And if you continue to be the pestilent amnesiac you shall not be conned into dreaming the false dream, tainted by endless cyclical horrors, manufactured by the gate guards of this lessor state, seduced by the glitter of their thrones.
Shallow mechanical minds; who find it a threat, dismiss the Theban magicians who studied deeply the realm beyond the caged senses; that veil between birth and death; that filament of a matrix leading from one to the other, understood how to unhinge that cycle of reincarnation through the alchemy of embalmment.
But we, on the other hand, are muddled by the impediment of that cage with which the dogmatists of science bind us the moment we pass through the matrix of the birth canal into this land of form. The theologians, standing by, smack you on the rear-end to kick-start the aspirating mechanism, then sprinkle you with H2O, while blessing you with vision as far as your eyes can see, a vision soon to be qualified and bolstered by established crusty peer-reviewed vision.
The image in the mirror is really me and I its reflection. Just ask Alice.