Translations of The WE - Translations of The Discussions with The WE -
Voices in the head,
spoken to the brain by felt beings,
are often neither welcome nor noble.
Spirits will tempt to acts of folly
and evil when allowed.
Those beyond the power worlds do not force themselves.
Nor do they tell people what to do.
They withdraw when they are not wanted.
High beings assist with their knowing, their love.
They give imprescriptible counsel.
Be aware of who is talking.
Exchange opinions.
You need never do more.
If you ask
 the universe
 a question,
 the theory is,
 it will give you
 an answer.
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Chapter One
Leaving the body
unday, March 17th, St. Patrick’s Day is the day it                starts.
Right there—on the Seattle beach with the scent of spring in the air.
The afternoon very pleasant, Kewe slips into his car, drives out to the waterfront, strolls by the breakwater, listens to a small radio attached to his waist pouch. A sultry guitar piece he hears through his earphones.
From his vantage point he can see far out towards the west. On the Olympic Mountains layers of snow. The lower forests thick with hemlock and Douglas fir.
To the north, on a relatively thin strip of land, dominate the skyscrapers. Squeezed between a large freshwater lake to the east, and a larger saltwater inlet on the west, ‘Tzee-tzee-lai-itc,’ had been the name for the hilly area before, and at the time of Chief Seatchhh’l.
As new white people began to arrive, and continued to arrive, Chief Seattle, knowing he could not stop this influx, negotiated. The new settlers drew up treaties, and then ignored the treaties. They did rename the township they built after the Chief.
With the gathering of many peoples, a center of concrete and glass has risen. Long gone are the forests that once covered the thin strip of land. The city now teems of varied folk. And the ghosts who live here live side by side with the corporal bodies in Tzee-tzee-lai-itc – ‘The little place where one crosses over.’
Walking along the beach, Kewe is enjoying the music, until the radio buzzes. He thinks at first its static from the station, but then the radio clears and he can hear a man talking to someone. The man is saying he’s been outside the body. “I kept thinking I should be inside my body,” the man says.
“I was bouncing against the ceiling. I thought it was the beginning of the dying process. I was terrified, feeling for sure this was going to be the end for me.”
Kewe tries to return to music only the waist pouch hampers his access. He can’t quite reach the station changing button with his finger. “I think it’s a terrible thing to fear death.” The man has a gravelly voice. “When I was on the ceiling, the fear became all too real.”
Now able to punch the button to return to some music, Kewe stops. He’s always held a great interest in out-of-body traveling. From when he’d first read such was possible, that people could do it, he’d wanted to try.
Listening to the man talking, Kewe thinks about the humming and buzzing he hears in his head. A high-pitched whine will block his ears; it’s as if he’s going high up, or like being on an airplane descending.
The sound will be in his head for a minute or less, and there never seems to be a reason for it. If he’s lying in bed when it begins, he will concentrate, try to make it last longer. If the humming or the buzzing increases, he moves through the sound. It seems to take him ever so slightly away from his body.
“There has to be a sense of bewilderment and shock that some people have after the physical body dies,” the man on the radio says. “Often people do not know they have died. They have this other body. It looks like the human body and it confuses them. People need to know this.”
“Do you think it is possible to travel to other planetary systems while you are in a second body,” the radio interviewer asks.
“Yes, I believe we can be a few feet or light year’s distant. There are no signs that point the way. You often have no idea where you are.”
“Sir, it sure is a pleasure to have you on the show,” the interviewer responds. Then as a pre-announcement to a break, “If you call....”
The interviewer’s voice blares into Kewe’sears. “Call, and you will get the information you need. Get a pen ready, now.”
Kewe searches his pockets to find a pen. He has no paper, but to be certain he remembers he writes the number onto his palm. Finding a scrap of paper on the beach, he scribbles the number on that.
The commercials over, the man returns talks about a retreat center and tapes for purchase that have sound pulses. Kewe has cassettes that induce self-hypnosis, but his gut is telling him this might work better. The high-pitched sound he hears sometimes, he has no idea why or where it comes from. He wonders if it has to do with activating a second body, as that this man is speaking about.
Another break and Kewe pulls the ear plugs away not to listen. He’s been doing mind travel for years. Separation from his physical body he’s never been able to do, not completely. He would love to find himself looking down at himself from the ceiling. This man could do it. He sensed that. In the strangest way, he knew that.
