Patchwork

The dream ended in a tremendous cacophonous tear. It left behind a shredded patchwork of fabric (in several shades of salmon, mauve, gillyflower pink ) and extended pell-mell to the door, which had, without great argumentation, opened to the tingly dawn air. Of course, he had been in a deep slumber, but now, overwhelmed by the gilded verisimilitude of the dewy grass springing up behind silent footfalls, he assented to a roughish reality that had festooned from all corners of the coruscating courtyard. He looked at his shoulder, his arm, the bones of his pale-skinned hand. The secret of his day had begun.



"Since I have known the body better"--said Zarathustra to one of his disciples--"the spirit hath only been to me symbolically spirit."
- Friedrich Nietzsche