Already I am down, down, down." "Philosopher," said Media, "what with Azzageddi, and the mysterious indweller you darkly hint of, I marvel not that you are puzzled to decide upon your identity.

But when do you seem most yourself ?" "When I sleep, and dream not, my lord." "Indeed ?" "Why then, a fool's cap might be put on you, and you would not know it." "The very turban he ought to wear," muttered Mohi.
"Yet, my lord, I live while consciousness is not mine, while to all appearances I am a clod.

And may not this same state of being, though but alternate with me, be continually that of many dumb, passive objects we so carelessly regard?
Trust me, there are more things alive than those that crawl, or fly, or swim.

Think you, my lord, there is no sensation in being a tree?
feeling the sap in one's boughs, the breeze in one's foliage?
think you it is nothing to be a world?
one of a herd, bison-like, wending its way across boundless meadows of ether?
In the sight of a fowl, that sees not our souls, what are our own tokens of animation?
That we move, make a noise, have organs, pulses, and are compounded of fluids and solids.

And all these are in this Mardi as a unit.