All my life I have had an awareness of other times and places. I have been aware of other persons in me.-Oh and trust me so have you my reader that is to be. Read back into your childhood and this sense of awareness I speak of will be remembered as an experience of your childhood. You were then not fixed not crystallized. You were plastic a soul in flux a consciousness and an identity in the process of forming-ay of forming and forgetting. You have forgotten much my reader and yet as you read these lines you remember dimly the hazy vistas of other times and places into which your child eyes peered. They seem dreams to you to-day. Yet if they were dreams dreamed then whence the substance of them? Our dreams are grotesquely compounded of the things we know. The stuff of our sheerest dreams is the stuff of our experience. As a child a wee child you dreamed you fell great heights; you dreamed you flew through the air as things of the air fly; you were vexed by crawling spiders and many-legged creatures of the slime; you heard other voices saw other faces nightmarishly familiar and gazed upon sunrises and sunsets other than you know now looking back you ever looked upon.
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