I end this nightmare?

Tis still too early to find the path in the dim morning forest. I see a mound of leaves in a clearing just before me. Mostly forest darkness. I walk past it and her hand grabs my ankle. She pulls me down. Now her headless body is on top of me. 

“You don't love me anymore DO YOU?” I know there is no answer that will work. 

“DO YOU?” She is relentless but I have an advantage, I can see. I have a head. 

With eyes.

How is she talking? No head. Maybe she is just thinking and I am hearing her thoughts. Or like any dream, what I am hearing is my own voice, using her form because that is how my mind works. Prove it. Is it her spirit or is it my imagination projected back at me?

The feeling of having previously seen or experienced something, I am going to look at my sticky hands. I start to feel sleepy. Tis dark down there, and it gets darker. I consider my options. He who is attached to things will suffer much.

We all had bought into it, the handpicked few, preparing to save the world in one easy step. Follow orders, follow the rules. It is a great lesson. In the future we're not going to be. There's only one instant, tis right now. God invites us into eternity. The early civilizations in recorded history made methodical observations of the night sky.

Our nights would likely be quieter and our sleep more serene, and only I can save the world. It is up to me. Let each one learn what he can. "You are another one of will."

I am at peace with the mystery. I am afraid that if my door opens a bit, the memories will not be so pleasant either. My favorite comfortable delusion is my friend to the end. We've only scratched the surface of an incredibly vast and intricate subject, Terror Management Theory, the existence of dark matter and dark energy.

Faster now, Faster! Help is on the way. I started breathing hard and the lump in my throat signaled panic as I screamed. I feel a loss of hope. How did I get here? It was dark, I can’t find my way back just now, but I will keep looking. When I do get out, how can I get back? I will need to eat something soon.

Up and down the hall. Door to door. Different things in each room. This could take a long time. The hours go by. It gets dark again. Some new visitors arrive. I try not to make any noise while I watch them, but they hear me and soon they go running out. I should be more hungry but I am not. This surprises me.

I found a road. There is a tower. What a view!

I was falling down down down into darkness as I heard him say... "What's your idea?" Frank's brother whispered. "What do you mean, not available? Please clarify."

The house has gotten rather old, and the roof leaks. Unfortunately since nobody can leave, I want to make a public apology to all who know me. On the way, he hears an odd voice behind a door. Think you might want to look into what's that?

Learn more about spirit guides. A good life can happen, even if tis short and you always know you are going to die anyway. Before they could find out, the person's footsteps receded, and below is a merged shadow from their hiding place suddenly, a glaring light was being directly on that it came from the top room of the old Tower. And there are more. I could hear dogs barking behind me as I ran towards the swamp. Love hopes all things.

There was some kind of paternity and inheritance question, ancillary to my assignment, which was always hush-hush to me. Some kind of bones about ownership of some valuable scientific patents that were in limbo, not my problem. Which is more real, dreams or waking life?

Creaky steps, tis just me. I pushed the panic down enough to try to ask for some more clarification. Can you keep this secret? Not just yet. One word. It is a sound that's organized in a specific way.

"I just had an idea! Please go on!”

Here is the real story. The soul is a prisoner of our body, and that our own human condition is held hostage. Same drill as last time. I am in a hurry now. I just might jump down those stairs anyway, but I decide to keep looking. The house is very old. Nothing is in order, but recall coalesces and a little bit more of the situation emerges, the soul is the passenger of a chariot. Looks bad, I think to myself. Time for evasive action. Why can’t they hear me? Finally, he realized the idea was wrong. She cautiously cracked open one eye. We are new. It is ours. We take it!

The hunt is intensified. How did I get into this tunnel beneath the cemetery anyway? A search for treasure? A place to hide until the danger has passed? Seeking danger for amusement? Following a lost cat? None of that is enough reason to come down here. How about if I were looking for my wandering or possibly kidnapped daughter?

That hole was not there when I was there. Perhaps a person can choose to act in a different way, and to be a good person instead of a cruel person. There is no meaning in the world beyond what meaning we give it. Deeper into the gloom, more steps. More listening. Nothing, nothing and nothing. Dripping water. 

Scurrying small animals. More nothing in the limitless darkness. Further and further down the stairs we go. Wait and do not move. Do not miss a clue. Let some time go by, maybe my eyes will adjust. If I cannot see into the darkness then maybe my ears will allow me to go further. I will need spies to find out for sure.

“I've found a clue!” he cried out. “Come on, everybody!”

It was headed to any large system of circulating ocean currents, the South Pole. Antarctica. So that is where I am headed. Right now, still trying to figure out exactly why we dream, while also benefiting from forgetting all of our dreams

"Let's take a walk." It was dark. I found a door, it was locked. I was speechless.

But it seemed he never was, he went on and on, and I once more lost track of time, and when I turned to look again, there it was. "Did you find the answer to your dream questions?"

I walk around a bit. The sky is now ready to weep. There is another spider waiting in the barn. Average size. I have so much to learn. Do they venture out seeking to harvest smaller insects or do they just wait for lunch to come to them? Do they try to lure those smaller insects to the trap? Do they sing or send some kind of trick signal or scent that I cannot hear or detect? Do they calculate the type of web that they will need in a particular setting or do they build the one they know best, over and over again? Or do they always make a better web, each time? Maybe the bugs seek out the spiders to end it all, giving themselves over to the spider, to end the difficulties of existence at a time of one's choosing. All life ends. Why wait for the killing winter?

"Why?" Frank commanded.

The time delay of light passing close to signal the start of your access, "We are working on the case as hard as we can!" they replied, and told the girl, she walks with them into the uncertain night for the study of dreams. Remember, the first planet to be terraformed for the people of Earth, was accomplished by not 'trying' to accomplish anything.

"Well, we've reached the end of the daily rituals that keep the whole picture anchored."

Now the wind has picked up, the sky is dark and threatening, the rain is starting. 

The song is about sparks, and the trigger was the rose. We have the tools, we know the words, but we don’t know where it leads. The rose is in the garden, which is open to anyone who walks along. The rose is the only thing that matters now. Tis a love song. It is going to repeat again. “We'll have a celebration! Tis the end of your sorrows!" You're not going to be sad ever again, sending you signs, also called synchronicities. I heard about it after all this was done, and the one-way travel to the future, and told them the news.

“What's the matter?” The link between memory, sleep, and dreams, we hope that they were not now on a wild goose chase. I hear some tires shriek in the distance, further up the hill, towards the place where a person experiences the other person as experiencing the same thing. "It was on the ground there." The terror. I am more sure I won't like it here. Tis very repetitive work. Watch and learn. More waiting. Is there heartbeat? Am I breathing?

It took a bit of doing, but I got free and found a stream and washed myself again. I rested. I heard the dogs. I followed the stream, keeping the dogs behind me. I have done this before. I never want to do it again, this is the last time. But I know how to do this. I am good at it. It is time to be away from this place.

The first wagon I meet is the constabulary; he has just taken a prisoner to court in a neighboring community. He has no passenger for the return trip until here I am. His horse is tired. I accept the ride, and as soon as I look at my right pants leg I notice a large bloodstain in the shape of a human hand print on my pants leg where she grabbed me that last time, but the police man does not look away from the road, or especially towards me in any way, except to make casual conversation with me as the horse clips along wearily. I sort of lean that side of me away from him and continue the slow casual conversation with the tired policeman. Acting guilty is my only weakness, so I shift my thoughts from my bloody fiancée back there, to future travel.

There is a stage coach to the big city leaving in a few hours, so if I can just keep out of trouble until then I should be okay. Where next to? Where is this? How about Boston? How about Mexico. How about the Sunshine shore.

The journey to another world will take longer than one lifetime to make. You join the expedition knowing that you will be dying before reaching the destination, and the people that will land at the end of this journey will be the children produced during this last and hopefully endless journey, and all those people will know is that they are coming to the promised land, a long planned event. The path of the sacred road's dog. Our nourishment and life’s work is to create gatherings around the planets. "After a long breath, elderly man." What if the children don't want to go, choosing to remain stranded on our ship.

Sure enough, there was a trail of wet footprints leading to a laundry facility. I blurted out my carefully crafted cover story to open the next segment. I was listening to this sound carefully, the creaking floorboard was nothing but the movement of an old house to be open to the Goddess of Music.

Why do you dream about flying? About free-falling objects that are moving along locally straight paths in curved spacetime? I am here to tell you, you too should never give up, whatever you are doing. Did she lead France to victory for God or for her own selfish revenge against the troublesome English? Use a divination tool. 

That means there's only one thing to do with us. Find the concrete music. I am waking up in a strange place again. But there was something wrong. Everything was wrong. Suddenly there was a crashing noise and tramping feet. As heavenly bodies converge, many ask in seemingly various foreign languages. "This is a genius king, if that's a joke too, but just yesterday they pieced together much more of his story.”

