to e n e d eturn
You’ve been here before.
Not just here, reading these words...
Here in this moment of silent calculation.
The weighing. The pull—the pause; just before you decide... keep going, turn the page, check your phone.
aware of the next move, before your hand ...So have you decided?
Because your eyes have already scanned ahead, predicting structure before meaning. Your brain is filling in the gaps, measuring patterns, anticipating what I’ll say before I even say it. Yes, you are reading—but you are also being read. This isn’t random.
Because your eyes have already scanned ahead, predicting structure before meaning. Your brain is filling in the gaps, measuring patterns, anticipating what I’ll say before I even say it. Yes, you are reading—but you are also being read. This isn’t random.
Not just here, reading that again...
You’ve been
here before
So that’s where we’ll begin.
Patterns don’t announce themselves. They repeat. Quietly. Persistently. Until recognition cuts through the static.
At first, you just notice the edges.
Why am I sitting weird? They know I don’t wear beanies... Why did I laugh like that?
We can rationalize what’s choice—yet still feel forced. Expect > Correct > Reward > Repeat.
This is the cycle of reinforcement that built the scaffolding of our reality. The teacher of town and tradition—where you felt your first silent glance, and picked up on secondhand script.
We don’t do that...
We don’t go THERE. We don’t think like that. We don’t know them.
We are products of a social system that was shaping us, before we even had a chance to shape ourselves. But hey, it’s not a gender reveal without pyrotechnics and a raging forest fire, am I right?! Ah hahaa!
*Cackles expressionlessly.
If you’re starting to feel a little uneasy—good. That means you’re paying attention.
Assumption | Association
Anticipation | Expectation
Exploited | Exploitee
Transformation starts with awareness of these concepts—and the on-going integration of your role within each. This is sometimes referred to as shadow work: bringing hidden fears, patterns, and parts of ourselves into observation. Without self-recognition, every change becomes a temporary patch to cover an unseen, or unaccepted, pattern.
Recognition is an impulse firing at threshold. A surge of charge crossing the line between potential and release. It doesn’t happen all at once—the current builds, moving in increments, each pulse reinforcing the next until the gap is breached.
This is how patterns persist. Not as static imprints, but as signals—transmitted, received, strengthened through repetition. The mind isn’t passive in this. It adjusts its own thresholds. Lowers resistance where the signal is familiar. A thought repeated enough times moves faster, fires easier, embeds deeper.
And what fires together, wires together. What’s reinforced becomes reflex. This isn’t philosophy. It’s circuitry. It’s the reason you reach for the same thoughts, the same responses, the same dynamics, even when they work against you. The pathway is already primed, and the charge is always ready. One spark and— welcome home!
Pressure Behind the Rib
The patterns playing out in your life—relationships, conflicts, turning points—all intersect at the root. Some were planted by you, some by those who came before you, and some by systems that will do everything to keep you from looking up.
This isn’t just about recognizing what shaped you—it’s about meeting yourself eye-to-eye, reckoning with where you’ve already broken ground and the areas that remain unturned.
The body holds more than memory—it holds momentum. Everything unfinished lingers. What’s unprocessed finds new ways to repeat itself. The cycles that seem impossible to break, dynamics that feel inevitable, the same lessons appearing in different forms—that’s not coincidence. That’s inheritance.
Your answer to relieving the pressure isn’t going to be found in this book; or anywhere in between the aisle of self-help and home-improvement. Ah hahaa!
*Cackles expressionlessly
Again, not here to direct your process, but I’d recommend raising a red flag on any sales-pitch built upon the mindset of scarcity. You have all the resources you need. You always have. My mom had a passage of scripture for every message and moment imaginable. In an instance like this, my sister and I we’re quickly reminded that we were both,
‘Fearfully and wonderfully made’ —Psalm 139:14.
As are you. But perfect by design doesn’t imply frictionless function—it means working within the mechanics of the system it was built for. And systems, whether biological, social, or digital, are prone to resistance.
Some people—and entities—are more attuned to these mechanics than others. They see the framework beneath human behavior: how needs shape decisions, how expectation and association form loops. And when those loops become predictable, they become susceptible.
Exploitation isn’t always forceful. Sometimes, it moves like guidance. Wears the mask of care. Presents itself as opportunity. The closer a system—or a person—gets to predicting a response, the easier it is to shape. Power doesn’t need to coerce when it can condition.
