A cultivated soul is one where the din of the living does not drown out the music of the dead.
This was my dream. It began, if anything that irrupts from the subconscious in cyclical fits and rounds in on itself and repeats and reoccurs can be said to have a beginning, with a journey, which may have had its starting point in Manhattan, in which case the destination was Brooklyn, although it seemed more like a Scottish city. There was a large and very beautiful building with rondels of lapis lazuli, or irridescent blue mica. Perhaps it was a theatre; if so, this was the last night it was to be open, it was slated to close, and the whole town turned out to attend the final performance.