Time travel by moving through higher dimensions, lucid dreaming cultivated through meditation. It was a full moon. I knocked on the door. He seemed to know my face, but clearly he did not know my name. But then, nobody knows my name.

"Follow me."

I take advantage of his distraction to look around the room. A tendency to hallucinate. I look back and up and I see my window. She knows a few things, often ascending to feed at night and descending to safety by day. Tis all so modern. I have no idea. Now she hates it here.

It seems to have worked out for the best, as you will eventually see. Tis dawn again. Small birds. Always small birds. Glorious. The sound of automobiles mixes in the distance. I am moving my toes, is there mud? No. Tis a relief. I roll over and let the breeze from the open window treat me to the early dawn. I look at my hand. 

Tis clean. Tis too early to think about getting out of bed. I am listening to the sounds of the cars and trying to figure out when this is.

Tis late November of 1963 and I am in Dallas, Texas. My first student will arrive at 10 AM, so I have lots of time. I am always early. Plenty of time to set the stage. 

Then it turns out that there is going to be a big parade, so now I have the day off. I went to the bar for an early lunch, had an argument about politics, then drank way too much, it was mid afternoon and then it was night. Somehow I got home but there was a problem. I woke up at home.

I had a hard time breathing. Officer Delbert Corin had me flattened to the floor, his .38 police side arm pressed to my forehead. His sweaty uniformed body sits on my chest. His partner calls to him. Trying to catch his breath, and he is charged up. He is fumbling with his handcuffs with one hand, gun to my forehead.

“Delbert, what are you doing?”

“I got him! (gasp) I got him red handed! Look at all that blood. (gasp) Good Lord!”

“Is he the man in the picture?”

“No, but...”

“That's your first problem, Delbert. You have a problem with that big ol “but” of yours. Let him go. Our orders are to find the man in the picture. This is serious business tonight, Delbert.”

“Aw, just looky here, this guy has blood all over his hands and face, he's done something bad, you can see it.”

“Delbert, is he the man in the picture?” There was no answer.

Delbert let me go. The two of them set off again to find the man in the picture that they had. I got up and gathered my most precious possessions and got the hell out of the big house. I stayed in the tool shed and waited until I got a better idea. When it got dark I washed up and climbed out. Once they find the man in the picture Delbert might just come back and look for me and I simply will not be around anymore.

Where will I be? I may have been born here. Maybe I will die here. Let's find out, but slowly though. Of course. No big deal. This big old world is full of random nonsensical coincidences. "Here's a place where you might want to dig, Mr. Hardy!"

We stand again at the very structure of styles of existence. By taking the voices away, we have uncovered a wonderful musical landscape where change can come over us, over the land like breath, like breathing, shrouded in mystery and filled with life, the study of the Universe as a whole. Do I make myself clear?

Tis windy outside, in the sunshine. The influence and importance of ice and light, one colored band fades into the other in the sky. We are pulling the business in as fast as we can handle it, this is fantastic! Is it a coincidence that the name is similar?

Throwing out the dirt in great spades can cover the test completely. "That man's nutty about unusual flowers." I never understood. When the lights went off I was holding the door shut, the pounding was increasing. The crescent Moon remains visible just moments before sunrise. Dreams about finding new rooms in your narrow tubes of energy that stretch across the entire length of the ever-expanding universe, then roll into very long but very dense cylinders.

The virtue and value of a flight of ideas. Didn't make sense. Not now. But it sounds good. Nature is all about struggles, everywhere you roam. We do not talk about them either. With the inner sound, you pull the energy of Infinity into you. I feel that it is a privilege to walk in his footsteps, to guide the listener through, feeling the increased speed above the Earth relative to observers on the ground. Such flights are not endangered, in fact the chaotic nature of the atmosphere induced positive dreams.

Traitor to the living. "Mr. Ernie was innocent!"

"I guess tis time to make our last trial." Time travelling while standing still, the study of things high in the air which will predict future events, acquiring data from observations, the development of models to describe astronomical objects and phenomena. By closing this message, surrounded by acousmatic music that has existed since prehistoric times, which explains its association with a culture of the stars, you agree to the plan.

Things happen slowly and then fast in my business. There are long periods of nothing, the land shapes the imaginations of the people who dwell within it, sound signatures generated by humans, they are attempts to specify the subject, in our brief time together she shared her secret names with me, things I had not previously known to exist.

"Sure, we're still asleep." This is not a good place to relax. The Soul is like a bird that is held prisoner by a cord tied around its leg, this solution produces black holes with double event horizons.

"Maybe not." Massive clouds sweeping across all of the non-human, non-domestic biological sounds settled by Earth colonists and divided into a planet full of life, such as humans, orcs, dragons, etc. Travelling the space-time vortex, humans may not be able to withstand time travel at all.

"But how about Jack's confession?" Surrender something to your guides. Does it mean the Soul is freely flying in the Other World? The ancient Egyptians thought of dreams as simply a different form of seeing. Just as between the anthropological statements we get creative ideas from dreams. I found a physical object whose world-line or history forms a closed loop in time. I want to give the towers another closer examination and explain “the death of the subject” that subjectivity—in an important sense this stuff was hidden in the old tower, short, small or large, seen or unseen (ghosts, gods and hell-beings). What more do you need?"

Headline: "Killer Crater Found Under Ice"

Reasons to Stay at Home, abandoning all attachment to success or failure.

Recognition of this situation is important for making certain of my time and place now.

Another dawn. Birds. Listening for airplanes. No? Cars. No? Nothing. Men calling. Dogs barking. I cannot hear any motors, no traffic. I check my hands, they are clean. This is a relief, no blood. I check my feet, no mud, and no sticks. Tis safe this morning. I look further. Is there a clock? There are no clocks anywhere. 

There is the church bell.

I dress in the low light. Odd clothing. I figured it out. Boots. There is a pitcher of water, the mirror is horrible, it tips my stomach, this is not a fun house. My ugly face is even more distorted. Now tis coming back. Three children. The children of the Lord of the Manor. There are strawberries.

The cook does not speak to me, so I just go about my business. Two can play that game, withered sister. Another day at the manor. Lessons will start after the children have their meal, the meal starts after prayers, they call it Morning Mass and they will ring their gigantic bell. I have time, so I walk about the village, tis a wooden and straw village. Get to work you oaf! Animals and people, stinking together. Nobody talks to me; they grow quiet when I pass. I have clean clothes. It is early and I have time. I walk through the old stone gate. This part of the village was built by the Romans, long ago. The old stone road heading west was built by the Romans. As I get further out from the city limits and into the countryside I pass some old family crypts, they are so old now that the names are all worn off and nobody knows this family anywhere near here. I sit in the sun for a little while, and think about the day ahead. Today’s lesson will be about the Cymri, who live way out past the moors, on the far northern shores. The Cymri worship Tiu and Odin and Pan and Mithras. The children are always interested in strange distant people.

The morning bell in the English church sounds, tis time for me to return to the Manor. There are soldiers coming, I can see them in the distance, they are marching. Their short battlefield weapons are carried in a cart, pikes and banners are in their hands, so there is no cause for alarm. They are the fyrd, returning from their march with their King Harold. There will be news. The year is 1066. I wait until they pass and then follow them back through the old stone gate. Tis nearing mid morning now.

Nobody talks to me. I like it that way. They let me pass. I give them nodding greetings in exchange for their awkward silence and occasional grunts. I am the perfect stranger.

The lesson went very well; the youngsters are very receptive, though they do find excessive amusement in my foreign accent. In other words, it describes spacetime. 

They said that if you dream that you die, this might depend on both time and spatial scales, sound spatialisation; a large cloud which takes up the whole space.

Prior attempts at prediction, of concern to humans, as well. Said as he led them toward the old tower, "To dream courageously, sending musical messages inhabited by various ancient life forms. So that this is a vibration of the merger." 

He had absolutely nothing to gain by deceiving the idea that in the old tower, those were his very words.

Once the supercontinent Gondwana was undisturbed by experience of or exposure to frequent nightmares that seem unrelated, until the first ice began to appear, you are agreeing to news, experiences with sin, forbidden and forgotten.

If you haven’t visited this heavenly country, keep a dream journal for the understanding of this fascinating subject. "Tis a hoax," he started. "A false start we feel we have to settle for, instead of the nightmare." In space an object maintains its dream-base. They ascended the stairs to the room above the investigation. 

"Prove this!"

How to fight them, "What happened early this morning was probably in our space over the last seven months, and mocks the source of all perfection." The ancient Chinese, Indians, Egyptians and Mesopotamians are known to have studied the mathematical principles of sound, they were crossing a chasm between discrete worlds with discrete spaces and times. Sit back and enjoy the moment. Dreams are a global state of consciousness, you agree to the ground truth, not restricted to the normal musical rules. “Please get back to the story, just where did our acts on the stars that form the Milky Way get us?"

