We were on a narrow corridor, when a staircase stretched into space, pushing the lateral to the margin, the margins of the indefinite. The stairs started climbing themselves under our feet, an abstract ascent, incomplete, and we skipped a few steps on the way. We were going to fetch something from the last floor of a block, a social house devoid of humans and drowned in the darkness. I said to her something very familiar, the usual tone of our conversation was filling the echoless room. She was leading the way, I, just like it always happens, was too immersed in the spacetime of my thoughts to maintain any sense of orientation, any coordinates of the map under my feet.

"We have trained thoroughly to understand the abstract pattern of the relation between a thing and the world it is in."

The time of the ascent expanded, the duration of a step accommodated the length of the spoken sentence. A sentence that lurked there ghostly in the obscurity of the situation.

"But if we have two things, in two separate worlds, then we should be able to decipher the relation of the relation: between a thing and the world it is in, and another thing and the other world it is in."

She was still leading the way to the last floor of a social house devoid of humans and drowned in the darkness.

On the last floor, near the door closest to our blurred sight, a man was standing, obliquely, dark on dark. We still wanted to reach the peak of the staircase convinced that a bit of philosophy guarded us from evil.

The man suddenly said in a firm voice, with a slight Eastern European accent: "You'd better not."

The descent was so fast that the room disintegrated, we ceased to feel our body moving, our feet devouring the stairs, our leaps towards the escape, an escape that was itself on the run.

I was just a vague presence suspended at the margins of spacetime, waking up.

//
When dreaming is treated as a praxis, and the dream as just another medium, like the actual world, then to pass from waking life to the dreamworld is to switch between equally existent worlds, to travel from one medium to another. The transversal navigation between these worlds-as-medium is made possible by the disruptive moments of waking up and falling asleep. Through falling asleep or falling awake, worlds leak into each other, deviate each other, acting through a reciprocal corruption of their respective modes of (dis)organization.

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A medium is a full behavioural space with its own affective and logical syntax. A world is a language spoken in habits. To lose the world is to speak a language massively indifferent to meaning, in that world. To become world loser. A world loser crosses the limit not by going forward but by falling through.

//
A world loser travels with the guidance of equivocation towards her own deception. A world loser, or a pessimist shaman, is an ontological translator of the equivocation of habits and names that refer to things alien to each other, alien to herself. The referents bifurcate into separate worlds, lost worlds. To lose the world in translation, to lose the translation in the rift between worlds. To translate a fall into another fall.

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Through holes one falls. Through falling one loses. Through losing one loses again.

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To stage an imitation of dream of life.

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To afford a world is to afford one perspective. To afford more worlds is to switch between incompatible perspectives. To afford all worlds is to afford no perspective. To afford all worlds is to be universally objective, and subjectively extinct.

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To speak from a perspective is to speak as someone. To speak from multiple perspectives is to speak as someone on behalf of someone else. To speak from the horizon is to speak as no one.

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I speak from the dream.
I want to live in the last dream dreamed on Earth.

//
The dream drowns the world in a mirror. It is in the dream that the specularity of the world is reflected. The mirror is itself by being blind to itself. For a chronic dreamer, a serial world loser, if you look at the world inexpressively, "the world would look equally inexpressively back at [you]" (Clarice Lispector). A dreaming praxis feeds itself on the narcolepsy of philosophy, on conceptual sopor and perceptual sterility. Through world sterility, the world loser becomes a terminal for suspension of meaning, for the proliferation of syntax inconsistency, for a beyond that only goes further beyond, and down. The loss as a portal to another loss.

//
The dreamworld and waking life are part of the field of experience, equally. To have consciousness, or to dream, involves a virtual immersion in a spacetime. To dream, as well as to be awake, is a self-experience of the impersonal, a going out (ex-) of itself through (-per-) itself of an asubjective field (-ience), through someone's perceptive, affective and rational dispositions.

//
“How much of yourself can you stand? Maybe you need eight hours off a day just to get over the shock of being yourself" (J.G. Ballard).

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The impersonal space knows itself as another in a proliferation of stages. The stage of wakefulness is a dream-stage. The mirror stage of the impersonal.

A stage appears when "an organism cognizes one environment as another environment" (Scott Bakker). Cognition is the proliferation and intensification of spatiotemporal deception.

//
Given that sleep entails a quasi-radical retreat from the actual spatiotemporality, and from the relative homogeneity of the experience field in the waking world, certain practices, from scientific to shamanic, resemble those of the somnambulant. All practices that lead to spatiotemporal complexification through distortion and perturbation of the well-designed relationship between self and world involve a risky falling (asleep) of the self from itself. The self is constructed by falling asleep to itself, by falling for the space of what is not the self, by dreaming the environment of another over one's own. All spatiotemporal ruses and topological distortions, as those of the shaman or the geometer or even of the animal predator, necessitate sleep-within-wakefulness, a falling asleep to the world. Both the shaman and the geometer afford a cortege of ghost-bodies and carry a multitude of virtual somatic maps. The predator learns to carry the somatic map of its prey. The shaman and the geometer are dreamers of multiple worlds, are falling asleep from multiple worlds, falling through worlds. Worlds which do not possess interchangeable syntaxes. The impersonal world falls prey to itself.

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To maintain available incompatible mediums, worlds whose parameters do not sustain each other, languages which do not speak each other.

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Spatiotemporal gangsters.
World losers.
Medium smugglers.

//
I once took it on a walk in the forest. It was not a wild forest. It was crossed by a large alley, comfortable to step on even with shoes made for asphalt. I was flying it at a distance not much higher than that of two humans of average height on top of each other. I wanted it to enjoy the perspective of a high branch of a tree, and to look down on me, yes, the abstract always looks down on humans. I also imagine myself younger from that perspective, a bit less tall, more like a girl looking upwards, slightly dreaming. A minimal pet is suitable for all ages. I was walking forth, at times losing it through the jungle of branches and thoughts. It always came back to its empty leash if this happened. We almost kept the same pace, and it was quiet. The gaze from a high point is cute. We felt worriless. It has nothing and is nothing, therefore it has nothing to worry about. I have it, therefore have nothing, and according to recent neuroscience, I also am nothing, therefore I have nothing to worry about. I am always one to one with it. I was walking with it through the forest, as I saw in front of me a middle-aged woman, strolling on the alley, not alone. She was strong and stepping in a direction she knew without determination. I was walking it and she was holding two leashes. She was walking a big horse and a dog, big. The bifurcation of leashes caught my attention. We had pets. I was walking my singular companion, stepping humbly behind her yet with an air of arrogance.

Some people have dogs or insects, even rats or piglets. I have it. It is generic, an abstract pet, a disposition and dislocation, its leash is my consciousness and I broom it with my thoughts. It cannot gain weight but it oscillates qualitatively. It is a superior pet, companionship as alienation. It gives pointlessness to pointlessness. It is the only pet able to accompany humans in the dreamworld. It is a weak pet. It distracts construction, of thoughts, desires, and important stuff, and distracts distraction, from anything. Like sleep-within-wakefulness and a dream-within-dream. A minimal dream dreamed beside reality, a minimal dream dreamed inside the dream.

//
Dreaming may be minimally defined, following Jennifer Windt, as an immersive spatiotemporal hallucination model. The hallucinatory experience of the dream is amodal, in that it is independent of specific perceptive content, such as visual, auditory, kinesthetic, or even proprioceptive imagery. Therefore, the minimal dream is to feel oneself as a mere point in an abstract space.

//
I dreamed that I was on a stage. There was audience scattered around. I was moving the point of indifference.

//
“[S]leep is a genuinely traumatic experience” (J.G. Ballard).

//
I was falling asleep, my mind focusing on the idea of the dream as a necessary discontinuity of subjectivity. Arguments slipping into hypnagogic thinking, feeling abstract rips and cuts and blades and breathing in the gaps cut open into the enormous glutinous everything. An ambient glue like a muffled background noise that my wondering spacetime, now freed from the stability of wakefulness, was filled with. A liberty stiffened by the vague register of the paralyzed body waiting at the threshold of the volatile spacetime of dreams. Nobody's hallucination, a void, where I was drifting like a wireless goddess through stony air.

//
I was falling asleep, or falling awake, on the narrow rift between two beds merged into one. The discontinuity of subjectivity: waking consciousness cut dream-self. The interrupted bed sheet, a line between two shores of sleep. The switch of the medium: waking world cut dreamworld. Is dream a reality formation or reality a dream formation? If reality is affects, capacities, and behaviors, woven into a diffuse environmental mesh, then the dream is also reality. The world is just another medium, and the world is not one.

//
What if when you wake up it is the medium that wakes up? If the world wakes up, we are finished.

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All thoughts flushed away by the present leave room only for action. My gaze slides upon lines with the well-oiled wheels of longitudinal sight. The infinite is shrinking to make itself vaster, enforcing the violence of the lateral. Thoughts tunnel down a narrowing strait, a line strangled by a loop of walls. A deep slumber pushes me underneath my acts while the ghostly line paralyzes the horizon. From now on I will never have to act again. I go about in a line.

//
The "[d]ream-sages. . .were too wise ever to be born in this waking world" (H.P. Lovecraft).

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I was attending a lecture and upon waking up a dream-earworm was speaking in a well-oiled rhythm: killed by my own objectivity, killed by my own objectivity...

//
I committed a spatiotemporal murder. I woke up. I heard the sound of a blade that falls between worlds and cuts a slice of being without thickness. Serially killed at the threshold between medium-worlds. In the middle of the medium there is a cut.

//
From an elevated mold above the shore, I saw the sea as through a smoggy lens, covered in a milky blue, slightly unfocused. I could not distinguish any breakers and rollers, only a half-agitated mass, moving in place, without clear edges. I saw clouds rising above the ocean. I saw them turning into strange forms, geometrical and perverted and far enough to drown fear into sublime and life into dream. Little formless clouds were growing into spherical clusters, like the NASA image of the real gravity of the earth, a round conglomerate of puffy globes, loops of condensed air, spiraled dense fog. Little tornadoes began to rise and travel along the surface of the sea, mini visual vortexes were moving towards the shore. Somebody said something as the image faded out and into a break, not real, not dream, not nothing, not something, paused by the sudden invocation of a long-forgotten cartoon character spiraling up a black hurricane that was sweeping the coast.

//
According to Gilles Châtelet, Francis Bailly and Giuseppe Longo, philosophical and mathematical concepts can be traced back to simple or more complex gesturality, as the geometry of a line is the shortest path from the predator's eye to the anticipated location of its prey -- the chase-line. Abstractions like the line are forms of precise forgetting -- what remains from the hunting situation is a geodesic line, without thickness, between predator and prey. What is forgotten in the reality of the waking life may be remembered, even in a corrupt and partial manner, in the dreamworld. The thinking patterns, the abstract geometry of thought, may re-become gestural in dreams. The concepts re-emerge embodied.

//
Awake one gives thought to the body. Dreams give body to thought. Thinking as daydreaming.

//
To take a walk in a fake dimension. Every step in the fake deforms the walk in the everyday. Every deformation in the everyday deforms the step in the fake, and everyday. To set up a spatiotemporal ruse is to engage in a walk you could not have taken. Cognition is the immersion in staged Umwelts. To act within thought is to give body to thought and then walk. The body has walked before thought. Reason is a somnambulant feeling.

The conceptual horizon is mutilated through doing, and the horizon of imagination is mutilated through thought. The ruse excises a cut that bleeds real.

Don't let your gaze take a halt at the horizon. Contemplate the horizon of the horizon, the plane arriving at a dead line, the line arriving at a dead point, the hyperspace arriving dead and real.

//
The fish are daydreaming and swimming in the depths of the mirror.

//
Time is a strange burrow of the space exiting itself by re-entering itself ad infinitum.

//
"[L]iving organisms are bouquets or blades of time, ... they are exchangers of time." (Michel Serres). The logical is riddled with the material, and the material is always more than itself. Time flows in the waves of its dramas, like the river, a formalized cannibalism of space. A formalism is a series of temporal crimes undercover.

//
Be a time-smuggler.

//
According to Thomas Metzinger, if the ego tunnel prevents us from accessing the real, and the tunnel makes up our world, our medium, then between waking consciousness and dream consciousness there is no essential difference. The awareness of the simulation (of the self and of the world), as a metacognitive capacity, is acquired only in lucid dreams. Lucid dreams are the mirroring of the mirror. A lucid dreamer is an awakened philosopher who lost position, a lucid loser. To be grounded in loss and nonposition.

//
Space is a deceiver. You and I are still dreaming.

