A dreaming human being is like a plane, a cross in shape
his curls of smoke and aluminium blowing against the wind, when he curves into the tangled jungle, in which survive the miniatures only -
so the human flying in a dream folds his wings aside and begins to shrink,
the power of will not being there to swell him out, and the space scrap of unfulfilled hopes not filling him out of form;
his needs filter out in bright forms and so arises an identical replica of the survivor:
without effort, he'll get through the ever-expanding examination, to the deeper circles, at ease of blowing up soap bubbles, one within the other.