Imagine all the scenes of nature from the hillsides: the moss
there upon the cliff, the spruce there on the bedrock rooted,
the pallid fungi in some crevice locked, the nocturnal animals
below the rocks, and all others which meet and delight the
wanderer of the wilds. Could these sights be but
facades of greater existences, or some hair-extensions
of bulbous horrors? Should the moss not be the hide of terror,
the spruce the villi of a licking tongue, the animals
the flora of much vaster scale? And when, waking
from her thousand-year slumber, should not our hill-hydra flail
its head? should the moss not scatter like atoms of dust,
the spruce clutch tight to its mother-rock, the animals hide
in their cavern-homes, to drink the last air of their waking day?
Suppose further, that it was a meteor-beast to hurl itself
from one gnawed-out world to another, or a veritable planet,
gliding past the 'expansive and empty voids,' to embrace yet
another sun with elongated arms; to bask in a while in
forge-fire, or drain its innumerable abysses of their life-elixirs.
Is it not so, that to dream such a dream is to dream of dreaming
itself? of dreams as vast as ours are small, of dreams that take
the shape of weather-systems, of super-continents, of hordes
of men as dream-atoms and messenger-particles? And, suppose
at the very last, that an astral, or an inorganic and venomous
star-deity, is travelling past the sky like a falling star,
in a trajectory preordained by the infinities of fate...
and I shall suppose that another artist, as he gazes out of his
dream-window, will as well throw her a glance of wonderment.
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