You can be new, I am old. I did something wrong. Do not turn your back on the full moon, walk backwards. You prepare a table Green, Red, father of Yourself, mother of Yourself. Hither to me, self-begotten, (created) without cast seed, incorporeal, ruler---- hidden----- true. Can you Grab me one of those sticks I need to knock the birds down. Stones, bent turned towards the future, going toward it, coming from it, proceeding
“[He] does not know what to do with all these skulls.
But if he abandons them! . . . Will he cease to be himself?”
You were like an egg. Everyone was extremely careful with you. The faith of a mustard seed. The fantasy which strives towards boundlessness is formed and shaped. We can say that fantasy becomes fruitful only where it is obliged to restrict itself within definite forms.
The substance of illusion, that which is allowed to the infant, and which in adult life is inherent in art and religion, becomes the hallmark of madness when an adult puts too powerful a claim on the credulity of others, forcing them to acknowledge a sharing of illusion that is not their own.