Sweet scents spread through my mind from a meadow inhaled years ago from somewhere else. "Borrowed scenery: Skakkei."

Because different types of sensory information...are processed at different speeds by different neural architectures, your brain faces an enormous challenge: what is the best story that can be constructed about the outside world?

The outside world has given rise to many stories built around the search for obscure mountains. Mt. Analogue "can only be viewed from a particular point when the sun's rays hit the earth at a certain angle." Mt. Brown has been "on every map in the empire for sixty years as the highest on this continent. And no one even knows if it really exists." Unaware, we continuously circumambulate a void.

Gods dwell on mountains because they share a dream
in which everything disappears. What was a black hole
turns inside out, and a new universe lights old matter.

What is lost is winter.
What is found is winter too.

Seeing reality through the energy of a tree’s growth, of a plant’s search for light, of a branch's need for accommodation with its neighboring branches, of roots of thistles and shrubs, of the weight of other realities, natural means interdependent. So what we
call God is an infinite palimpsest, green meadows are molted purple, and the sun sometimes shows a compassionate face.

In a dream last night, Marcel Duchamp is making a work of art. It is art because he is not making it from a large piece of card- board. With a wily smile he turns and seems to remember me.