On a sheer holdless precipice,
with an idescribable sensation
one no longer knows which is up
and which is down.
'Horizontally', there is only perfect,
a presence in absence (or vice versa),
the life of a ghost:
one's existence no longer bites or gears
anywhere, the will has experienced that
it depends upon illusion:
turned to ashes, it cannot build itself up again.
This 'floating' is the unmeasurable 'sensation',
horizontally, of the Unconditioned Vertical.
—Lewis L. Thompson
Mirror To The Light