The world of men is dreaming, it has gone mad in its sleep, and a snake is strangling it, but it can't wake up.
I can never decide whether my dreams are the result of my thoughts, or my thoughts the result of my dreams.
If we sip the wine, we find dreams coming upon us out of the imminent night
Whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the sea great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies. And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-tender young and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of the beginning and the end.
At the back of my life's horizon, where the dreamings of past lives crowd.
Sleep seems to hammer out for me the logical conclusions of my vague days, and offer them to me as dreams.
I am turned into a dream. I feel nothing, or I don't know what I feel. Yet it seems to me I am happy.
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