In the realm of Heaven are seven times seven times seven worlds, each an arc from the next in the pathways of imagination’s home. Once I saw a field of green grass that folded away to reveal a starry sky underneath, into which I dove: to find a pool of rarest water hovering between spaces. To let oneself drift, it is more a dreamlike thing than closing one’s eyes in the deepest of sleep, for the Spirit flows everywhere in a glowing awareness of all that is, was, and is not yet. The entities I met guided me with their thought, through the daylight which was the light of the Holy. And how, when I returned, did I feel that solidity is a paltry thing, that the airs which I had breathed had more substance than any steel in these earthly delights.
