I was having another Star Trek dream. This time with Dr. Soran a pretty lame Trek bad guy. In my dream he had a nice smile. I guess he was good. He was guiding me across an Arctic planet. My hands were so cold it was hard to grip the rope that tied us together in the blinding haze of snow.

I rolled over and clutched at his t-shirt (I could touch him and absorb his warmth without stunning his skin). It was perfectly dark under the shadow of his body. It didn't matter if you grasped the perfect emptiness in a cafe or a monastery or a mosh pit or a bar. What mattered was staying empty so you could be a fucking perfect receptacle for light.

Everything is relative. They decided that in Copenhagen. Where they heard the sound
of one hand clapping. Complete oneness and noneness all at once.

I had resigned everything infinitely. And then had grasped everything infinitely.

Of course I couldn't remember the dream the next morning.