There is more than conscious awareness, much more.
There is that silent song, the virtuous emperor,
My close and powerful friend, who, as I am awake,
That is more than words—
Those thin arguments which we use in saying unreal things.
We are not words.
We walk a past imagining, are holy, and are beasts,
Action in a solid state,
Spirits with fingers and feet.
We are things that could never be, impossibilities born fact,
Anciently phantasmagorial in our myriad manners of being:
Savage, ruthless, wild,
Embryonic yet eternal things,
Born for glory,
by Robert Hampton Burt