The hermit is blind,
but in his dreams he sees everything.
A great progression of moments
leading to a point flickering back into distance,
whenever we draw near.
He watches a play so eternal.
No plot, but something he follows,
round and round the bend.
Let us move in great numbers, my tribe!
My gibbering tribe of vibrations,
let us fill up the bottle with no bottom,
let us play love with an all seeing eye.
