Here is this sense that marries together our fear and knowledge. The irrational, physical response to narratives (histories) within the unknown. The darkness, the hidden, the confusing. There is this sense that we a venerable to attack. That the fabric of reality has frailties, not just frailties, but that this fabric was our protector. That we need protecting from an aggressive force. The centre (beyond the horizon) from which our fear (we feel) emanates.
Knowledge of the past, stories and myths and also knowledge of our selves. The horrific actual thoughts we create and consciously suppress.
The object of fear seems to reside both beyond the fabric of consciousness and equally directly within of the fabric of our being.
Common cold. (To die for)
I found the mass of magical object, circular and petrified/chrome. The super symbolic value allows me precious time at the table. The magical mass of the object shining, demanding a frozen fear and respect all around. Such devotion, such love, forever we constantly pilgrimage to catch a glimpse. Means. The mass of abject super shining object that has so much gravity to its loss. (An honourable mention to the bogs were stuck in.)
We built a house, then rooms in the house with corridors and then a whole street of houses. And then (of course) all the rooms in all the houses had doors that were opened and shut. Soon a thick labyrinth exists and there are paths and dead ends, red herrings and murals on the wall depicting people in love. Openings to spaces (universal law) and piles of trash, excrement and (lost somewhere) a giant mountain of blank placards for some almighty protest. (For when we find the crimes that were definitely committed.)