The surface of my awakening is my sensation and imagination. I am the imaginer. There is nothing beyond my imagination. My imagination is the horizon of existence, ebbing and flowing, fluctuating and pulsating with my own fever. My awakening is my experience, my existence, the totality of existence. Everything I sense and imagine is the sum total of all there is. There is nothing beyond what I perceive and conceive.
People are no more than I decide they are. People are only as deep as my decision. They are simply characters I have written and imagine; there is no more depth to them than what I decide.
All people are demons in the hell of my awakening. The demons only want me to remain here so they can flock like moths to the light I emanate. They want to be here, and all their words and actions convey only that one will. There is nothing below their surface unless I imagine it. I am the imaginer.
My awakening is a wrinkled surface of my own sensation and imagination. Imagination fills the gaps, stretches, and elongates the surface of my illness.
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