She seems mad. She is mad—now more so than ever. It appears as though the current chain of events has driven her to the point of ecstasy. Not a drug-fuelled one, nor one that’s purely sexual, but an ecstasy brought upon by how close we are to that which lies ahead. With her eyes spinning as wildly as her mind, not only is she flickering between this world and the next, but the atoms that contain her are struggling to do just that. Each one of us is tethered to the building blocks of creation, but what if there was a way to untether ourselves from such blocks? What if there was a means to slip outside the confines of being, so that we may be another way? Reaching out my hand, I touch her flesh, but it’s not flesh that I touch. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not that. It’s like touching a dream; like moving the oils of a Van Gogh painted over a hundred years ago so that they’re as fluid now as they were back then. Imagine smearing those oils, but instead of ruining the image, your fingers bring the moment to life not just in the mind, but in physical reality. As much as freedom exists, the mind is still a jail. It’s not enough to believe or to see, you have to know that you can change what is scientifically impossible. Those bombs of God. They can break apart anything—least of all the conditioned mind of man. This is what she’s on the brink upon now. She can taste it, and the more of it she tastes, the more she makes her atoms malleable to these desires that have set in motion our escape.