In the CATSKILLS mts., in a place we call the HIDEAWAY

I see myself in utter isolation, utter anihilation, where at an I-IT moment I reject the field converging on my inner-peace--everything within my presence, and let go. I'm jailed--there is no reachable new environment I can go to anew. Then, so as to not feel abortive I conceive of the struggle, - now it is I alone & the Thou of presence received. My passport is tattooed upon my person, a veil which allows incognito surveillance of higher chambers where I'd meet a transcendent "being." (--verb) The iconoclasm of self-hood is acted upon & I am the current of the experential, the death of symbolic me. G-d is the insignificance of me. Imagine the dank halls of physical confinement: Papillon's story. He is hanging by a thin web & he alone sees how he is pinned. Like a green limb, there is no exclusion or objectivity to his source (of self-realization), he'll turn in upon himself. The imagination is the symbolic universe and it takes over & nothing is real. To evade his finitude he splits into two: the pain is acute & wrongly he imagines surfeiting the struggle into, again, the realm of representative relationship, but it is his dormancy. The sleep of the just is to whom he projects his loss of freedom, those who have died on the trail he is finding, the void of time.