The sleep of reason produces monsters.
The dream of reason produces monsters.
No matter the translation, no matter the language or lack thereof, monsters are produced by the endless sleep that we sleep every night and pray that there will be an awakening into another dream; one we call reality. We lie down to sleep, afraid of sleeping the truth, proud to live the illusion; we beseech for release from this senseless nightmare, this angry dream of the rousted soul. Every night, we lay down to die. Just a little bit.
Man is the dream of the dirt, in turn dreaming the lives of angels who dream of rocks which dream of breath.
When reason has left; when you have gone past good and bad, when fear has left you and the dark is brighter than the sun; out past right-doing and wrong-doing, beyond concepts and where there is no place, you will find a field.
I will meet you there.
Photographica
Animus sancti
Anima sanctae