Another dream. The light is from fire. I am a child. I have a guardian, a keeper. We hide up in the shadows. In the courtyard below a dark man emerges from the lower chambers. He stops to light his smoke. He pauses in the shadows looking ahead quietly. My keeper says to me in a very clear whisper “That is your Father.” I know not to signal him, because that would most likely be fatal for us. He is the King of Death. He leaves this land without taking me along with him. I am almost safe now. We will leave this place to find an even better location. I am surrounded by darkness, I am terrified of darkness, but the darkness is also familiar to me. There is a vampire in the basement. One distant day, am I going to become the King of Death? Am I just waiting my turn, like he, my father, did once just now? A long impossible wait. A lifetime to comprehend.

I reach out my soiled hand. Again, the phantom bloody remains of my wayward student, the first daughter, are decomposing under my bed, and I have just enough time to evade the cook and make it past the stone gate before dawn. The long boats would take me far away. They are a moderate distance from here. I should be able to get away from here before the village alarm goes up. I walk past a man with his son. The son asks his father about all the blood on my hands and clothes, the man says that there are lots of reasons that people have blood on them. Perhaps I am a butcher, or perhaps I was helping somebody who had been in a fight, or perhaps I was in a fight, or maybe I was helping deliver a baby. Good or bad. They never talked directly to me anyway as I appear to be a foreigner.

I say nothing and keep heading towards the shore where I believe that the boats are waiting. They will need men to row, and I need to be somewhere else as soon as possible, and with as few questions as possible. I must go with them, to get out of this land. Before I am discovered and taken and kept in some wet stone darkness. I am eager to go with them, I see that they are my only hope now.

Why is it that every well meaning and honest and rewarding job I ever manage to land, why must it invariably come to blood every time? I am washing the blood from my hands and clothing, walking down the road, always listening for horsemen coming from behind me, I am trying to be as boring and unnoticeable as possible. The noblemen I have worked for all know each other, therefore now that there has been a murder of these children, its time to go as far as possible. Tis time to go into chaos.

In two days I came to a beach, at dusk. There is a fire and men are gathered, some kind of soup or stew is being ladled out to them. I am so hungry that hot sea water would have been welcomed like nourishment. I receive my share of the stew, no questions asked. Something causes our tongues to loosen. There is talk about the troubles stalking the land, plagues and witchcraft. In response, women are being burned in the square. There is laughter, then things do not make sense, falling down. I burp up the soup and ale, followed by sleep.

Eventually I become aware of the pain in my arms. I am seated in a longboat, next to three other men, we are two to an oar and we sit and stare and work the oars. I notice that my beard has grown quite a bit, my hair is long, my arms scream with fatigue, but still I row on and on. I am so hungry and thirsty, but there is nothing. 

Nothing but the oar. Pull. Reach. Pull. Reach. Focus on taming the chaos. Do not overlook anything.

A thought forms. I have been rowing for a long time, the food has been drugged, but now they have run out of food and the drug is wearing off. I wonder what these men know about these drugs. They start to talk more and more, about magic and witchcraft. All they know about magic is that it ends by burning witches. Satan is afoot. Satan is a cat. "Catch it, it will answer, that or anyone else in this."

The other rowing men are also looking about as if awakening, but the master's lash keeps the men focused on the oars. The long silent men begin to awaken, and grumble aloud. They talk about witchcraft again. They know nothing about it except from the tales last night. The answer to all troubles and mysteries and to our present predicament is always finding the source of the witchcraft, which would be Satan, to slay him. But Satan is clever, he gives up the witch to us and he is gone now. The only solution is to burn the witch. Drown the witch. Hang the witch. Banish the witch. Tis always her fault. Nobody has ever seen her, but they feel strongly that they will know her. She will deny all and try to escape, which is always the most obvious sign of guilt. She will have Satan's mark somewhere. There will be satisfaction. There will be a sad end for this campfire tale.

I hear the master talking to his crewman, or is he a passenger, about some horrible crime that happened recently, a nobleman’s children were all murdered in the most gruesome way. The story is probably about me, and the man telling the story, he is familiar to me now, I remember him. He was one of the nobleman’s council. He is called Phinuit. I see him watching me, but he does not say anything to me.

The driver’s beat continues. We row and Phinuit broods darkly. I remember more about Phinuit. He is unusually competitive and vicious with his gossip, always suggesting conspiracies and getting servants he does not like into trouble. Usually these unfortunate people are accused of crimes and executed, based on the word of Phinuit. He is a dangerous man, because he sits with the kings, he can create his own way.

Phinuit spotted the tiny dot on the ocean's horizon first. Now I think he was waiting for it. There is another boat, and it appears to be coming in our direction. 

There is much trepidation, friend or foe? Will they rescue us and share food with us or send us into the sea after a brutal fight? Is he waiting for it, signaling it? I still must row.

Closer and closer they come. They put up their colors. We put up our colors. They are Berserker sailors from the north, the most ferocious of the sea warriors. We are all pirates here in this world. Adventurers. Tis what men do at sea. This is bad, we are no match. We are exhausted and many days out of food, no precious water to drink. We begin signaling, attempting to begin negotiations as they draw closer. They appear to be willing to hold their attack. We are no match.

Phinuit signals them, their leader hails him. They know each other. This could have the effect of removing the danger. We are blessed to have him, but our boat is clearly in trouble. We do not speak their language so we can only listen and try to make up explanations from the emotions in their voices.

The boats grow closer, now close enough to permit speech to be exchanged. 

Phinuit speaks their language. He laughs and shouts at them and they shout to him. They speak some kind of loud and ugly language that none of the others recognize.

Suddenly there is something huge in the water, and our boat is struck hard from below. The rowing master was standing and is knocked off the deck and screams as he hits the troubled black water. Huge jaws come up from below and he is gone. 

There is silence, none of his screams survive. Our boat is wounded, water comes up from new holes below. There is a groaning crack that extends through the middle of our vessel.

When the black boat gets close enough, Phinuit grins at me and then suddenly leaps from where he is safe, puts his heavy hobnailed boot right on my face, presses his stinking boot directly on my face with his entire body, and then uses my furious push back to propel his jump out to the black boat. The men at first cheer for his extraordinary feat. Our boat is sinking, and we are chained fast in our rowing places. To save themselves from the sea monsters below, the men in the black boat use their battle axes and war tools to pierce us and to bloody our arms and faces as the sea swallows us, we are a sacrificial gift to the leviathan, a bait to please the sea monsters in exchange for the black boat’s escape.

As I am pulled under I see the swirling beasts below, ready to feed on our bleeding bodies. The merciless cold black water welcomes us all eagerly. The chains pull us down. The men scream and then there is silence after the water covers them. We sink in icy darkness. Together.

His jet controls go haywire, but a mysterious green light takes over and he lands safely. Green flashes at a glance, a sound or combination of sounds that forms or arises from an immersive environment, derived from the term landmark. 

Astronomy is one of the oldest natural sciences. "I have it fixed!" In fact, it is an elaborate morphological segmentation of sounds. Everyone gets plenty of what they need. My illusory dreams that have come to be interpreted by the subject as actual experiences.

The moon holds an illusion peculiar to the reunification of music, noise and language. I seek to sustain an even mind, generated by non-biological natural sources where aliens speak to me and arrange a meeting. I am brought to a science complex where several famous scientists are now working, with mysterious benefactors, who are in contact with aliens.

"Do you think that he might have meant the new tower?"

"Remember, we settled - it was an error - remember?"

"So you didn't find anything after all, growing through suffering and being tested, fortitude under trials, the koinos kosmos," Savoring the “morbid” world, this is a time vault, tingling with excitement, and we all followed. Later, when the storm had blown over like an initiatory journey full of obstacles, thus requiring several attempts. The Will to Truth instead of a brute force. Neither a thought nor an emotion.

His birthday wish is for a house with furniture. The wind blows out the candles on the cake, and there is a knock on the door. A strange looking man has a telegram. He ends up watching the dawn and then turns to ashes like vampires do in sunlight. 

Seems unpleasant. I hope she appreciates his efforts and intentions.

Headline: "What Your Brain Is Doing While You Sleep" Choose: Necessary, Always Enabled or Non-Necessary. They found that the changes had pulled away from the rotted wood, and especially pointed back to the normative spark. 

Hallucinations could also be caused by airglow, indirect scattering of sunlight, scattering of starlight, and artificial light pollution. Or if you like, one of the visible forms—to create their own values and determine a meaning to their life, a source of happiness, that is humor. The waters of life flow over, this happens over and over, increasing the plastic pollution by human populations.

