It is intensified, on mushrooms, what is normal. Why cannot, when I am sober, chase after, with such reckless abandon, whatever crosses the windowpane, of my consciousness.

I feel high and get too high and then get sad when I fear that the high will not continue. It is intensified, this going up and then fearing the come back down, on mushrooms. But it is no different than it is normally. Like if you took a sine wave graph and squeezed it’s x-axis into a smaller space so that the amplitude of the graph seemed much higher and much lower. It’s the same function, but the perspective has changed.

It can’t all be written. There isn’t any one art form that can capture it all. Modern movies come the closest, I think. They have something for all the senses. You see the movie, hear the movie. You don’t smell, taste, or feel it, though.

What art form communicates what is beyond just the senses?

That is the tragedy, there, that an artist must cram it into her form and the audience must suck it out, as if through a long and narrow straw. The sucking process is not instant. It takes the time of listening to a song or reading a poem. You have to let it get into you through your senses somehow.

Is that the most we can give to each other? What can fit through the long and narrow straw. And only for those with time and energy to do the sucking.

There is a rate at which the thoughts come. The rate is very high during the come up. It is so high that I cannot write them down. One will come, I will start to write it, and then another will come right away. During a period of the plateau, the thoughts come at just the right rate, so that I am just about finishing with the one by the time another comes. When I am sober, and not tripping, the thoughts come so slow—one worth writing, maybe, only once or twice per day.