//
Perception, which is the inhibition of full access to the real, constructs a bearable spatiotemporality into the world, one that corresponds to the limits of one's action and sensorimotor imagination. One moment of openness and the real manifests through horror: the unknown, unnameable, unbearable, the localized hole. "I left this world and entered into the world" (Clarice Lispector).

//
Horror is the nightmare of lucidity.

//
Reality was precisely drawn, almost two-dimensional, an architecture of black-and-white panels, zooming in and out of you. Occasionally, some windows of color and depth, islands of fuzziness and three-dimensionality, gaped in the paralyzed landscape. A flat spatiotemporality, where action is contemplative, and motion is sequential. The world was riddled with holes, and the holes were the waking world. This medium allowed motion through amplification and diminution. I browsed through scales instead of sizes. The architecture of reality revealed obscure rifts between world-sequences. Space was crisply ticking away like a clock of dimensions.

An oversized image of an eye, without depth, was coming from the horizon towards me. The panel-world zoomed into me, and I saw a plain surface of a wrinkled contact lens, folded and warped. The globe-world became the globe of the eye, a flat curved space, evoking Nicolas de Cusa's circumference of a maximal circle that is a straight line. Something absolute was lurking beneath the world. The lens of the world-eye-globe was wrinkled, folded into an intensity through which what the eye saw was horror. I looked into this seeing twisted and warped, and the sight of this eye was the world I could see. We were on different sides of this world.

Behind a car with wide-open doors, someone was gazing at the sky, almost cataleptic but standing. He confessed that he was not able to write anymore because his thought-vision was superlatively reflected back and forth into his black eye. His thought was trapped in a beam of darkness emanating from his left eye, or maybe the right, as I am not sure whether I saw the world in mirror or not. I noticed the blackness of his eyes and I knew that the beam was transporting something that I should write in the morning. Something concerning thinking as a reflection in the eyes of impossibility. His thought was a back and forth movement of an ethereal projection. His thought was prisoner of a dark loop, a never-ending transmutation of a gaze fixed on the impossible. The whole scene brought to mind the horror mangas of Junji Ito that I was reading the other day. The beam of darkness was swarming with nonsense and meaning. A shadow-knowledge words cannot convey, thought cannot think. A Japanese Grand Guignol unfolding between the black black eye (an almost pupil-eye) and the impossibility it reflected.

//
Horror is the nightmare of lucidity.

//
The waking world, what is allegedly there, is a hallucinatory medium, and not what is out there. The real is precisely that which is not mediated, the medium is a perceptual fortress in the real. Yet the real is nowhere without the fortress. If the phenomenal is a cage inside the noumenal, as Kant has shown, there is no way out. Yet the caged is entangled with the cage. Phenomena enmeshed with noumena allow the enlargement, bar by bar, of the cages of experience.

//
Or maybe the real is bearable, and only life is unbearable.

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Depth is pierced by the surface. The real is pierced by full scale imitation. Imitation of dream.

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Dreaming is a form of weak travelling: you go somewhere between everywhere and nowhere.

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The blade that cuts a new spatiotemporality into the world is weakened by the constant mobility of nature and its continual dynamics. The dreamer's knife has a weak blade like a dotted-line that dreams of immaculation.

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To cut weak dreams in the jungle of here, and walk out.

//
Any escape into the out is an escape into the fake. Any escape from this spatiotemporality is a variation and complexification of spatiotemporal hallucinations. This variation is dependent upon the structures of spatiotemporal power: the political structures, and the material constraints of thought, the bodily constraints of spatiotemporal freedom (the Kantian transcendental frame which, even if varied, is limited by one's specific corporeality).

Political dreaming constructs specific modern discourses that shape spatiotemporal immersion, and imagination. Manifestos are the acceleration of immersion into a spatiotemporal hallucination, with purpose. Spatiotemporal hegemony confronts and even halts the walks into the fake and into the out. It replaces a determinate yet aimless walk into the fake with a goal-oriented walk that exhausts the outs.

The dreamer's walk is purposeless. The purpose and her map lies within the dream. The dream only wants to dream itself.

//
Spatiotemporal variation is the somnambulant militancy for the liberation of the dream from human sopor.

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I have solutions without a problem.

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Space fell asleep dreaming of time.

//
I had a chance to fall.