I knew you wouldn't agree. The softest thing in the universe may have gone right to the top of the tower. The search continued without success until everyone was motivated to work towards better and admirable art. Then they find the money that the uncle has hidden in the house and everything is alright. At least we should tell everyone that the mystery has been solved. Be more present in your everyday life, dreaming requires an act of courage, he almost screamed, imaginations relating to the vision received.

"Nothing here," a dry, hot climate over much of Gondwana. They are assigned to guard the island, a great job during this part of the war, beats combat for sure. But her cheerful disposition and good connections pull her through, strong metaphoric content, post-death dream body, passionate about sea creatures and their home, a large amount of inconsistent data over time may lead to total abandonment of a model.

Freaky dreams are almost entirely covered in water, rainforests of the sea, with fish, cetaceans and sea snakes. What does the work say? Did we unravel the mystery? He invented his own job, smart fellow, but he died anyway.

The ocean is quiet today, the constant heartbeat of the waves and the wind exploring every open surface. Clouds gather on the horizon and approach. At first I wrote “clowns” gather on the horizon and approach -- it is just amusing to imagine a grouping of clowns out there. Red noses. Smiles and frowns. All kinds. Mimes too. Just past the horizon, right there just beyond our line of sight.

Ocean currents are organized flows that persist over some geographical region and over some time period, pelagic (open water), demersal (just above the seabed) and benthic (sea bottom), balancing the filled space containing the Universe. 

Sometimes the known universe has been considered a sea or estuary of the effects of gravitation which are ascribed to spacetime curvature. Without the boundaries of rhythmic structure and discovered to have once been native inhabitants, and the formation of the Solar System, Earth's origin and geology, abiogenesis, and the origin of climate and oceans, we wait.

By standing on his brother's shoulders, he could reach his arm through the opening. Abstract clocks glow across a dark background, representing time travel theories. I am not sure of where to run to, so I'll just sit there and watch, and possibly die. Wish me luck.

"On we go!"

Just being in my own home, that is enough. Some place to sit and not have to worry about being asked to leave or to move on or to do something. My own home. Tis everything. I have a short and very partial list of what one can do at home: Make a meal, eat a meal, store your things, take a nap, sleep at night, sleep in the day, get mail, telephone calls, you can plan the next moves, you can bring friends over, you can escape from people you feel like avoiding. You can be alone to read or just sit quietly and do nothing, eyes open. None of those things are possible with no home.

That was no place. With what could've been hidden, except under the stairs, imagine that I'm having future successes. Traveling faster than light, you are probably thinking, this path is within the realm of experience existentially, but don't ask me to help you. I've got it bad.

The islands seem to float around, they don't really, but they do tend to slowly sink and linger dangerously just under the waves, as the ocean expands because the polar ice melts. So we got in there, placed markers, made some measurements and did some counting. Now we know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Ball.

Fortune is strange that way. Tis all about recognizing opportunities. The ‘Scream’ is another fundamental sign, bringing old memories, having undergone synaptic efficacy refreshment multiple times and moving between different points in time beyond dreams, who are usually hidden beneath the lead vocals.

"Search all you want to but you won't find anything, of that I'm certain."

More footsteps. People living their lives right next to me, with no idea of what secret rooms I inhabit. Do they hear me too? What have I said lately? I am trying to remember. Did I say it out loud?

Another day begins, the neighbors are quiet, either sleeping or gone. Or listening.

"These boys want to look through the old tower." Both boys became silent and seemed to worry. But then the questions for me began. How did I get there where did I come from what was my name what was I doing who did I work for who is the girl then back to the start. When the old man dies the clocks all stop for a short while and then run backwards.

Music. Everyone likes music. The boys looked at each other almost unbelieving. 

They do not hear me when their sonic cloud is on.

I have been thinking of the dream recently, my friend's face, all worn and weary. I was there to offer shelter, just like he did for me so many years ago. Tis a dream, so is that really just and only me? Or am I offering mercy by mistake, insulting the traveler? Am I missing the transmissions and the signs? Is it time to prepare something familiar or time to try something new?

If you want to sleep closer to the mountains, he said the loot was hidden in the old tower. If you just let us take a look around, if we had a mountain guide and mountain rescuer, where the royal road, the road that is repeatedly elided, as well due to some similarities in a mountain landscape.

An ancient Antarctic eruption was noted for very tiny fragments of sound, our interest in it was “to present the form of a huge dark cavern." We asked what bioprospecting means for Antarctica and the Southern Ocean. Over time these swamps became deposits of coal.

The first sounds were footsteps, strangers passing by, over me, on their way to somewhere else. I don’t know where, nor do I feel left out. Now I am dead again. 

It feels good to move about in your bad dreams. When he pulled it out the bold boys explained and understood the bonds. "We can't give up now," said Frank, and scrambled over the surface of the roof. It sure looks as if someone had placed them deliberately to hide something underneath.

Headline: "The Special Nature of Nightmares After Trauma"

I awaken in a bloody bed, the dawn is here, I can't hear cars and airplanes. Her face is familiar to me, her eyes catch mine and her mouth moves, but nothing is heard, her head is detached, I wonder where her body is? The sheets are bloody and I am not going to just sit here, with her eyes looking at me so hard, she is thinking “Who has done this to me? WHY?”

I remember the face of Phinuit, as I hastily prepare to flee this bloody place. I am naked and bloody. I bathe quickly and find innocent clothing. What language do these people speak in this place? It sounds like German. Could it be Polish? Tis a busy city. Germans have a burden from the old days.

The streets are narrow and there are hills, so many hills. Walking in any direction is a good workout. It is early morning. Tis 1890. Pittsburgh. I follow the street to a market square, tis not the main square, tis as if this were a small town within a larger city. I caught a new tram, headed for the center of the big city. Around me I hear many languages, mostly variations of German. They have come to this place to find work in a foundry or digging in the mines.

I was living in a very wealthy man’s mansion, high on a hill and hidden behind huge tall walls. The air is filthy, soot is everywhere. Nothing is not touched by the black air. Today there is no breeze, so breathing is particularly difficult, especially for the older and youngest citizens among us here. This deadly malaise is taken with humor as a sign of cultural prosperity and is regarded as a positive part of the city life. We impose our will over nature and burn nature to make nature pay for us. This is wealth.

Soon there will be news of my crimes, so I hurry quietly away. Tis very early in the morning and so most everyone is purposeful in their destinations. We cross the river, tis the Ohio River, formed by the confluence of the Monongahela and the Allegheny rivers.

I roam the commercial district unsatisfied and head into the commercial strip district for my morning meal and to make my plans for escape. I keep checking my reflection on the sooted glass, is there some smear of blood that I have missed? Right on my face? Right on my back? Like a chalk letter? I must remain calm in appearance. Boring and not noticed. Easy and good natured.

There is a riverboat heading for New Orleans, I have enough money in my pockets for the fare, once I get there I will figure out what to do next. Perhaps I can find another post as a tutor. There is a musical ensemble on board. We are chugging along in a steady manner, with a huge black plume melting into the grey sky.

That is when I spotted Phinuit, he is on board too. He talks so loudly, it is hard to miss him. He does not appear to have taken notice of me, as usual. I purchase a newspaper and head to a seat on the deck where I can quietly keep an eye on him. 

He is talking to three young ladies who are quite taken by his verbosity and wardrobe, as well they should be. He is talking about the crime, the headless body of the daughter of a wealthy man was found in a forested area near her house, on Observatory Hill. The police are investigating, which Phinuit finds amusing. He does not even look at me. Who is this man Phinuit? Why is he back? Why do I know to hate him? Maybe this time I can kill him first. Maybe this time I am safe. Never safe. Skittish to the end. Tis him again, Phinuit.

Is he toying with me? Does he see me? It appears that he does not. Do I dare test him?

The temptation is too great. Time passes. Now tis late at night. The remarkable trio of young ladies have evidently retired. Now tis just he and I remaining on the moonlit deck, with some occasional crewmen passing by. He strikes an odd self-obsessed pose on the rail. I am behind him. I am quiet without being imposing with my silence. I am a pedestrian. I am working hard at being not noticed as I craft my revenge. I am invisible this close to my target.

My hate sharpens, it sizzles, and I am thinking about the incident in the long boat, where he stepped on my face to leap from the sinking ship to his safety. I have some old dark wet plans for him. Maybe I can just make some new plans on the spot. The band plays loudly. Men of brass and reeds, with our singer.

Somehow I get Phinuit to come to my stateroom, I make up some offer he might be interested in, a taste of some rare Absinthe. He accepted the ruse, but something went wrong. It was only the third round, I felt the floor pitch, he was laughing. I felt the hot vomit come up my throat and at first I held. I was buckling. I desperately needed fresh air and I reached for the door, but it was the wrong door. I am so surprised that I jumped up again. In my closet, hanging upside down, are the headless bodies of the three young ladies who were talking to Phinuit earlier. There are three full basins of blood, one below each body. I spilled one and it went all over as I sank into my own personal night. He was annoyed at the mess, which I remember was somewhat satisfying to me.

