It wasn’t exactly the jazz. The spontaneous outpouring of new muse, music, in wakeful dreams.
It wasn’t exactly that mind diversed. diversed.. diversed wi der than bor ders of the dreamer and the dream. That the perceiver and the perceived were both dreamt, yet, . . . still of the basis and the muse.
It wasn’t only that some weeks I was aware 24 hours a day, or that after a long day of tree planting, while taking a piss, the urinal glowed back at me with a whiteness mocking my identity; I see that? It sees me? It is, and “I” have not much useful comment on that immediacy.