Beyond the turbulated curtain of vigilant torpor lies a realm where the living vision engines dream. The jets are ever slow here and glide lusciously, just overhead, spreading their deliriomantic blanket of auralchemy over the topomorphic fields. Everything seethes and churns in this region, but that’s okay: it’s all part of your new vocation, and soon you won’t notice it anyway as you enter into your own state of turbulescent grace. Remember that your flesh is just a word curling from the tongues of gentle demons. Whatever calls you from outside the curtain can wait. You’re here now, and ready at last to open your eyes. When you do, you’ll see that Time is a soft jagged wave moving through you. And Space is a malleable domain sculpted by perception. Rest assured: the voluptuous terror you feel swiftly gives way to splendour. Suddenly you’re more awake than you’ve been since retiring from the womb. The secret phenomenological truth, encrypted against corruption at your birth but now transmitted lucidly across every synapse, is that the World is determined by imaginative volition. Now that this has been revealed, your purpose is clear. You might as well get used to it: