ÐÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿѬ€ Ššššš    à=Ð/Ð8šClotso Number 48943 Shelf 7699219 Room 2398FP Hall 882099R5 Wing 983 Secto 1, by authority censorum tisa Myco Bramorton High Censor Brainelf of Tigo Tara IV. I thought I was dreaming, but I was not sure. Somewhere I heard a voice. Something was calling and I crawled toward it. It walked up a path carved from pure marble and the sound of the sea was strong in my ears. I could smell it in the mist that curled around me. I coughed. My throat was dry. Flowers glistened in the fog and drops fell from their petals. I climbed upward. The path was steep, but I felt I had to go. I was not sure why. There were wind blasted trees rooted in crevices in the rock. It had been blasted and weathered into clouds of glittering white. Some one had cut steps that wound up and up so steeply that they were often more a ladder than a stair. The cry grew louder and more difficult to resist. I moved toward it as rapidly as I could slipping on the wet stone and cutting my fingers. At last I was on top. A great light shone there. Burning through the fog, it struck me. I could fell the heavy blows of the light upon my face. There was a call in the light that crashed upon my ears. I felt a deep nameless fear mingled with an irresistible thirst rise toward that call and that light. Clouds broke open above me and poured out a rain mixed with wind and darkness chased by burning light. The droplets hammered against me and the water streamed down my neck and soaked my clothing. A great bolt of lightning flashed across the sky and a crack of thunder that hurt my ears. I opened my mouth to drink the rain and it was sweet and bitter. My tongue burned as I swallowed it and my throat warmed as it were strong wine. The warmth spread through me and I felt the weight fall off my body as if I were about to rise up in the air as a balloon. I felt a great finger of light reach down inside me and it seemed as if words were written in my heart, words of fire. I woke up in my bed covered with sweat. The sun was streaming through the window. I could feel the words inside me. A voice screamed in my brain. Give back the words! Give back the words! I tried to reach for them. But failed to find them! They were lost somewhere inside me. Then suddenly like vomit they began to pour out of me. I fought to find a pen. I burned with the need to write. To put the words on paper. Only then did I find relief. Only this act could ease the pain of it. I have no excuse for what I have written here. The need to be rid of it was such a powerful force. Something I cannot explain propelled me. It was deep and beyond reason for me. But, when I was finished with it there was, at last, peace. Still I was curious, I asked my hypnotherapist to send me back. I lay in the couch in a whirling mist and felt again the words upon my heart. A voice cried in me, you have been sent from Thalia across a sea of hyperspace and time. Billions of years of cosmic equivalents have based before you till finally you arrived for you are the messenger for this place and time, you are the one chosen. Images of the shattered pieces of my present life, and of past lives on these planet swirled before me. You will have no peace until you have delivered what you have been sent to deliver. You have been called here to the long purpose of the gods and of the One beyond the One to which all the gods and prophets are but minor servants the voice cried. Is this enough, my heart called back, does this peace I feel now mean that my torment is ended, my long mission at last over? Yes and No said the voice, you have written out the message written on your heart but the book of the message must be bound up and delivered before you can have true peace. Once the therapist brought me up and out of trance, there was a compulsion on me to take what I had written and put it in this book. Each time I think I am finished, the voice comes to me in a vision, in a dream, or suddenly in the middle of other thoughts, and compels me to do some new thing, to add new words or stories to the web of stories in this book. Often it makes no sense to me, but the voice compels me, write on it cries, write on, for you are called from the opening of the high realm of all high realms of all worlds before the cosmos began, before God himself was called out of timeless time by the One of which God himself is but a messenger. Write, as you are commanded by the Highest of All the High. But it makes no sense to me my numb brain complains. Write little fool, cries the voice, you are called as a moth to the flame, by the fire that burns before all other fires, out of the depths I call you from that thread of supertime spun out before the universe was born or the universe system that created it and before the hyper super hyperspace-time from which it was made, and megasuperhyperspacetime threads that gave it birth, out of the grand high court of the higher realm I call you to the judgment seat of all, even Yahweh himself, I call you little one, now hear my command to you and write, write, write. Or I will shake the spider web within the Halls of Valagon where the little drops of silk that gave your whole sector of being birth hang shimmering and you and all your gods including Allah and Yahweh himself and holy Krishna, and Jesus on his golden throne, will go tumbling into the nothingness from which Agro the spider of destiny has spun them. Write you are commanded by the voice of the messenger of the One high One. erse system that created it and before the hypeÑ{F ¢gùûÞàKÃÅ   " $ ² ´ ö ø D F F © « ØÚ`b°²èê!#ƒ…ÑÑ.F Ñ/0Times New Roman