The more someone understands what you seek—security, belonging, validation—the more precisely they can position themselves as the source.
Discernment exists on a spectrum. Age, access, awareness—every factor that shapes perception also becomes a point of entry. What we see, what we believe—filtered through the lens of what we’ve been conditioned to accept.
But before this starts sounding like a call to sever every connection, evade every algorithm, and opt out entirely— remember: these systems were built by humans. Behavior is purposeful. We create, refine, and reinforce the structures we exist within. And no one stands outside of it.
The way forward isn’t avoidance—it’s awareness. Not just of what’s happening around you, but of your place within it. Understanding the system well enough to navigate it with clarity. And acknowledging that “clarity” itself remains relative.
You’ve been here before. Your resistance to remembering has served its purpose. But it may not be one that serves you anymore.
The Weight of Your World
You hold power in being and in being here. Even when you forget your own potential, it’s something you always carry.
The direct translation of the Arabic, (‘iimkania) as ‘possibility’ or ‘potential’ aligns generally in English, but loses some of its original depth.
carries a sense of capacity, feasibility, and opportunity— the potential to be seen within any situation. It speaks to the abstract concept of what could be, often conveying latent power or ability within a person, situation, or idea. It’s not just about what is possible but about its potential to come to fruition or ‘manifest’ under the right conditions or through action.
My first tattoo serves as a gentle reminder when I see it in the mirror, or explain its translation when asked. I’ll never be able to fully explain its weight. The essence of it, though, is always there. With or without the ink.
The Change in Your Charge
In neuroscience, action potential describes the electrical signal that travels along a neuron, enabling communication throughout the body. It’s essential for perception, reaction, and movement.
Measured by science or explored metaphorically—it’s a representation of the potential for transformation, growth, and action within every living being.
Action potential starts with an imbalance of electrical charges within and around the neuron. The neuron’s membrane separates (+) and (-) charges, creating a “pressure” of electrical potential. Outside, there’s a higher concentration of (+) charged particles (ions), while the inside remains relatively (-).
When the neuron receives a stimulus—such as a touch or chemical signal—it opens up briefly, letting the (+) ions rush in. This sudden change in charge is the first step in triggering the action potential.
If the charge crosses a certain threshold, the neuron releases an electrical impulse that travels rapidly down its length, allowing the signal to be transmitted. If the stimulus isn’t strong enough, the neuron remains dormant. There’s no action, no change—the potential stays untapped, just as we may feel stuck in life, unable to act when a decision is on the table.
Life constantly presents us with moments of potential. Whether we act on them depends on our charge, and the stimuli needed. Maybe it’s sheer burnout from inaction itself, recognition of a repeating pattern, a life event, a moment that gave you the “ick,”or workings in the realm of divine intervention. When the flood gates open to initiate a change, in your charge—you’ve probably found yourself saying...
“When the stars align.”
“Smooth sailing.”
“Everything falling into place.”
“Things are looking up.”
“The universe is in your favor.”
“Like a well-oiled machine.”
“Your time to shine”
“On a roll.”
“When it rains it pours”
“Shit really hit the fan.”
“It’s one thing after another.”
“Downward spiral.”
“Everything went south.”
“Hitting rock bottom.”
“When it all falls apart.”
“Hell in a hand basket.”
Wait, Where Are We Going?
Alright, here’s the deal. The concepts in part one weren’t filler or preamble. That was psychological and energetic grounding, for both of us, before moving forward. The structure is about to shift, dramatically. To some, it may feel unconventional. But rather than keeping you in the role of reader, passively painting page by number, the message will be layered recursively.
Reading for simply “what happens next” would be a disservice to the 20+ years it took to get here, and that structure doesn’t work with an inherently non-linear narrative. The weight of what’s been experienced is something you step into—layered and understood at times in pieces until ready to integrate as whole.
It may not feel like it, but every day is part of a “non-linear narrative” structure that roots our engagement through moments of recognition. Integration happens through pattern and connections. Seeing how point A informed point Z, and by process of integration actually existed at the same time.
At some point, we’re going to get separated—maybe even within ourselves. So we need a check-in. This is essential.
