Behind the wall I sensed a monument of man. And dreaming I could reach through things, my hands grasped and kneaded the world. As if in a quake a tremor from below shook the room of the house and walls fell like an avalanche in vacuum driving away. Like a scream without a voice, words ceased to sound and you and me ceased to exist. At the same time we were aware of it all and still are.
I see you on the other side of each door opening. When I step into the room, you step out. When I leave, you enter. Halfway once I ask you who you are. You smile and answer. Before you see me, we are one. After you leave me, we are one. In between are the doors of creation. No one really enters. No one really leaves.
Not before long we think of invisible worlds and alternative ways for being. Against the conditions and forces that domesticate consent in the bedrooms of households beyond perception, re-existence arises like spring from the soils of Arcadia. “There is no sea, no tree, no you and no me” rather we, who assemble ourselves as mind-lenses bootstrapping the collective society in endless variety.