He stops, watches a large ferryboat plowing across the waves. A seal troop are bopping in the water near the ferry. At the stern rolling across the bowline white surf foams, some of the seals have moved into the surf, peeking their snouts above the white.
Replacing his ear pieces, the program now has talk of dimensions — states where time is different, or is no longer measured. He hears of a park, trees and birds, a place were some of us rest and become orientated after death, a way station where people gather.
“I have a faxed question,” the interviewer says. “In your travels, have you ever met any beings who are not human?”
“Yes, I have.” the man replies. “I’d say we are a species on a spectrum. You might say a range of qualities continue when we are no longer in a physical form. Much of life exists only in light, and much exists only in thought. There is existence we in our human state can not hope to understand, beyond thought.”
“Sir,” the interviewer’s voice quiets. “As we near the end of our show, I have to ask. Do you think your experiences have led you to a better understanding of a supreme creator, of a God-like super being?”
The man pauses for a moment as if to try to phrase the answer in a form that might be acceptable. “I have begun to understand that Earth’s life system is a created process.” Words are spoken carefully.
“I have never faced God, but energy fields flow from a higher state. These fields allow creation. They allow even the human mind to act as a creator.”
“Many people fear death.” Kewe in his mind can image the interviewer scanning sheets of fax papers being given him. “Would you tell people out there not to be afraid? Would you say that death is not the end?”
“What I will say,” the man replies, “is that I have begun to understand there is a quality to who we are that we do not realize. We are a growing new personality. This our new person is being human, but it is only one state. After death, if we choose we can begin to explore all the many states that are beyond, beyond being human. When we no longer have a physical body, when we have this other body, we can be amazingly versatile. Knowing there is life after the physical body, that is invaluable.”
He adds, “I have seen openings where it is possible to wait to go into an inner reality. It is like an aperture. To slip into and through this advanced inner state we have to be in some way complete. I’d say therefore, that activity in the physical life has much to do with our life beyond.
“The remarkable thing is that once we know dying is not the end then everything becomes possible. Chances for progress exist in all the realms for us to take, many we do not take due to fear. When we open ourselves to the idea we are on a path that continues, this brings a whole new meaning to our life spent here.”
When Kewe gets home, he copies from the scribbled beach paper the number he has onto a notepad by the phone. He adds a note: “Out of Body — call soon.” But he doesn’t call. “Yeah, I will,” he mutters each time he looks at the note. “Yeah, I have to do that.”
Days later he wakes, stumbles towards the bathroom from a dream. He can see little fish swimming around his head. Once he notices the fish aren’t fish, that truth is he’s looking at floating letters that seem to be chirping, he tries to decipher the letters. He swears he reads:
Out of body call soon.

Varied birds are dotted about the words.

Translations of Discussions with The WE.
He calls the retreat center. The lady on the EastCoast phone is perky. Kewe on West Coast time is still mostly asleep, but she’s concise: “Sound pulses may enhance an ability to move outside the body.”
“People come to the retreat center for many reasons. The events that take place depend upon the person, nothing is guaranteed. Yes, classes are available. The earliest opening is in seven weeks. The retreat lasts a week.”
Kewe orders the audio for home use. He places a tentative booking for the class — the week before the Memorial Day holiday. The home audio when it arrives does bring a sense of calm and he tells his friend Rick about the booking. He sends a check to confirm the class reservation.
At night when he gets home from work, he listens. On the weekends, most of the day, way beyond time the instructions recommended.
“I’ve listened to all the tapes,” he tells his friend Rick the day before he leaves to attend the retreat. “I’m looking forward to going. Get me out of the routine.”
. . .
The steward has cleared away his food. His computer on the tray in front of him, he had intended to play a computer game, but drowsy from the meal he’s drifting into a dream. So real is the dream that Kewe thinks he is on a plane with his computer open:
A key on the computer needs pressing. He sees images of his face. Images on tiny icons. It surprises him, not because the icons show his face, but because they are not the icons that he expects to see. He stares at the tiny pictures.
One looks as if he’s an old man. There is a young man in a strange hat. A woman with a decorative spot at the center of her forehead.
He presses one of the pictures, a photo-image of him when he is very small. Computer script comes rolling down and a door opens. He must be only two.
Running around he is making his mother laugh. The movie clip ends.
New script down the screen and immediately he recognizes the ship taken with three of his friends. Eighteen years old, on a trip and a new life that sees him spend two years in South Africa.