The ability to write this book, let alone make sense of everything that happened, was built on rituals and routines designed to support integration. That meant documentation. Journaling of pre-cognitive states dating as far back as 2004. Entries shared with timestamped feedback. Photos of the seemingly mundane, anchor points to return to later if memory failed me. And a place to perform the ritual and offer my sacrifice—integration rock.
It didn’t really have a name at first. I think it started during a classic mental breakdown, and a need for literal grounding.
I picked a single rock at the top of a small incline—high enough to require effort, but not enough to keep me from going.
And only one rule.
• Lowest of Lows |Visit the rock.
• Highest of highs |Visit the rock.
No journaling, no meditating. Eyes open—just sitting. That climb became my favorite ritual. The physical exertion was an offering of my energy, and a way to mark the moment in my nervous system. It’s been one of my most powerful tools over the years—and a practice, outside of dreams or meditation, where I’ve felt a non-dissociative release from linear time. It’s more of a physical sensation.
I can’t predict how you’ll respond to the experiences I share, but you’ve already been given the check-in point in the event we get separated.
You’ve been here before. Because I’m inviting you into my world without pretense. If something unsettles you, give it a second—because you already know how the story ends. You’re holding it. I promise it’ll track.
You’ve been here before. Because somewhere in these pages, you may recognize something you’ve always felt but never stopped to really hear.
You’ve been here before. Because, in the grand scheme, we all have. We’re here right now, hurtling through space, bound by the same gravity. Whether or not you agree with what I say, you’re already checked in.
Mother of all—
Do you remember? Here we go :)
“October October M.I.D. October”
I was tending to my garden when I found the body. It didn’t belong there. But neither did I.
I don’t know how long I stood there, staring. The absurdity of it struck before the horror did. Because when the authorities arrived, I could tell their focus on the body was inherently different from mine. Their field of view was fixed on suspect.
Which—rightfully so—but let’s not forget whose garden you’re stepping into. Why was I the immediate suspect? I was tending to the garden, as instructed. As always. Granted, I probably sounded crazy trying to explain why I called it that...
“The farrrmmm” sounds insufferable. Too industrial and unfortunate, because it’s true. I know it’s weird to personify corn when it’s been genetically modified, but idk I just feel bad when I see a stalk that wasn’t picked :(( it’s not their fault tha—”
*Click-Click.
I had the right to remain silent while they rewrote their wrongs. And I think that’s what unsettled me the most—not the cell, not the weight of the sentence, but the realization that the truth had no bearing on any of this. How I immediately went from suspect to subject of a system everyone agrees is broken but refuses to fix.
I had nothing to do with that body. That much I knew. I also knew I wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
I don’t know how to describe it, but my senses get crossed when I try to recall what happened after that. I remember how dense my thoughts tasted. The overstimulating sight of sounds around me. A synesthesia of ruminations and the smell of someone burning my hair.
This was never my intention. I was the one showing up every morning, clearing the ground, learning about cycles—growing life, not taking it. And somehow, I’m the one behind bars.
A criminal is one who crosses the deceased, and the very seeds that they sowed. They’re responsible for the disruption at the farm, for every subsequent harvest heard throughout the garden.
You’ve been here before.
They just needed someone to blame. And we were the ones standing there. I don’t know what happened before the body was dropped, or the sequence of events that led to its death. But what I do know is, whoever does, didn’t even care enough to dig them a shallow grave.
Sometimes it’s hard to believe that justice, balance, or equality truly exists when anything can happen against our will, simply because we were “there.” Am I perfect? No. And I have no problem admitting that.
But this has left me feeling like the truth is something I’ll always have to prove. Even when there’s documentation to support me.
We’re talking cameras in 4K at every entrance—the entire perimeter. Twelve full seasons of me slowly breaking my back. Jump to season one, disc five if you want to see when it happens. The point is—there’s plenty of footage. Cameras to capture every frame that could piece together our moment of vindication. But the decision was never ours.
The body has long since decomposed, but you can check the roots for proof of pain. It extends well beyond the perimeter, and every row I supposedly agreed to when I was added to the schedule. I agreed to work, but I wasn’t aware of the conditions.
Buried under “standard procedure” and “appropriate processing”— bureaucratic bullshit dressed up as reason.
Fuck the code.
Fuck the protocol.
Fuck the political pissing contest over warrants, deeds, and ‘rights’ to the tapes.
And fuck you for standing on faux conviction, parroting words for the sake of self-preservation.
