To believe in spontaneous conjuration

And delirium,

The smell of the air

Which surrounds us

And runs through us.

The wind blows us through

Space and time,

And like the silent voice

That haunts us

It whispers.

To find oneself in mid thought,

Mid air,

Stumbling through silence.

Mistakes often made

But never to turn to violence

The Book Of Ascension                                                                     Section 6