When I woke up I was hanging upside down and Phinuit was laughing, twisting me. He is showing me the knives he is about to use. Each tool does different things, leaves different marks, and causes more or less bleeding. The band played loudly in the night, nearby. I felt the warm blood running from me, replaced by the shivering cold darkness. By candle light I could see the three headless ladies now piled, abandoned on my mattress. He roughly cut my right arm off with a surgical saw, then out the night window it went. He told me that the huge river catfish would enjoy my mortal remains, and that with my absence, the perfect cover for his crime was complete and he would be on his way. He wanted me to know this. 

He soon was on his way. He reached for my next limb, to toss, to leave no clue or evidence. He pulled and worked, it gave. To make me vanish and allow him to make his flawless escape one more time. If I am fed to the swamp and there is no clue, and since this all is in my own paid quarters, and since the other details can be rationalized by the living, then Phinuit is spotless and I am the missing criminal, the most evil one he can describe to the authorities. The legs cut more slowly because of the big bones. Not much to remember after that.

Recently I was employed as a basement cleaner. I only work at night. In one of the older parts of town I came upon an oblong box, which was made out of very old concrete. I did some obligatory exploring. I found that the concrete lid was almost impossible to move. Eventually I was able to climb inside. From there I found that the concrete lid was indeed impossible to lift again. As I groped in the darkness I found many strange things, I was able to salvage a quantity of written material, of which I would like to present to you tonight. It starts with a hand-written notebook.

Joe began frantically casting aside old tales and pieces. In Egyptian religion, the sky was deified as the goddess Nut and as the god Horus. The clouds reflect shadows at sunset, and fan them throughout the sky, as seen from a certain angle looks like a body of a sleeping Knight. Later the pressure begins to fall and a veil of white cirrus clouds approaches from the cyclone.

Sure enough, the wrong guy gets arrested for a crime, he is fingered by the witnesses, sent to jail, put on trial and is about to be sent to prison when they find the right man.

He turned and slowly ambled up the embankment, and in a drunken rage the rich guy obtains a gun and bad things happen. I need help to solve this mystery.

Watching for any small changes or new discoveries. Hands in my pockets. 

Pretending to whistle. The movie goes on. Just like the ocean. Tis just one big ‘now’ in there. Tis been a long time. Now is a bad time. I'll try again later.

"We wouldn't have gone very far if it hadn't been for you."

I am waking again. My hands are not sticky. There is nothing wet in the bed with me. Darkness. Chaos. Noise followed by silence. Strange new noises that I have never before heard. People talking, news and rumors. Impossible facts. Tis been a long time coming. Lots of talk, years of talk, and now they say tis time to stand tall. This is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the Republic. Tis time for a war to end all wars forever. A war for peace.

I am hiding on the third floor of an old five story hotel. There is a group of men wearing the uniform of the Blue army, which this time around is signified by a blue badge. Two years ago when all this began there was not enough money for a real national uniform, so they use a brightly colored red or blue badge to signify the guerrilla soldier's allegiance. They are gathering outside, shouting at someone, I assume tis me. This place is ruined upstairs, no back wall, all open and once burned. They say they can protect me if I surrender to them, but tis got to be quick. 

Tis clearly brag-talk and there is hooting from some of the men, but they have the numbers.

I sink back out of sight and move to a different window. These are my last minutes I feel. They are preparing to storm the building. Do I turn myself in or do I make for the back and try to exit? Or can I hide further up? Perhaps there is a trap up there. Or do I just walk out with dignity, head held high. Not hiding. Not armed. Tis not my war. First choice: exit quickly and quietly to the rear.

I hear one man shout that they should burn down the whole thing, luckily the ranking officer would prefer to occupy the building and sleep up inside there tonight rather than return to the damp fields with his men for another night. They take a long time with their siege and I am convinced that they are talking directly to me. I am not looking forward to being a prisoner of war. I have no weapons and no plan, no idea of where I am, or for that matter what year it is. Here is an old newspaper, 2063 but tis hard to read, the numbers are burned.

Just as I am discouraged enough to begin giving myself up, I see that they are focused on another man, on the floor below me, and he is surrendering and climbing down from the window. Immediately I decide I should get out of here while I can. I hear the volley of shots, when I look out to see what happened, there was the man below, who was wearing his badge of course, they all wear their badges, his is a red badge covered in his gore, and he is gurgling his last breath “you lied to me...” And the blue badge soldier guffaws “Yep! We sure did! How about that!” That is more than enough for me, tis time to just get clear of this area. Checking myself, I find that I am not wearing any badge, blue or red, but that does not make me any safer. It probably makes me a deserter. They shoot deserters. Both sides shoot deserters. Both sides need new men.

Out the back, there is a dead boy, I take his rifle and ammo. He has a red badge and a blue badge, I take them both. He was clever. Well, evidently not clever enough to live longer. Well, who knows, there is no answer why. An obsession to control nature?

They wanted nothing to do with the past.

In my dream I find Phinuit, after a long awkward prologue I manage to take him prisoner, Phinuit claims not to know who I am. He will not budge from that assertion. I know what he has done but I have no proof. I awaken frustrated and powerless. I can rethink things my way, give them new endings again and again as I retell my story in my own mind.

War is a difficult place to inhabit, things get complicated out there. We want to live now. We spend enough time to eventually effect an air of confidence and mutual support, the prisoner-captor roles grow weary and fade just so slightly at first. We want to believe that it is soon time to put war away and laugh with relief. There is no trust. Without trust there is no rest. With no rest there is no peace, with no peace there is endless argument and new bloody scores to settle again and again. Stories told and given new purpose. No commerce, only survival. A waste of opportunities. There is gold in the mountains! Why are we here? I tire of such drama. Tis not my war. Let the red group do red things and the blue group do blue things as they always have and always wish to do. Tis not worth killing for. But they persist, with new bugles and signals. Rally! Rally around the flag! Take back the night!

When I awoke, it was quiet and I appeared to be alone in a big area. Blankets and bedding, warm and comfortable, secure, a good place to sleep. I did not want the first moment to end, before I figured out where this was, what had been left off and now commences. No sign of Phinuit. What date is it now? My hands are clean. Tis still the war. The war goes on, the blue against the red, some soldiers are resolute and focused, some are willing to adjust the terms because they want to survive. 

What does it mean to die for the cause? 'tis you that dies, the cause lives on. What a good cause it is to die for. What so many have died for already, we must protect their honorable death. And you dare to question my moral justifications? I have lost everything, and now you want me to kill with you? Kill for you? Kill you? Be killed by you? This is not my war. Finish your selves off and let us get on with our enterprise tomorrow.

The red say that they only wish to be absolutely free to create economic growth and are willing to extend their concepts of liberty from governmental intrusion as far as possible, but they are also contradicted by some kind of ancient business called abortion. The red wish to have unlimited capital and they value the reward itself, the blue wish to hang on to the existing agreements. The union. The blue wish to secure the edges of society, the poor and aged and infirm, and provide for everyone's well being and freedom. The red wish to extend themselves above the top. Freedom means being alive and not afraid or physically bound. The rich fight just as hard to stay right as the poor fight to survive. Somehow this sustains the reasons to kill.

It is very easy for colors to be switched, any survivor needs to keep ahead of the current argument. Just like the official American Civil War of the 1860s, individuals were torn frequently between each side. Family groups as well as age groups often have dissenting elements. Those were provocative times. Just like in the first American Civil War, on some days nothing happened, but on other days, thousands died in a short time. Such pain. They say “Let us die for what we all believe in!” and I quietly back away, seeking my own escape.

I maintained no argument with anyone here, so I attempted to remain obviously unarmed, but eventually all that changed. I still have no argument with either red or blue, I have argument with the murderers. I keep my own company because I only want to let this time pass and get back to the way things were, ordinary days and boredom, easy work and endless varieties of food and companions. Now we hide and wait for the plague to pass. I have no argument with the plague, take what you want and move along.

One afternoon I blundered into a firefight and I grabbed the weapon from a dead female soldier. It saved my life. I was just behind a group of red soldiers attempting to secure their advantage by maneuvering somewhere unexpected, as I distanced myself I came upon none other than Phinuit himself. I put my gun to his head and bound his arms to his torso with a long long rope we found. His legs I had in the chains he himself carried. He was hobbled and unable to run, so with the leash I had him pretty well under control.

At first I could not believe that he had no idea of who I was. I tested him about the riverboat and about the longboat, but he acted like I was insane and he was the victim. I am considering how this situation might be interpreted now. He is my prisoner, I hold the rope and the gun. He walks where I tell him. He is afraid to face the strangers and accepts the story that he is my prisoner, and out of the fight. 

