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In his almost perpetual state of wakefulness,
tears of anger burned the man's old eyes.
He understood that the task of molding the
incoherent and dizzying stuff that dreams are
made of is the most difficult work a man can
undertake, even if he fathom all the enigmas of
the higher and lower spheres— much more
difficult than weaving a rope of sand or minting
coins of the faceless wind. He understood that
initial failure was inevitable. He swore to put
behind him the vast hallucination that at first
had drawn him off the track, and he sought
another way to approach his task. Before he
began, he devoted a month to recovering the
strength his delirium had squandered. He
abandoned all premeditation of dreaming, and
almost instantly managed to sleep for a fair
portion of the day. The few times he did dream
during this period, he did not focus on his
dreams; he would wait to take up his task again
until the disk of the moon was whole. Then, that
evening, he purified himself in the waters of the
river, bowed down to the planetary gods,
uttered those syllables of a powerful name that