Awakening is a parachute jump from the dream. Freed from the choking vortex, the diver sinks towards the green map of morning. Things magnify. He sees, from the fluttering lark's position, huge tree-root systems like branchings of subterranean chandeliers. Above ground, in tropical flood, earth's greenery stands with lifted arms, as if listening to the beat of invisible pistons. And he sinks towards summer, is lowered into its dazzling crater, lowered between fissures of moist green eons trembling under the sun's turbine. Then halts the downward dive through time's eyeblink, the wingspread becomes an osprey's glide over streaming water. Bronze Age trumpets: their outlaw tune hangs motionless over the void.

In the day's first hours consciousness can own the world like a hand enclosing a sun-warm stone. The skydiver stands under the tree. With the plunge through death's vortex will light's great chute spread over his head?

There is a stretch of water, a city on each side one of them utterly dark, where enemies live. Lamps are burning in the other. The well-lit shore hypnotizes the dark shore.

I swim out in a trance on the glittering dark water. A steady note of a tuba comes in. It's a friend's voice: "Take up your grave and walk."

Cowardice breaks off on its path. Anguish breaks off on its path. The vulture breaks off in its flight.

The eager light runs into the open, even the ghosts take a drink.

And our paintings see the air, red beasts of the ice-age studios.

Everything starts to look around. We go out in the sun by hundreds.

Every person is a half-open door leading to a room for everyone.

The endless field under us.

Water glitters between the trees.

The lake is a window into the earth.