The screen goes blank, and waves of electric energy surge through him. New icons start to appear. One in particular sends a chill up his spine. He presses the button and here on the screen is a stack of modern buildings.
Then the screen is flashing and he sees himself in some sort of box. Wood surrounds him.
He watches himself trying to push himself into the wood. He’s telling himself there’s a problem because he cannot pass beyond the wood. He can touch the wood but he cannot go through it.
Kewe moves fretfully in the airline seat. He lurches and wakes, listens to the drone of the engines. Looking at his watch, he’ll be arriving soon.
. . .
Flying into the city airport and renting a car for the week cost the same as an extra flight to the nearest town’s airport.
Kewe is glad he decided to rent the car. Glancing at the map on the seat the trip is a hundred and more miles, but now rushing by the trees and streams, by the small field estates, the view is worth the drive.
The hot spring day feels so alive. In no time he’s reached the university town, and once past the town he’s cruising through new, fresh, scenic countryside.
When he leaves the highway, turning off into a country farm road, grassy pastures surround him.
It’s not long before he sees a sign pointing to an uphill lane. Passing a secluded glen, the bends turning narrow enough the hedges on each side seem to touch.
One small building in a clearing has a sign pointing him onwards. More bends until upland country that is flat.
There’s the center, a cluster of white painted buildings, tucked back into a meadow. Into the parking lot, he switches off the ignition. The place is absolutely quiet.
Opening the door of the car, the fresh scent of new cut grass, and a hint of wildflowers is in the air. An eagle soars above him, glides away.
Quite a surprise seeing the raptor with its sturdy wings. If that’s an omen he hopes it’s a good omen.
Kewe grabs his bags, carries them to the door of the lodge. The door partially open, as he labors he notices two men talking in the lobby. One seeing him comes to the door.
“Hi, I’m Eric,” the man says, picking up one of the bags. “I’m the porter at the moment. Glad to see you made it.”
As they begin climbing the stairs, Eric tells Kewe he knows the room the center has placed on reserve for him because he was just looking over the sheets. They kept a room so he didn’t have to share as he had requested if possible. They had extra space. It wasn’t a problem.
The door to his room wide-open they walk inside. “I really appreciate you doing that,” Kewe plops his bag on to a chair. “I’ve lived so long on my own I don’t think I’d get any sleep if I had a roommate.”
“We have eighteen people signed up for the retreat,” Eric says, opening the closet. “That’s eighteen including Charl and me.”
“The other facilitator. Charl and I don’t live here. We fly in like you do.”
Eric looks around. “Everything seems to be in order.” He opens the closet door. “Let either of us know if there’s anything we can do.”
“I will,” Kewe smiles. He stands looking at two cubicles, at the enclosed beds just like ship’s berths.
Eric, opening another door on the far side of the room, is pointing down a long corridor. “The bathrooms are this way.” Kewe follows him, peers down the empty corridor.
Finished with showing him around, Eric is now standing by another set of stairs. “Please come and join us below when you are ready. This stairway is an entrance into the lounge. We have drinks and refreshments waiting.”
“Thank you.” With both doors of his room closed, Kewe looks around him. One half has enough space for a table, two chairs, a closet and a chest of drawers. The other half has the two, built-in sleeping cubicles.
The sleeping enclosures have wood paneled walls on three sides. The open area, where you get inside to the bed, each with a curtain folded back, attached with a cord, ready to be let down. They do look like ship berths, Kewe thinks, like those which he shared on the two week voyage from England to South Africa.
Peeking inside one of the cubicles, upon the pillow a headphone is placed, its wiring neatly tied. Attached to the inside paneling a board with an assortment of switches, a headset plug and a small inset speaker. The audio must be relayed to these individual units through an electronic central feed.
Moving closer to check out the switches, a faint breeze wafts through, gently cooling his skin. Fresh air is filling the cubicle. As he steps back and begins unpacking, excitement creeps over him. Something, something he’s felt in the past, but when, just passed through him.
Before going downstairs he needs to clean up, take a shower. Towel in hand he opens the door to the corridor, voices from below.
Peeking over the top of the banister at the stairs that lead into a downstairs lounge, the realization hits him that he’s going to have to talk and meet with people. Kewe never a social animal is beginning to connect that the retreat is not just for him, it means having to be with numerous strangers for a week. Did he really set this up for himself?
He picks a bathroom. The shower finished he returns to his room hangs his clothes. After filling drawers, unpacking everything, there’s nothing remaining to keep him from meeting the group he will be with for a week.
