At the lowest levels, the disciplines intermix, they overlap, they match. At the lowest levels, access to a pool of wisdom is envisioned. At the lowest levels, the fountain of creation takes source, possibility flourishes, a fecund pool of luminiferous daemons, suspended in a black sauce from which they emanate, no indication of their number within that discreet, indefinite space. Their single sparkles, their sexual flashes on union become the light of creation, of black and white. In that bottomless pit, sounds, sights, tastes, hears, they all are pure. Smell and feel where no sight or sound is perceived. Be disoriented, as the dissociation produces a disengagement of everything from everything in the place where everything exists, where the gathering is complete and distinction is difficult. This is where you hear everything pure; the fountain marches, crashes all around you, from nowhere is the sound; collapse or rejoice.

At the lowest levels, the disciplines match, they overlap, at the lowest levels, the disciplines intermix.

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