"The brain uses sleep to wash away the waste toxins built up during a hard day's thinking, researchers have shown." -BBC News
Can a mystery sense the approach of its resolution, the way a beast can sense imminent death, even a beast that has not been possessed and tormented by language and its many selves, all coming together to perish or at least to abandon the beast?
I think it can. I think I can. A mystery, after all, is only another of those many floating, overlapping selves of language, another I. I know it. It has to die. Or, well, it may not have to, but it can surely sense that it's about to, like the person dreaming the car, despite a tight grip on the wheel, has just cleared the cliff, no grip left. Time to fall.Can a mystery sense the approach of its resolution, the way a beast can sense imminent death, even a beast that has not been possessed and tormented by language and its many selves, all coming together to perish or at least to abandon the beast?
And then, either it has and it's gone, crashed, irrecoverable, I suppose, rest in peace and fade from living memory, mystery no more, nothing to see, nothing of interest here, lost forever, a junked car rusting unseen among the invasive species down there clotting the once-pristine, dark canyon, or the person wakes up and thinks, that was only a dream, I was only dreaming, oh what a relief, the mystery still lives, heart pounding, still puzzled, still asking, yes, I see, but why do we dream these dreams?
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