"This woman was drowned; but more often the persons who are taken 'get the touch,' as it is called, and fall into a half dream, and grow indifferent to all things, for their true life has gone out of the world....A faery doctor has told me that his wife 'got the touch' at her marriage because there was one of them that wanted her; and the way he knew for certain was, that when he took a pitchfork out of the rafters, and told her it was a broom, she said, 'It is a broom.' She was, the truth is, in the magical sleep, to which people have given a new name lately, that makes the imagination so passive that it can be moulded by any voice or any world into any shape..."

(Explanatory Notes of Yeats'The Wind Among the Reeds.)

those without proof must then suffer under the burden of their own imagination.

sometimes they are drowned. sometimes swept by their own new mind.

this imagination is not something to be offered up like a goat for sacrifice. it is the lion of sacrifice. the plant of sacrifice. the KUDZU of sacrifice. it has this many teeth and that much staying power.

fuck intuition. fuck empiricism. imagine both under your thumb under your bent beautiful mind.