Curesare sold like medicines at a fair. Therapies, healings, secret arts and rituals, religions, cults and societies of serious souls with the dream of a life in harmony with the world. Momentary consolations are all that remain, or seem to remain, of the endless wonder of strangeness that, being ignored, seems lost forever. So, silence and strangeness, untouched and whole in themselves, refract through the human body-mind and its world. But nothing is lost.
Realities are dreams.
The streams of pathways, even within the self, whatever the self, are wisps of wind at midday. The step from dream to reality so-called, is the step between layers of dreams. And the smallest place, the frailest wisp of time, contains the very infinities it excludes Pain is a description merely, a pattern scratched in eternity, not one step away from strangeness, not a breath away from silence. Everywhere, the recall of the old, the creation of the new. It is one shape of strangeness.