Erhart closed his eyes tightly, holding and bracing himself by repeating, “Unreal,” against the echoing rush of memories. A long time had passed in which he had not let any of them leak into his consciousness. But now they came flowing in. They were surprisingly soothing; as he wistfully sighed, he wondered why he had dreaded them. He felt a sudden ache of regret and spontaneously knew why. “Erhart,” a woman’s voice gently called. Naturally, as he began to see dim bending and curling shapes, he knew why he missed them. His eyes opened—deep and intensely sparking in the firelight with reverie—seeing a world which was not there.
Tesauro: Part Two
A Dream of Writing 