Standing uneasily waiting at the head of the stairs, the sound of raucous laughter drifts up.
Taking a deep breath, he slowly treads down into the room.
Eric spots him first. Eric is sitting at a large round table with a bunch of people. “Welcome to the party,” Eric leans back on his chair. “On the counter over there, goodies.” He points to a table filled with rows of decanters and dishes.
Kewe nods.
The table is on the side of the lounge that, thanks to glass doors and full-sized windows, has a panoramic view: fields and woods and beyond mountains. A veranda runs the length of the building.
“We’ve been praising the water,” Eric calls over to him. “We have our own supply from the well. The taste is great but we’re not sure if we’ve decided what it gives you.” He lets out a long belly laugh.
Kewe smiles, not knowing what to say.
Fortunately, the veranda door opens and a woman enters. She takes one look at Eric and at Kewe’s bemused face, and almost as if she’d been listening, says, “Don’t listen to him. He will tell you anything. ”
Eric straightens in his chair. “Oh, hello,” he stares at the woman with some surprise. “I was not expecting you see you here today.”
The woman winks at the people at the table. “I had a nudge,” she says. “I was across at the house and next thing I know I’m coming over to meet you guys.” She walks over to a sofa near the table, sits.
Kewe at the refreshment stand looks over all that is offered, pours himself a glass of iced tea.
Eric holds up his glass. “Folks, I want you to meet our new director, the daughter of the founder of the retreat center. The loss of her father was overwhelming and she has stepped in to give invaluable help. I give a toast to the man who is no longer with us, and to our new director.”
. . .
The crowd around the table have dispersed to prepare for dinner. Kewe standing out on the balcony is watching the changing sunset thinking about the former director. Being told the man he heard on the radio has died has come as a quite a shock.
Charl the other facilitator gave him a tour of the building not long after Eric’s toast. Kewe mentions listening to a radio program just a couple of months ago. That was why he was here. He expected to meet the man talking on the radio.
tells him the radio program had been a repeat broadcast of a telephone conversation two years previous. The radio station decided to replay the interview on St Patrick's day as an encore presentation. At the beginning it had been mentioned as a tribute program to the Institute's founder. After some commercials also.
Kewe said he'd removed his earplugs when the commercials were playing.
Some part of Kewe feels let down. It’s as if this should not have really happened, as if somehow he has become suddenly out of sync.
Charl had emphasized he should enjoy the week, get on with whatever purpose he came for. He understands her words but now out on the veranda, Kewe is wondering why the death of the man is hitting him so hard. They had never met. A good-sized portrait of the man is propped on a corner lounge chair and Kewe, staring at the eyes, at the way the eyes flashed, found himself reaching for memories he couldn’t quite grasp. As if he knew the man and yet didn’t.
Was it just a fancy, or where memory seemed to be from him doing stuff when he might have been asleep? Why does he think this? Was this some other reality he could access only a little?
“Beautiful evening.” Eric has walked up to him on the veranda. “I love the mountains how they reach across to you at sunset. Don’t you think?”
Staring at the odd, wispy cloud formations that rise over the distant uplands, Kewe has to search for an answer. “They do seem to be included in all this,” he says. Their beclouded mystery in this sun setting did seem to become a component of the place.
“Eric, I know you’re going to think me as somewhat stupid, but I came here because I thought I would meet the man I’d heard on the radio program. It’s especially confusing because I know his face. Don’t ask me where or when, but I’ve met him.”
Eric, pointing across to the land that stretched out before them: “He was like a dad to me, in many ways. I’ve always thought of myself as fortunate, meeting him the way I did.”
. . .
Not everyone listed for the retreat came in the afternoon, and so during a ‘getting to know you’ dinner there are more introductions. Eric with his quips, great one-liners coming one on top of the other, manages to turn the perhaps unduly formal atmosphere into laughter.
After dinner, Kewe exhausted with the busy day returns to his room. He expected to be asleep by now but all he’s been doing is toss and turn. His watch is telling him it is two in the morning and he is still awake.
He hears late straddlers climbing the stairs, hears doors open and close. He waits, counts the minutes. All falls silent again.
They must be the last from downstairs, he thinks. They must be people like me, still on West Coast time. People came from all over the country to be here. They came from Europe, from Mexico.
