who tosses on his bed.
“With his eyes and his mouth he dreams, with his hands and his feet, with phallos and heart and belly, with body and spirit and soul, in a tempest of dreams.
“And rushes from dream to dream, in the hope of the perfect dream.
“But I, I say to you, there is no dream that is perfect, for every dream has an ache and an urge, an urge and an ache.
“And nothing is perfect, save the dream pass out into the sleep, I Am.
“When the dream of the eyes is darkened, and encompassed with Now.
“And the dream of the mouth resounds in the last I Am.
“And the dream of the hands is a sleep like a bird on the sea, that sleeps and is lifted and