The veil's magic is drawn over the individual, barely revealing its own secrets. If many tunnels deny the image of the view, the manoeuvrable arch stands for the denial of the complex. That incompleteness allows itself the loss of everything seen, the certainty of the visible blends into the dreaming self, seemingly close to comprehension. What is seen must last in suchness, the correctness of the gaze lacks any trace. Each one of them, releasing the ray, gives the expansion of the senses, moving the distance unbound in space-time. All must-be-becoming is lost in unattachment, real feeling is in the great, far from judgemental thinking. The night, however, clouds every dreamer, tired of watching the game.
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