There is this perpetual struggle for control as a means of maintaining my identity. A wakeful, rational, four-dimensional body has to struggle against delerium. It as if all my waking energy were directed toward resisting the pull of some drain, as if all my words were written in resistance to the call of the silence. The drain ends at equilibrium.

The imagination of night-time's dream is still infected with conceptuality; sleep is not death, rather, sleep mocks death. The ego does not dissolve during sleep, it merely takes its waking world to Hades. The sleeping consciousness is a relaxation of the tension of wakeful consciousness; the rigid space of time becomes plastic as the perceptual body loses its grip on reality. It is during the dream time that the body recovers the energy to resurrect itself. But does this actually go on forever, or, does the cycle between waking and sleeping actually end at equilibrium?

At equilibrium there are no dimensions, nothing to measure. So, what's left?