We're a bunch of dollies, operated from without. But there are no
dualities here. No dual dollies. The dolly is the human, the human is the
spaceman, selves in space — the divisions of selves are divisive devices
we used to divide and conquer. Just be careful you don't divide by 0!
What would that do to our individuation?

Yeah, in a sense there's an ocean, and there's Dryland, the Beach, and
certainly our reality of desks and trees and days is of the Beach and not
of Ocean, the relatively undifferentiated meniscus of the ocean.

But...the Ocean knows and doesn't have to be told that it's full of
individual, discrete entities. Just as psychespace is the mother of all
separation, while remaining unified. Untied, but united. There's unity in
the Joanity. Youssy.

And metaphors can only take us so far. The ocean is a useful symbol for
consciousness, but don't get too literal. And, once you begin to plumb
its depths, indeed — as with most metaphors — the metaphor begins to
slither apart. Host metaphors. Host metaforce. The meta-force of
metaphors. The tide takes us only so far. The tide comes in. We build our
Robinson Crusoe huts. We live a life in the dry oceans of flesh and
thoughtspace, the lifelong waters of our own immortal spirit-world.

Finally, one starry evening on the 4th of July, we catch the receding
tidal race and put out in a little boat, and when we get back to sea, we
dive back in. Our boat washes back into shore, and our friends and lovers
bury it.