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It was nightime. I got ushered into this little crossing-point, my own axis of space. We told me to run with it. Carry the stick to deliverance, or cover as much ground as possible. I ran for my life. We bathed me in the fountain once to gain strenght. I am still running.
the Manichaean idea of transmigration: The spirit has no identity. The only identity is via the world of perception. The spirit is like water in a glass, defined by that glass' shape. If you take that glass of water and poor it into a river, and then you have another person down river with another glass... it does not matter that the glass looks the same, it is very unlikely that you will draw a glass of water made from the same molecules of water. In other words, the same spirit is never reborn, but the spirit material is recycled until if finds a level of cohesion in a glass that finds its way beyond the river.