Dream is the only metaphor for so distrait a condition. It is happening, or happeningness, that's what makes it experience, but only as sliding planes splitting and overlapping with a different experiencer inscribed lightly on each one in ink that rapidly fades. Something watery or vaporous about it, endlessly rocking. It is only somewhat real in the other dimension where one observer sees another observer go by or is seen by such another as he himself goes by, and there's a hint of the verticality that can't be put together, assembled or completed to a word, out of any of these fragments or collection of them, pedaling thoughtfully to their soft doom. Feeling and thought blended into cloudscapes shot with sunset colours or the yellows and browns of smoke, torn without gaps, submitted to desire, gently disowned.