The House Protects The Dreamer, The House

A Universe Comes To Contribute To Our Happiness When Reverie Comes To Accentuate Our Repose. You Must Tell The Man Who Wants To Dream Well To Begin By Being Happy. Then Reverie Plays Out Its Veritable Destiny; It Becomes Poetic Reverie And By It, In It, Everything Becomes Beautiful. If The Dreamer Had "the Gift" He Would Turn His Reverie Into A Work. And This Work Would Be Grandiose Since The Dreamed World Is Automatically Grandiose.

In Our View Any Awareness Is An Increment To Consciousness, An Added Light, A Reinforcement Of Psychic Coherence. Its Swiftness Or Instantaneity Can Hide This Growth From Us. But There Is A Growth Of Being In Every Instance Of Awareness. Consciousness Is In Itself An Act, The Human Act.

To Go Upstairs In The Word House Is To Withdraw Step By Step; While To Go Down To The Cellar Is To Dream.

I Am A Dreamer Of Words, Of Written Words. I Think I Am Reading; A Word Stops Me. I Leave The Page. The Syllables Of The Word Begin To Move Around. Stressed Accents Begin To Invert. The Word Abandons Its Meaning Like An Overload Which Is Too Heavy And Prevents Dreaming. Then Words Take On Other Meanings As If They Had The Right To Be Young. And The Words Wander Away, Looking In The Nooks And Crannies Of Vocabulary For New Company, Bad Company.

To Feel Most Beautifully Alive Means To Be Reading Something Beautiful.