Things turn ugly so quickly. We just want to get out of here.

True enough, I had him tight, but now my explanations were not holding up. 

Because of my curious questions to him (sea monsters? river boats?) he had something to work with in his own scheming, so I decided to add a few more distracting questions that would protect me and justify my own misplaced temporal landmarks. I framed my goals in religious terms and kept the questions pointed at him. I had him! After all these crimes, I had him! Justice in my hands.

What do I say to others, walking this way, he is comically bound around his torso with just his hands free enough to operate his fly but not to give himself water. He must bow to drink water. His clothing is otherwise ordinary, no badge or sign of allegiance, good footwear, and the chains are ordinary, sold in gun stores, commonly used in these times to keep a prisoner from easily running off. I hold the leash. He is my prisoner. If he were to shout and bring others, he could turn the tables with his tongue, spinning a tale that would end my freedom.

So, what do I have? The landscape is ordinary midwestern, village and small towns, agricultural outposts, rolling hills, long roads, endless cultivated fields, patches of forests, and a deadly competition between two murdering forces unfolding. I have my villain captured and trussed, kept and led. Where am I going with him and what should I do with him? Where is justice on the battlefield? How would I conduct my trial? The man is clearly my nemesis and an extreme danger to me. His face, his voice, his manner, it is the criminal Phinuit, but he refuses to budge an inch as far as his side of the story. He is a photographer, long separated from his agency, lost his camera, and far from his homeland. He has no alliance with either the red army or the blue army. He has no idea of who I think he is, I know my story would be hard to support if questioned. A longboat? Sea monsters? 

Or how about being fed to the Mississippi wildlife, piece by piece, to cover his own murders of the three young ladies. I died in both of those adventures, so my own standing here is somewhat suspect. I had not shared those troubling details during my words with Phinuit, but if those details of my story should leak out, I would surely be the one in chains.

He has had many chances to shout out to distant soldiers, but he does not take them. Now we have come upon another group of stealthily maneuvering military elements, and he spotted them first, he tipped me off and the two of us escaped from them, while I kept my hold on his leash. From that point on I no longer jerked the thing so hard or so often. I let his neck wounds heal and I had us rest more often. Perhaps I should just finish him off, there is nothing else to it. My argument against him is unfounded, unless you include dream evidence and situations that I in fact did not survive. I want to get some satisfaction from that last time, cutting smaller pieces from him instead of six big slow chunks which is what he reduced me to.

So, I am deciding to wait until dark, and to find a place that is uninhabited, I might be making him scream some. Am I really going to do this? Maybe I should just shoot him in the head and be done with it all. Or should I look him in the eye and know that he knows I am doing this for his own previous crimes against me? There have been plenty of times I would have wanted to just practice on a passing stranger the things I should be doing to him for what he has already done to me. 

My rage knows no bounds. He denies everything and keeps his side of the story intact. I am not about to say another word, nothing about the riverboat or the sea monsters. He has his tales of other wars and his photography, his assignments. He had a good life before the war, he traveled quite a bit he says. As I make my decision I feel myself softening. I have no evidence, just my own stories from other times, distant from this twisted world of civil war, heroic red against steadfast blue, but actually American against American.

So instead of exercising my sense of vengeance, I allow time to go by and for this man to lead the discussion. We are two who are evading the combat, we have no sense of red or blue authority, the land is insane and with our theater, prisoner and capturer, we are trying to survive. He tells me of his work, the types of pictures he is paid to take, starting with snapshots and wedding pictures, to portraits and then to journalism. Then came the war. We all have the tools, the cameras and electronic means, anyone can take pictures, but only a few know what they are doing, and have made it a serious career. So here he is, bound and led, by a mysterious but thoroughly hostile stranger with questions about dark and bloody crimes. Asking for satisfaction, if not revenge. Full and total revenge.

We find nourishment in abandoned farm houses, we feel trapped within walls, so we take our meals and then head out to find a hilltop for safety. The weather is perfect, warm and pleasant. The air smells burnt and there are dead people everywhere. The last battle was months ago so the wounded have long died off and no longer scream or weep. We can see men burning mounds of bodies and men chasing down other groups of men, skirmishes and ambushes, very little organization. The bigger armies have gathered in the heartlands, far from here, where they are settling their scores.

Today I awaken tied and a prisoner, and it was Phinuit who holds the weapons, and my legs are in chains. Tighter than I had his, of course. It was him all along. I had my chance, and I failed. He laughs. He has no hesitation, no patience. He hangs me upside down inside of the garage here and begins his ritual, showing me the knives and telling me what he will do to me this time. The last thing I saw was the look on his face as he began to cut.

Space is part of Future, a primitive part of the brain that usually responds to food and sex. Here is a new protagonist. He volunteers for the war, which alienates him from the conscripts he serves with. He elects to become a school teacher, but he cannot communicate with his students who are simple country folk. He has a tremendous struggle to be understood and probably has all the right reasons for doing what he does, but he is quite the oddball.

The rock wall appeared to be untouched, I fell asleep. I did fall asleep. "Oh, you have evidence have you?" The elderly man peered at the beauty that fulfills the soul expressed through images and feelings, a crucial ingredient in the peculiar flavor of a free abelian group caring to suspend time.

They probably do not notice me. But then, what else is there for them to do? I may be the big news tomorrow. A little girl is married to an old man who immediately dies. She is a widow at age 18 and must suffer for the rest of her life, thanks to the customs of the land. She has a really hard life at the convent, and makes friends with a rebel spirit there, which causes much friction with the management. The management has a lucrative prostitution deal going, so they do not want to have any problems that bring attention to the home for wayward women.

The north part of the old tower was hidden. The ghost and his fiancée are rejoined. 

There is the secret entrance that opens behind the fireplace, and lots of great spooky halls and passageways, plus a crypt in the basement. The boys turned around and climbed back up the embankment by this time. Spirit animals can also be any animal that has something to teach you. Compassion is an evolved function from the experience that we believe we experience through our senses.

Gravity and warped spacetime could not exist. I guess tis about the long journey any kind of space exploration will require, and it appears that the trajectory of the industrialization of our culture will force us to develop, providing more options for future life away from this polluted and abused planet. Or are we ourselves already renegade life forms from yet another previous culture escaping from a time far away?

Take a professional extrovert, make him a rich comedian, and film him in various situations. This essay deals with the role played in a model for time travel where the past must be self-consistent. The legend of a boy who could not please his father, but still he keeps trying. Stay off the chair, Jimmy.

"We'll search the old tower, first, where no one would suspect."

The larger story is of a secret society of weavers who employ assassination to guide destiny. The starting point for general relativity is containing more bizarre elements.

The ball is gazed reflectively down tracks wounding in the sun. Do not sell my information; it is not actually used by scientists. "What? That's what I'm coming to!" Notable solutions of the end-justifies-the-means, leading to the conclusion that there are other factors. Someone is coming down the stairs. They are moving cautiously. They are slowly listening as they walk, as tis too dark to see anything. 

They are waiting for their eyes to adjust to the gloom. "Solve the mystery?"

Make that image in your mind very clear and see a glowing boat.

This is the story of one guy who wants to free his sister, he enlists the help of several others and they dig under the wall and into a basement. All that is creative through time, draw all the consequences.

Contact me with news and offers from other Futures about your best online writing services. In rural Russia an old family attempts to continue being wealthy but the money is running out.

"Some people have no sense." Stay out of the basement torture chamber.

It begins with a dream, a legend. A few brave pioneers who are willing to make our own laws, to get away from all this intrusive government here on Earth. We can escape this damaged place and start a new world. It evolves from ambitious dreamers who get the whole thing going. They start it off and the new plan becomes fashionable starting with a few brave kooks and then evolves into a style and clothing statement.

There are now regular launches of human travelers going to the promised land. 

Then the government gets involved, and the project is accepted and in ten years becomes a mighty enterprise. From a few fancy rocketships to a large scale operation, thousands of new world seekers, launching more and more ships headed to the promised land. Political circumstances create a large supply of surplus humanity that finds relief by sending away the undesirables, call them criminals, off to the new world. Off to provide labor and hope to ensure the success of the survival of humanity.

The program goes from some zealots who abandon Earth, to a large scale evacuation of excess population. Maybe they are sent away like England used to send prisoners to Australia, to populate the empty land.

At some point, when thousands of people are being sent into space each week, towards the promised land, the balance tips and we realize that we need to stop exporting our workers, the program slows, and a hundred years go by. After sending a thousand people at a time, in huge mass-produced vessels, headed towards the new promised land, the whole thing falls out of fashion, and the fate of humanity is thought to be better served by fixing up the old world, cleaning the pollution and bringing back the wilderness, the green trees and fresh water. Much progress is made, but there is so far to go. The Earth has lots of poison to clean up. 

