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It was hard to transcribe this dream; I did not want to give it strength by committing it to this journal. In the end, as you can see, I have declined to provide any details. I am not trying to be obtuse, I am not trying to hide things from you; rather, I am trying to . . .

. . .  What am I trying to do? Lately I have suffered a crisis of conscience. Is all this an attempt to justify my illness? To disguise the damage, to hide the rot? Is this just a way to not face what is truly happening? Cast it as a mythological crisis, as an oneironautic adventure to the wellsprings of the spirit and the imagination. Yes, my story is your story, is the story of all humanity. They (and you) do not understand the division within, are not aware of the decay in the duality matrix. I must show the Way. I am the guide and the martyr, the first and the last.

What is that quote? "Let those who do not believe be blinded so that they may not see the light." What if, in that moment of being struck blind, your non-belief is shaken? Does the Divine reverse its action, or is the supplicant now a believer but still bereft of sight? Or are you given some other manner of "sight"—some sort of precognitive or oracular vision—in return for your sacrifice?

Is the Oneiroi a visionary reward for the non-believer who has come to his senses? Are we—the oneironauts—all damaged creatures who have come crawling back to the feet of the Divine, abject in our shameful narrow-mindedness? Are all madmen not contrite converts to some internally realized Godhead?

Can you not see how you will unmake the world if you say "yes" to that last question? Harry, can you not see how the Tower fell?

You must wake up, Harry. The Abandoned Sun is coming.

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