Falling away into the future, pulsing insistently the call of each new instant, feeling the magnetism of the moment beyond, seeing through cataracts the soft hues and shifting silhouettes of yet-to-be, chained to the vortex of the formation from phantoms of the real, the witness is the testimony of the awareness of presence. The inquisitor questions his own existence, never realizing the significance of his doubt, blind to the affirmation embedded in the mirror reflecting the face of witness inquiring, inquirer witnessing, visage before birth. Thw watcher waits quiescently for a second palm with which to applaud. Boring by being there, the tableau nevertheless demands your full attention. Mind is trapped within the orgasm of awareness which will not be ignored.
Joseph Campbell's Nightmare
You are lying on a coffee table eating grapes from a bronze cuspidor and watching a television comedy show when in the left corner of the room a yeti appears, sitting on the shoulders of the Dalai Lama. Rushing to bow before his sacred whiteness, you stumble over a samadhi and fall through the TV screen, landing upon the stage. Although the audience applauds (assuming you're part of the act), you know you can't maintain the ruse much longer. Fortunately, a passing earthquake drops the stage curtain, separating you from certain ignominy. Relieved, you breeze out the stage door intending to charm a journalist or bribe a congressman. Instead you fall through an alley mirror and into a garden just in time to see Lewis Carroll commit suicide before the corpse of a young carpenter.