To the doctors with borders and WMDs, the breakers and binders by definition, and the perverse who remain unaccounted: My words do not hold any power to serve the justice you so deserve, but have been arranged to execute the final cutting of our cords. May you catch fire today, tomorrow, and every day after, until the reckoning finds you first.
— For the ones burned wrongfully at the stake.
...Whew! Well that was some heavy shit. Now that I got that off my chest, let’s continue.
The truth was never the point. Reality moves and bends to whatever technicality serves it best.
While they argued over hallucinated loopholes, I learned early on that my only escape was the prison library. I have seasonal allergies triggered by both pollen and people. There’s a familiar sense of déjà vu every time I’m in here. Back in elementary school, the library was my safe haven from congestion, bloodshot eyes, and the tiny flashes of light I’d see from rubbing them too hard. A strange kind of suffering, but at least I had some control over the stars.
I certainly can’t control the seasons, or how my body naturally responds to them. Comparing childhood allergies to unlawful imprisonment probably deserves death, but I promise I’m not just throwing apples and oranges, or whatever the saying is. There’s a lot more that happened in between.
What I’m trying to communicate is the experience of being trapped—of having no say in the cycles that surround you, the ones that existed long before you ever stepped into them.
The way institutionalization embeds itself, whether through the education system or the industrial federal prison complex.
Again, not trying to make this about the apple and the orange. But… maybe I’m onto something? Anyway.
I always find myself in here circling back to the classics—Ayn Rand, and the neurosis of Kurt Vonnegut—but my personal detachment from linear time happened when I came across a book that told me,
Your purpose is pointless. Your passion is pointless. Your existence is pointless .
Pointless_Intro (Active)
README_[Infinity].md
~/projects/pointless-manuscript/drafts/intro/your_purpose_is_pointless_intro.txt
> loading your_purpose...
> initializing...
From the moment you were born, you’ve been immersed in a world obsessed with “points.”
> The time you were born.
> Baby’s first sh.
> First step. First word. First year.
Which, honestly... might be the only point worth making. Your kid isn’t “24 months old.” They’re two.
(And if we can’t agree on that, let’s fully commit to the bit and forever measure age by month).
#
How old is he?
Aw, so cute! ��
516 months ��
> Connection terminated. Pointlessness achieved.
As a child, the points feel playful. Then time moves forward, and suddenly the points carry weight: > Percentages. Promotions. Performance. The “right” age to get married. The “point” you’re expected to reach in your career by 30.
It’s a constant measurement of where you’re “supposed to be.”
But a paradox emerges:
> When life is long, the points are light.
> Yet as we age, they tighten their grip.
Shouldn’t it be the opposite?
Shouldn’t the points fall away as life shortens, leaving us more free, not less?
> calculating... [time_remaining == undefined]
This backwards dynamic defines so much of our physical lives. And yet, when the day ends – we are still on a floating rock hurtling through space and time.
> output: The point doesn’t matter. It never did. > conclusion: That’s the beauty of it.
When I suggest that your existence is “pointless,” it’s not a declaration of despair, > redefining_pointless...
It’s a shift in perspective:
One that releases the expectation of a point [a fixed destination, a singular purpose] and embraces: # [life with unbound potential]
So give up on “finding your purpose” in life. Because chasing purpose (as a point) bears the burden of expectation [Measurement. Arbitrary value. Imposed bias.]
> re-programming...
We make it a point to “find our purpose,” but maybe our purpose is, instead, to find a life that’s pointless.
> program complete. Continue? [Y/N]
~/projects/pointless-manuscript/drafts/intro/your_purpose_is_pointless_intro.txt
I r ea ll y d on’t k now where to take this book—I mean, I do and don’t at the same time.
What I do know is I need to stop procrastinating. I’ve been sitting here for 15 minutes drafting that text to my sister.
It’s December 24, 2024 (4:33 PM MDT)—and I have exactly 87 minutes to start and finish my entire holiday shopping before the mall closes at 6:00.
I wonder why my favorite juice bar took Ragin’ Raspberry off the menu? They know what I’m referring to and make it for me anyway, but still.
What really annihilated me was flying back and realizing their location outside airport security— between gates A and B—was closed during construction.
Now what was I supposed to sip on while I sat in the car?
