Whatever it is that is real, you are that, not as you take yourself to be, which can only be a passing dream. Whoever impresses their reality upon you, ravishing you with a stronger current, has only borrowed from what you've neglected to wield. You can't know, can't find out, whatever becomes is only a dream, bow wave in the imagined wake of time. You, the giving birth to the moment, now. You can't see but only the dear personage tattered and torn, and it's the not seeing, the not space and not time. Space and time are for the birds, without a reflection, without a correction, strictly once and for all, look before you see, the wind shattering wing.