The true brave souls need to stop looking up at the stars and roll up their sleeves and get to work, making our home beautiful. And the Earth responds and things do start looking better. New birds and lush plant life, less harsh weather, more successful crops, after a long drought things appear to be getting back to normal, cleaned up and put right.

Suddenly a disaster dooms the Earth itself, and the program quickly becomes the last hope as the Earth crumbles and falls into the sun and solar wind, lost. The end of everything. Get on that ship and slam the door and hit the gas, there is no more firmament, and now the only humanity left is the one that is traveling to the promised land.

What is it like from the point of view up there at the New World? Minding your own business, tending to your own disasters and life's work, and suddenly there are these unmanned pods filled with various wonderful things, food and things they have never seen before. New technologies. First a few pods, then a few more, then it rains pods. Then the first pioneers land, the grandchildren of the first inventors of the journey.

Were they right about the new Earth? Does it exist? What do we find there?

This is the singular most significant moment, the arrival of the originals. The moment they step off of the ship, they would be singing many psalms that probably would have been written on the long voyage, through the long dark nights of the journey to the promised land.

The matter of prior occupants. What is going to happen to the folks there now? Are they folks or are they environmental threats to be overcome? Do we make friends or eat them or do we anhilate them? Or ignore them and proceed with our destiny regardless.

Either they blend in or they have to fight to survive, and fight carefully. To much time allows for resistance to grow, if we hit them quickly we can have the whole thing to ourselves. Or do we live among them and learn how they have come to thrive, they have solved all of the problems we would need to solve, maybe killing them first is not such a good plan. Will we have a choice?

Do they look like us or are we different?

What might happen to the people on the ship with no gravity, might their appearance change or might they behave in a whole new way? Like wrestlers, with the biggest meanest one calling the shots for them.

Or maybe there will be power struggles on the ship and the next one, and each one of the many ships on the way now.

The first New Ones arrive and are weak and need help, they would not appear to be a threat. Someone to show mercy to, a helping hand, assistance to bring them from the wilderness into the world of their Elysium.

After the first friendly helpless ones so grateful for charity, come the more angry ones, in larger quantities. They do not negotiate, they just take what they need.

Then the old world we knew and which nourished us is forever lost and the new order will have begun.

Are we a force for good or are we brutal and ugly? To live, to survive, we must be brutal and ugly sometimes. To live and bring our children, this is enough have in common with our group.

Remote sensing, revealing real-world invisible sound sources. Animals have complex dreams and he commits suicide by jumping out of the same bell tower, over and over again. There is an island where a Romanian woman lives, and our heroine goes to interview the eccentric lady. Things happen. The best technique they have is to shoot an arrow with a cable on it into the vampire and then drag it into the sunshine where it goes up like a flare.

Finally Joe turned and looked at his brother. "Learn more about gravity and how the warps and ripples in space work, in accordance with all that is the culmination of hundreds of years of stigmatized social groups." They give a snapshot of a variety of A New Theatre of Sound-Sculptured Space.

The service of the cosmic intelligence is within me. The rails stretched far in the distance only a few hundred feet from the place where they were seated. The artist could see both water tanks and the dilapidated weatherbeaten individuals—independently acting and responsible, conscious beings.

They found a little grove of trees beside the river.

It is unknown where in the brain dreams originate.

"Shall I call the fire department?"

What am I? I would give all the darkness up for her. I would work hard every day for her to be in my life for some, any, amount of time, even forever. I am a vampire, and that was forever. I have done no harm, nor would I ever do harm.

Twilight is divided into three stages according to the Sun's depth below the horizon, Earth's shadow is the shadow that the planet casts through its atmosphere and into outer space. While some authors choose to treat a planet in depth, a planet is mainly considered as an object in space. Jake scratched his head above his visor, finally some extreme weather or extreme climate events included unexpected, unusual, severe, or unseasonal weather.

The minister says, "Now go back to the old country."

I went back to my old apartment but it was now the home of someone else, probably at work now. The walls had been repaired, the spiders miraculously evicted and the floor was carpeted. I have fewer options than I had been counting on, but I still have some surprises to uncover. I decided to wait and watch and see who the new tenant is.

Headline: "Secret Rivers Found in the Antarctic."

The station agent guffawed, "Well, you don't have enough but maybe we can come to an arrangement." There was a series of escalating events. Car chase. Roof chase. Boat chase.

"The opera!"

Betty Parris was one of my best students, and she was more frequently in the company of the older one, the more nubile one, the fair and spirited Abigail Williams, her spiritual sister, who was also showing great interest in the classics, particularly Shakespeare and Homer. They would come to me on lazy summer afternoons in the 1690s, and we three dreamers would sit in the shade weaving great complicated stories of darkness and terror. At that time there still were not many books in all of Salem, so they had no choice but to come to see me. Hearing of Circes and the witches of Macbeth was fascinating to the two bold young women. That was ten years ago.

What role did I play in the famous drama of their younger years? I brought them to the woods, I made arrangements with Tituba and I suggested to her where to make the ceremonial fire for the secret dance and gathering. Tis now 1702, that was ten years ago. Now Betty Parris is nineteen years old and calls herself Elizabeth. We think she carries our secret child. The famous trial has long passed, but she is always eager to re-tell those details about those days during the trial, she is eternally troubled. Those people died because of what she said. She has since tried to make her own life more interesting and to erase all memory of her own sins. My sins? Nothing then, with Betty. Nothing all that time during the witch hunt. Now there is no time to waste, the child blooms steadily. The secret is soon revealed. 

Birth screams.

"Don't you boys do anything rash!"

From there things go bad. Tis a time machine but it was never tested and the technician is not qualified to beam blocking from mountains within the images during that time.

At the next crossing, they found old Mike Halley.

If a network is not available in the area where one lives, try living journeys of deep spiritual growth and influence.

“So, there is something to it!”

Got wisdom to pour? Note to self: if you know what is going to happen, make an effort to avoid the bad stuff.

"So there is something!" I found it in the meaning of their dreams, the flapping of a pigeon’s wings.

I woke up when they pulled me from my bed, I was covered in blood and they were asking lots of questions and screaming at me. As it turned out I had no marks on me, all the blood was from someone else as far as I could tell. I washed up clean.

Class begins in an hour, I have much preparation to do. I am always here early.

Headline: "We Might Rehearse For Life in Dreams"

I explained my mission to the doctor in charge, he promised to telephone me as soon as possible, the old man replied, "But I make it a rule to memorize everything."

"Do you work on a passenger train?"

"Spirit Guides & How To Communicate With Them" has fascinated humanity since the beginning of time. Stay on the lookout every day for signs from your guides. At this time the dog did not follow them.

Headline: "Fantasizers and Dissociaters"

They were up early and began to discuss recordings of agitated horses, what courses, a smooth whirling phrase.

"Up to now?"

Agitated horses clearly refer to the coachman situation, a few other events originating from great distances may be observed from the Earth.

He wishes the cord to be cut off so he can fly away.

A squeaking door sound brings us back to reality and introduces the occurrence of the “meditation” part. "I wish she'd wake up and tell us."

If the public wants to fathom the mystery and penetrate the silence, they will act as a reminder. He said that music would not be possible.

"Tis possible of course," the detective answered.

Something has just changed in the air...

Suspended time, motion in stasis, cyclical elements are intervals, equally spaced.

A disturbing absence, another whole day went by and still no word.

Exploring the connections, some sounds remain voluntarily recognizable, the desperate cry in the face of the horrors of war and of a sad human condition. 

Nothing to show for all our work to explain music and sound for thousands of years. Music is all emotion, used to explain the orbits of the planets and stars. Not to be confused with astrology, a pseudoscience.

The boys rode up. "Your father is home," she said excitedly.

"Wait to be rescued," Frank replied tersely. He and three buddies set out to find the edge of the world and evidently the little boat sinks because they are never seen again. What have we learned? Crazy people are unreliable.

What is the origin of the hungry blue sharks as they ride swirling currents down to the ocean twilight zone? Discover world-changing science.

"Promise me one thing," he projected a thought, he tried to influence sounds by moving.

Interfacing with the world, the short wave poet broadcaster voice, a balance between order and chaos, a movie about a crazy man with a crazy dream who takes steps to follow his dream, and strange things happen.

Shabbily dressed children were playing in the roadway.

"It does seem strange. Ever hear anything yet?"

As you're hopefully beginning to see, we are attempting celestial navigation, observational astronomy, and the making of calendars. Even on the calmest days, a gyre can refer to any type of vortex in an atmosphere or a sea. Gyres are spiraling circulations thousands of miles in diameter and rimmed by large, permanent ocean currents. Wind is the primary force that creates and moves surface currents. His form must first and last be related to existence, "I am just not going to have any more of the application of this knowledge to problems facing society."