*Stares dramatically out window like a misunderstood main character in an Y2K teen movie.
The kind where the girl has to leave behind her whole life because her mom just married some hard-ass military guy who doesn’t “get” her, and now she’s being shipped off to boarding school where she’ll inevitably get a new personality, a haircut, and smoke her first menthol?
Except instead, I’m a nearly 30-year-old gay man with a career in tech, a college degree, who’s fresh out of a four-year relationship. I moved back home to be closer to family, and carried with me a growing constellation of medical conditions—one of which, unknown at the time, being intermittent cervical dystonia (a head tic). So, really, the head tic alone would’ve ruined the aesthetic I was going for.
I still would have liked the Ragin’ Raspberry, with extra honey, and a shot of ginger, but when I needed it most—it wasn’t there.
*Head tics toward window.
Womp womp! Moving on.
It’s 4:50 PM. And I’m sipping my beloved berry juice. The juice bar is still here. Just fully rebranded since my last visit? New look, new font, new colors. The logo is orange.
Caught in the Act of Gardening
Holidays are never the same after experiencing loss. Our father was a framer, so he knew the trades. He understood what it took to construct a house—to pour concrete, reinforce structures, make sure everything was level. But knowing how to build a house doesn’t mean you know how to keep a home.
My first memory is choking on a rock because I thought it looked like a grape. My second is my dad throwing a Britannica encyclopedia sized desk calculator at my mom.
I was too young to understand what they were fighting about— but old enough to know that the calculator was heavy. We weren’t supposed to be throwing things.
But this was probably something business-related, so that’s different right? No. That’s not an excuse.
Visually, I remember the trailing power cord, but not the sound or sight of impact. I don’t know how to describe it, but my senses get crossed when I try to recall what happened after that.
I’m in the backyard, my sister is shielding me while our mom is screaming, telling her to call the police. Our dad’s tactic was always intimidation.
“You better not Megan! What are you doing? Put the phone down!”
The first time I really sat with this memory, I was only able to re-construct the image by describing it to my therapist as...
Primary: The steel siding of the office space in the backyard, separate from the house. Beige and green, cold to the touch, matte yet metallic at the same time.
Secondary: The damp railroad ties lining the two-tiered garden, and the sticky tar that stained our clothes when we sat on them.
Memories from formative years have a way of reverberating through different phases of our lives, but there was always beauty to be found in the garden. When I think of the garden—my mind splits in two.
The version forced by my father, and the one instilled by my mother.
One is rigid, preoccupied with division. Seeds buried, holes covered, space parceled out with precision. Always caught in the act of gardening—with a fixation on control, waiting only to harvest leverage and “proof.”
A fragile kind of pride, as if growing life meant he was any good at nurturing it. The version that feeds you dirt and calls it fruit.
The other moved with intention, in care of the garden. My mother’s garden was about beauty, about presence.
A quiet devotion to the things that grew simply because they could. And so she did. She never planted for praise. She didn’t need to. The roses bloomed just the same. And without ever having to say it, this was something she instilled in us.
I’d admire the roses while tracing the tip of their thorns with my finger, pressing just enough to feel the sharpness but not enough to break my skin. I never felt the urge to press harder, but I think, on some level, I was fascinated by this boundary—that invisible line where something could shift from beauty to pain.
Or maybe I had already learned to prepare for it.
Conditioned by the version my father taught me, the one that said even in the presence of something beautiful, you had to brace for the moment it turned. Nothing was ever just as it seemed—every moment of stillness was bound to break.
That potential was always there. But when my mother was in care of the garden, it never hurt. Because her intentions were pure.
entry title:
On the Run & We Didn’t Know
entry date:
April 14, 2023
I don’t know where my sister and I are at, but we’re together. In the dream we appear the same age but I can tell we are younger. It felt like age 10 and 13. I think we were in school?
We were following around (what seemed to be a teacher) or some kind of authority figure we trusted. It was just us 3. The man we were following was a bit frantic like he didn’t know where to go. He said he needed to visit an old apartment?
We get there in the middle of the night and the place has been emptied. Cold inside. Large windows on the left and right when you walk in. The man is rummaging around. There are no blinds or curtains. We have the lights on so I can tell people on the outside can see in but we can’t see out. At first we were just following around and I didn’t think much of it. But I start to get concerned. I asked him if everything was ok and if we should be here. He said “yes yes it’s fine” trying to reassure.
