from the desk of a psilo-overman III

[Bled Welder]

I may as well keep jotting my notes to you comrades, as it is happening.  Since a wee lad I've wanted to write novels, no idea why, never had a reason, until the last few years, so that is what I've been doing, writing a novel.  I've written much fiction before.  I've always had a great admiration for Pynchon.
This is blowing my mind.  I had to get up from the pitch black room, wearing pro-grade blindfold with space to keep eyes open, and terrific sound-cancelling earphones.
I am quite good with descriptions, but this is quite far beyond the bounds of describing.  Pynchon, R.Powers could not describe it.  The dimensions, deep space, entities, all connected of apparently infinite complexity and components, base green, red, and blue, with vast variations, on a deep black ground.  It is space.
Now this is unbelievable, but there is no possible way my willful imagination is creating this, but the entities begin swirling, just like a galaxy, into the center.  It is a black hole.  It's clear.  After some time, I don't really seem to go into it, as it me, essentially, I enter the black hole.  I stopped, got up, inside the tunnel, it is a swirling tunnel.  It's true.
When I realized the possibility, the apparentness, that the tunnel is awaiting machine hookup.  When the technology arrives, it will plug into the portal where my spine meets the base of my brain.  I should have a name for it, besides portal.  Something literary, perhaps.

I suppose now that my mind has more fully absorbed the psilocybe, I should venture back into sightless observation--

 		 	   		  
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