speak in starts distractedly.

I feel like I’m dreaming my life away.
I sit in my room—I have depression.
I smoke weed. I think and write poetry. Yippee!..

I do, however, think it’s best to love a dream...
Maybe that’s suspicion, overhanging life—
thank the gods for fear!—
“It may as well just be a dream!”
I scream within myself—as one that’s full of beer.

—For what do we really know? Reality??
The walls between the dreaming-place
and “here” are far too thin...
Reality is made from inside out;
the truth can’t come within through ears or eyes;
it comes from thoughts and feelings:

I like the thought the Hindu Masters had,
the one of “multiplicity’s illusion”:
how the mind and soul and body seem apart
from one another; “No,” they said, “it’s all the same.”

If this be true—it seems to me it is—you’d better love a dream.
“Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness”—
act two, the second scene, Twelfth Night.

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