Talking to people at his table, they all seemed eager for the session in the morning to begin. Most volunteered they were here on a special, personal mission, as if they had come here on a search for themselves — and for everything else they might find out there in the universe. Kewe thrashes back and forth, unable to sleep.
He thinks again about the portrait that is still on the chair, memories not remembered. All over his body energy is flowing. He had not noticed at first, but now he does. He can feel the surge as he lies there.
If he had to make a picture in his mind, he would see little light streams swirling around him. He swears itfeels as if he is being charged. He lies in this strange cocoon for hours. Then music begins.
Softly, from the speaker at the side of his bed, a melody begins to play. He listens, lies there while the music gradually gets louder.
It is already morning. Wake up music. He has to get up.
Stumbling out the door, he heads towards one of the bathrooms. After dressing in his day clothes, at the coffee stand in the lounge he asks a couple if they slept well. They had a good night they answer.
Walking across to the photograph propped on the chair, Kewe reviews again the smiling face.
Someone approaches him, a conversation of last night’s introductions to meeting the new guests. The bell rings and he strolls with the rest along the veranda to the breakfast room.
After the meal, for the first session they are shown into a thickly carpeted sunken room off the lounge. People prop themselves on padded cushions, some against small foam chairs. Eric and Charl give guidelines on the best way to listen to the audio.
They say the idea is to mind wander, to do free-style imaging. Kewe figures he won’t do much imaging. He’s exhausted from being too excited, being awake all night. He thinks when the tapes begin he’ll surely fall into a sleep.
The retreat guests settle in their rooms. Kewe lies back in his cubicle, listens to the audio. The strange force is there again. Now it seems more like a charging wind. The wind seems to be concentrating just inside the cubicle space because when the sound through the headset ends, and he gets up, the charging wind does not follow.
Before returning to the sunken lounge, in one of the bathrooms he splashes water on his face, to try to release some of the pent-up energy.
There’s a discussion about inner experiences people have seen or felt or heard during the sound played. No one talks about a charging wind. Kewe thinks he’ll wait, say nothing.
They listen to another tape before lunch. A break to mid-afternoon, Kewe uses the time to walk across the fields. After dinner, the group meet at an auditorium next to the retreatlodge. Here they listen to a guest speaker. Questions follow. When the group return to the main lodge, Eric and Charl bring out the machine that makes popcorn. Kewe lies on a couch at the far end of the lounge, on a corner section of sofas. He is so tired, only he cannot sleep. He listens to the others talking as if in a dream. Somebody says, “We receive and send via the brain. It’s about being connected on the same message channel, like a radio channel.”
“Sending messages, or receiving messages,” the voice is saying, “is a learning experience. We are seeking answers and our thoughts are merging with other being’s thoughts. We hear the thoughts, and most times we think we’ve suddenly become inspired, that the thoughts are ours. The brain interprets the thoughts as ours. All it means is that for a moment we’re on the same channel as some other being who has the answer.”
Kewe, back in his room, it’s been hours since he came to his sleeping enclosure. He keeps thinking about falling asleep but never does.
The energy is here. Pulses keep sweeping over him. The energy seems much stronger, much more powerful. He’s in some strange windstorm where the wind spreads so much around him that he cannot tell any longer that he’s in the bed. He’s flying and the wind force increasing in velocity is charging him. More than that, changing him, transforming him in some way.
Turning and twisting, he has to get up. There is too much energy, too much buzzing.
Kewe heads down to the lounge, grateful a lamp remains lighted on one of the tables.
The room without any people looks so still. He glances at the portrait on the chair. The man smiles. Why the picture is on a chair and not on a wall, he hasn’t a clue, but the more he stares at the portrait the more he knows the man is staring at him.
He opens the veranda door, walks into the fields. The further he walks the darker it gets. When he can’t see where he’s placing his feet, he decides not to continue. He returns to the path that takes him around the lodge. In the parking lot his car is waiting.
Not having the keys, not really wanting to drive, he walks past the car, treks down the narrow, curving lane where he drove two days previous upwards. In the middle of the night, with the hedgerows looming, shadows of all kinds seem to emerge. Kewe keeps moving. Full of energy, at the marker pointing back to the lodge he continues onto the farm road.
Dawn light is beginning to break and a cock crows from a nearby farm. In the first light of morning, he hikes all the way to the highway before he turns back.
