The night becomes long. The ideals melt. The level of intelligence required to inhabit this cave-like realm is lower than expected, much lower.
Hypnotic perceptions, which are the glue that holds the territory together, begin to crack and fall apart, and all that is left is a grim determination to see things through.
As the night moves into its latter stages, some participants come to know that all their activity is taking place in a chimerical universe.
It is as if reality has been constructed to yield up gibberish.
Whose idea was it to become deaf, dumb, and blind in the first place?
And then perhaps one person in the cave suddenly says: I EXIST.
That starts a cacophony of howling.
The history of human struggle on this planet is about the individual emerging FROM the group, from the tribe, from the clan. The history of struggle is not about the individual surrendering and going back INTO group identity.
...As the trumpets blare in the night sky, as the fog-ridden spotlights roam, as the banners emerge carrying the single message, WE, as people below are magnetically drawn to this show, a unpredicted thing happens:
Someone shouts: WHAT IS WE?
Other pick up the shout.
And the banners begin to catch fire and melt. They drip wax and the false grinding of hypnotic dreams breaks its rhythm.
The whole sky-scene stutters like a great weapon losing its capacity to contain heat. The sky itself caves inward and collapses, and the trumpets tail off and there is a new fresh silence.
The delusion, in pieces, is drifting away"
The cover: gone.
Behind it is The Individual.