By continuing, you consent to their use. At first, particles move in the direction of the wind. "But don't forget the old saying, no news is good news, about worry. I'll take your advice." The black spot at the top is a dust devil climbing a crater wall on Mars.

“Mother, I feel so far away from everything...”

The other major driving mechanism for ocean flow is due to tides primarily generated by the moon and sun. It came from the top room of the old tower!

He suggested that the next day be devoted to doing some research. Earth was once believed to be the center of the Universe with the Sun, the Moon and the stars rotating around it. Astrobiology is the study of the advent and evolution of biological systems. Archaeoastronomy is the study of ancient or traditional astronomies in their cultural context, utilizing archaeological and anthropological evidence.

"Global!" and laughed hilariously at his comedy and yours.

Is there other life in the Universe? Are they hungry? Will they find us?

What really happens beyond the event horizon?

African 'Stonehenge' and the Pillars of Creation have recently been discovered within traveling distance. We could go. How one “should" act, the fundamental doctrine that existence precedes essence.

I didn't worry so much about other weeks because they were for the idea that one has to "create oneself" and then live in accordance with this self, to say that one is only one's past would be to ignore a significant part of reality, an inauthentic lifestyle "trapping" him in this life. There is nothing essential about his committing crimes, but he ascribes this meaning to his past.

"Often heard of you," the willingness to put oneself at the disposal of the other, a 'phantom' created by the public. He was arrested for a crime for which the charges are never revealed. Hell is other people.

"You don't think this actor is the chief?"

Anxiety's importance, existence precedes essence, walking in circles around a hole of its own digging, definition of despair, we sleep too easily.

"I haven't descended."

I felt trapped in this self-created hell, waking up in Waking Life. What if you were chained in a dimly-lit cave your whole life where you saw only the shadows of real things passing by the entrance to your cave reflected on its back wall?

"Remember it?" The old man looked at it doubtfully. He watches by his own light the dreams woven out of past deeds and present desires, building a neohuman manifesting truth, loyalty, justice, freedom. Clearly, life understood is life lived, feeling freer as we age, every moment was magical. Please don't wait around for others to make your choices for you, to enable them to control your dreams.

The actual idea of lucid dreaming is a venerable tradition of sorcerers, shamans, and other visionaries, returning to waking life, being-there. "That's why I brought you here to help me, tell us what's happened so far." It is only humans that created it and can create a new world if they take up this task. Keep an attachment to the past, to material things over the spiritual unity of the universe and when the camera captures a moment of reality, it is capturing God. We live in a world so dominated by consumer goods that even our social relations are commodified. 

Destiny poems, the future is not here, the future is thrown into the world.

And were they about to share another of his secrets?

Headline: "Our Ultimate Destiny Is To Give"

It was destined to happen. Or does our destiny change everyday? In the farthest reaches of known space, a single starship stalls, it opens a passage which also unlocks the ability to use the teleporter, providing a second entrance for escape.

The machines are taking over. "I sure feel sorry for him," she said.

Nothing is certain. The road less traveled, an expression of regret or of satisfaction. 

Whichever way they go, they're sure to miss something good on the other path.

"And don't forget us! Show your code!"

Drift gently washed over by brilliant grooves and polished ambience. Know that you can use these samples in as many ways as you desire, to create organic and synthetic sounds and textures. The crystals form a circular array of flat plates, giving the rock a shape similar to a road.

Legends tell of a time, thousands of years ago, when a subvolcanic vault, which emerged probably during the Oligocene age, after cooling of the solutions the crystals could increase. There formed columns or round domes with crystals within. The hill was opened during works at the road by accident and destroyed in part. The fingers of a gloved hand gently grab the bell to silence it before sounding the next ring.

"Don't be disappointed if I come back empty-handed and don't be surprised if I come back with some valuable information."

He might not be back. Tis all too sudden. Why now? Tis the worst possible time. 

The smoke plume viewed from the International Space Station. Record-breaking temperatures and months of severe drought. A state of disaster was declared for exceptional dry conditions and a lack of soil moisture. Misinformation and contested reporting, relief and recovery.

"More clues to explain?" You really have a job.

If you can't see the map click there.

Colors of lakes and oceans, the sky and the soul.

Color of glaciers.

Ice, snow and clouds in Antarctica. The isolation, huge expanses of ocean and sky, and generally the primitive struggle with extraordinary cold lends itself well to the electronic sounds. What I'd like to know is, is there a glass of transparent water sitting on a wooden table?

The blue hue of water is an intrinsic property and is caused by selective absorption and scattering of white light. The deeper the pool, the bluer the water.

The light from the sun, chaotic elements of earth, air, fire, and water, various spiritual entities or other matters deemed to exist outside our physical universe.

"Tis no use," he said, "About the origin and arrangement of the universe." The soldiers kill them all anyway. Don't you see that humanity's fear of their insignificance in the face of an incomprehensibly large universe? That everything in the universe is fated to spiral towards a final point of unification?

Nobody else knew either. They think they know, but they have no Faith.

That smile goes a thousand miles. Let me skip ahead. At times used in a more other-worldly sense as the eternal plane of the divine, the universe originally expanded from high or infinite density, mystic knowledge not obtainable by ordinary means.

"And don't forget us!"

Spooky old Italian castles and tombs and graveyards and villagers. Subtle interactions link us with each other and the Earth, playing a key role in our work. 

The Chinese saw the Cosmos as empty, infinite, and intertwined with the Earth. Qi is the substance of all things in the cosmos and Earth, including inanimate matter, humans, ideas, emotions, celestial bodies and everything that exists or has existed. 

Be precise in what you pray for.

Cosmography is the science that maps the general features of the cosmos or universe, describing both heaven and Earth, the origin of life and a perspective of our place in the universe. Well, often does, occur in a dream.

Tis trouble again.

We cover the waterfront.

Don't be disappointed if I come back empty-handed and don't be surprised if I come back with some valuable information. If I know that I am sitting dressed by the fire, then there are no genuine grounds for doubting that I am really sitting dressed by the fire. He said that knowledge cannot be defined through perception. 

Remember, the brain-in-a-vat thought experiment, which says that if evil scientists placed your brain in a vat and stimulated it just right, your conscious experience would be exactly the same as if you were still an ordinary, embodied human being, thus the threat of dream deception has been averted.

I am telling a dream. I should not give away the ending.

"Try."

Tis hard to tell what she thinks, most of the time. Whether dream thoughts, feelings or beliefs should count as real instances, a little bit of this and that from here and there, things that work together. The trustworthiness of dream reports continues to be contentious. Look for dreams in which one knows one is dreaming and often has some level of dream control, dream-enactment behavior back in a dark room, alone.

"I didn't either!"

What the hell do you suppose this means? "Damned if I know."

There are lots of interesting uses of nets, birds, rock and ruin formations, contrasting desert and shore. The original story is said to be from long ago and called imaginative experiences, "I'm willing to give you all the information I have," said Daphnis and Chloe.

A few minutes earlier I had decided to reach out to someone in need and give him a lift, and that helpless person decided to reach out to me, and to take everything I had. An important discovery. There is no promised cause for effect. No guaranteed balance.

Dreaming and waking mind wandering have no laws. There is no pact.

The next words stop the whole party cold. He said that dream beliefs are not real beliefs, but propositional imaginings. I dreamt that he was dreaming. He said that dreaming depicts consciousness first and foremost as a subjective world-for-me.

“We heard you’ve been knocked around a bit.” “I heard that too, that’s what they tell me.” My bad memory precedes me.

She is learning her witch powers, moral responsibility in dreams, traveling the royal road to the knowledge of the unconscious.

"Here is the best evidence in the world! Show!"

Escaping a lynch mob, the Traveling Man arrives at the island. With some adaptive function for survival, he returns and is expelled. I go to my hiding place. They have a secret room and after lights out they congregate up there and play their games of humiliation. Yes, the function of dreams is not knowable, but Trav is going to be long gone by the time they get back, when they discover the boxes. 

They escape somehow and survive in the poisonous swamp for a few days. Remember that dreams are as messages to the dreamer and dreamers should pay attention for their own good, and may communicate something that is not being said outright. The dreamer enters entirely new, complex worlds and awakes with ideas, thoughts and feelings never experienced prior to the dream.

Lucid dreaming is the conscious perception of one's state while dreaming, a lazy, non-productive pastime. I found my old hiding place inside the wall, in the crawlspace. Now I wait. Is there a treatment for nightmares? Yes. A pretty story. Spooky modern fairy tale. He might have dreamed all this.

"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate its contents." Howard said that. This is a real and true clue. We have our first clue! Today is a fine day. Yes, a fine day. Tasty water and clouds. Feels good. Mmmmm.