The world shifted again that morning, when Cimmy woke up in a garden not unlike the one in her old dreams, and right before awaking, in that twilight space between dream and reality, Cimmy saw a healthy rose bush overflowing with blue blossoms.

They were beautiful, willful and unencumbered, the muses, and their creativity and passions fired human thought, inspiring literary masterpieces and beautiful works of art, but most of all, music, which seemed to resonate and flow directly from their beatific voices.

If we all live a dream, if everything is a figment of our imagination, as insubstantial as fog […], then the one prayer we have to find meaning in this experience, and the only thing that matters, is for this dream to be a pleasant one.

On the westernmost edge of the Oceanus, which spans the vast distance between the world of the living and the underworld, there is a splendid garden, constantly bathed in the glow of the sunset.

It was as if things were made from the essence of those things, tiny portions of their thingness, as different from each other as the things themselves, and if one unlocked the secrets of the thingness hidden in the things, reality itself would reveal its mysteries.