They talk amongst themselves. What they say does not concern us. Can only distract us from what is essential. The safest stratagem is ignorance. If you don’t speak the language there’s no way you can be co-opted into the conversation. Books I have read, and the state of the world today. As if the stagehands, dressed in black, cannot clearly be seen swapping one set for another.

What the brain tries to distract us with, jungle, concealing the white stones beneath. Toucan, parrot, howling ape. What the brain is, Shahrazad, teller of tales, which grow vines and tendrils and bloom in an air, humid, and freighted with perfume.

“She had perused the works of the poets and knew them by heart; she had studied philosophy and the sciences, arts and accomplishments; and she was pleasant and polite, wise and witty, well read and well bred."

We don’t want to talk or listen to stories. There seems to be a solid structure beneath the prodigious forest, a stepped pyramid, the summit of which promises to shatter the green canopy. There are books within the temple complex. We have looked on these books in dreams, even turned the heavy parchment pages, and woken with a new idea, secreted in the chest.

The dream makes us its Manchurian Candidate. We mistake its designs for randomness. Its actions for our own whimsy. We trace out its circuit and activate its energies. There are places you can visit without standing up. If you come back we can talk about it together.

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