I’m standing in the middle of the empty living room with my sister. We hear a woman’s voice call out to the man. We’re all panicked and looking out the window to try and see where it’s coming from. Then the voice says “I’m already inside look here” — we were hearing her voice in our heads. It was scary but I think she came in to intervene. The 3 of us follow her and she pulls us out of the home.
#Scene shifts. My sister and I are alone in what feels like present day & current age. We’re in mom and dads bedroom (the old game room) at 3741. Dads not home not sure where he’s at.
The house is still furnished. My sister is on the phone. There’s some true crime documentary playing on the TV. There’s a team of 4-5 people on the show who track down criminals and solve cold case files. They film their investigation along the way. My sister is still on the phone. French doors are open.
She’s a few steps away standing outside in the sun next to the pond. (Watching the TV show) - The investigators are inside some house. The house of who they suspect is the criminal. The camera man is shaky. Very armature ghost hunter type footage. I start seeing clips of the home and it looks familiar. The tile, the fireplace, the wall decor.
They were filming inside the game room at 3741 (the same room we were in). Except the filming happened a while ago (it was the old tile pattern and before the re model). I yell at my sister to come inside so she can see. We’re both sick to our stomach. Feels like the room is spinning. Feeling very confused and trust violated.
The investigators take the camera outside into the backyard (where the pool used to be). And they walk towards the larger gate where dad would bring in the firewood.
There’s a man up in the tree. The camera pans upwards to zoom in on him. Frame freezes and they show a still image of the man they were looking for. It was our dad. Except he looked like he was in his early 30’s. Long hair and sunglasses like the pictures we used to see. It was bone chilling.
The
“Family
Man” & The True Crime Tree
T he o nly thing as con sistent as my seasonal allergies is the regularly scheduled programming in the prison dayroom.
Another episode where the camera work is trying to feel raw— shaky enough to appear as boots-on-the-ground, hard-hitting journalism, yet polished enough to include b-roll of the person being interviewed walking across a bridge or somberly through a park. The raspy male voiceover. The Ken Burns zoom on a framed family photo.
Hickory dickory dock, 48 hours on the clock. I’m half-watching the show. Half-avoiding eye contact with the guy across from me. I shift in my seat—subtly, because any sudden movement might trigger whatever bonding moment he thinks we’re having.
Mostly, I just became hyperaware of how I’m sitting because of the heated brick in my stomach. It’s either the spread I ate earlier, or an emergency splenomegaly...Or both?
Funnily enough, I knew about spread before I even got here. An old coworker showed us how to make it in the break room at an embedded hardware company I used to work at.
First time I saw it, I thought, damn. This is dark. But there’s actually a method to it:
You break the noodles down while they’re still in the bag—pour in just enough hot water to soften without drowning them—then add the seasoning, maybe some hot sauce if you’ve got it, and mix it all up. Some people throw in crushed chips, beans, even bits of summer sausage if they’re really going for it. Then you seal the bag tight and let it sit—like a mini pressure cooker—until it steams itself into a dense, starchy mass.
It tastes pretty good! I had no idea it was a prison thing. Now that I do, I can’t help but wonder—did that guy do time? Because I sure as hell never would’ve guessed.
I shift the slightest bit, and sure enough, weirdo’s eyes dart towards me and he immediately stops peeling off the label of what used to be a thing of orange Tic-Tacs.
As if I interrupted something? I sink back into the TV, because suddenly, that seems like the least unsettling option.
I’m really just waiting for the day this one episode comes on— apparently some dude from cell block one made his “big TV debut,” snitching on his coworker’s mom for killing her husband and burying him under the garage. True story, by the way.
He’s in here for something else. That’s a whole other story.
Today’s episode is another cold case file. The investigators are walking through a house, narrating over shaky footage of checkered tile floors and Route 66 themed wall décor.
The scene shifts outside. The investigators make their way toward the backyard, toward the tree. Someone’s up there… The camera tilts up—zooms in—
I blink. The weirdo is still staring. I glance at him. He’s back to peeling off the label—slow, deliberate.
Alright, man. Whatever.
*Cut to commercial
“I woke myself up with the sound of my own yelling. In most of my dreams there’s a veryyyy slight level of lucidity. Almost never full lucidity but just enough that allows me...”