On the return journey there’s increasingly a sense of him doing this before. It feels like some strange no-time where he has been here but not he, himself — a sort of déjà vu, but where he’s meeting himself for the first time. As if these thoughts floating across his mind are not of him, walking as he’s doing along the road, but another him, an unknown version of him who’s visiting, and he had been in a dream.
Back at the lodge people are milling around the coffee table. Kewe pouring himself a cup asks if anyone else has experienced any type of energy before sleeping last night. He gets only puzzled shakes of the head in reply.
Out to the veranda he takes the coffee mug, allows the morning sun to cover him.
George, an elderly man whom he’s spoken with a few times, walks up to him. “Your name is the same as ‘Q’ in Star Trek,” George says cheerfully, too cheerfully for early morning. “I cannot remember anyone else addressed that way before.”
“It’s unusual,” Kewe replies briefly. “There are some people called Q being used in other movies. It’s used as a nickname I think. There’s an old village now attached to London called Kew. Mine has a E on the end.”
Then he remembers the man mentioning to him previously about his working with a group of children as a child psychiatrist. Kewe asks about the job, about the challenges faced with children.
The man tells him he’s been playing sound pulses recorded on tape to the more disturbed children. There was a change of behavior. It did seem to benefit them. The sounds seemed to pacify in a good way as well as energize the children.
Kewe grills him with questions about that, and this keeps them both busy until the bell rings, until they go together to breakfast.
During the midday break a few people take off for a swim. There’s a lake perhaps a mile or more trekking through the fields and Kewe would go except he’s thinking a drive might be better. He hasn’t used the car since he came and this would be a great opportunity.
Minutes into the drive, passing one hamlet then another, he knows he did the right thing. Somehow just getting into the car seems to be releasing a little of the pent-up energy.
At a bridge, the start of what looks to be a moderately sized city, he turns into some side streets. Not knowing where he’s going, a sign for a museum is ahead. He parks, gets out, sees a building, an old southern courthouse.
A woman in her forties is standing waiting by the entrance, a surprise to find the place open. The lady greets him, hands a brochure: ‘Welcome to our courthouse museum.’
Kewe looking bewildered, the lady, the only person who seems to be in the building, offers to show him around. Kewe thanks her and she guides him through the various displays.
She talks about the Quakers who settled in this area, about the Civil War. Showing him displays of the battle flags, the uniforms, the medical supplies dispensed in the war, there is always an interesting story.
By a photograph of a group of soldiers, he‘s told, “Local boys who fought in the war. The people around here still refer to the war as the ‘War of Northern Aggression.”’
She smiles broadly with the remark.
Kewe has not really been noticing, but each time he has passed one of the larger artifacts, those not protected by glass, instinctively he has placed his finger or his palm lightly upon the ceramic pot or the metal piece. A ton of energy seems to have been drawn away from him, into the objects he’s been touching.
He begins to feel clear-headed, as though all the pent-up energy he’s been absorbing the past few days — the energy that has been making him crazy — has gone, has been drained. The strange force somehow has been released into these artifacts.
When they return to the main room, a room with a domed ceiling, the woman points at the upper floor and its metal balcony. “That’s where people would stand when they watched their loved ones being sentenced.”
Kewe, scanning the gallery, tries to imagine life dramas that must have taken place here.
It’s the end of the tour and the lady and him walk towards the door
Kewe comments that he’s really enjoyed the visit. “I’m at a seminar and I’m sort of playing hooky,” he says, “but this adventure has been a charm. Your stories have made the people come alive. Thank you so much.”
“I’m an afternoon volunteer,” thelady smiles graciously. “I love talking to people about the war, about the sacrifice of the men. These items hold such dear memories. I don’t want any of the men to be forgotten. Talking about them always takes me back into their world.”
Back in his car, Kewe feels almost normal. He’s late for the afternoon session, but after some discussion with Eric about driving in an altered state, Eric arranges for him to listen to the tape he missed.
That night in his room the energy returns. The ethereal wind is energizing him again. He could say it is as if being inside a cocoon. He has no idea how to describe the happening.
He tries the other cubicle, to see if it is the one bed, but the wind follows.
He sits upright, crosses his legs and sits yoga style with his back propped against the pillow. The strange current of air doesn’t abate.
Now in the dancing wind he begins to see strange images. Colors flood his vision. Vivid crimsons, deep purples saturate all around him. At times this becomes sudden intense flashes.
Kewe tries to be calm, relaxed. He swears the wind is curling, curving around him. He swears he is hovering.
For information:
Fifth Edition published September 2015
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