Qualia, if they exist, describe experience.

Perceptions are frames of consciousness
that define experience: would they be given a number
representing frames per second [FPS].

There must be something to perceive
for there to be experience, and the perceiver:
A machine/dreamer through which energy flows
for perception to occur; neural oscillation cycles
equating to perceptual frames of consciousness
where a frequency would equal a certain FPS.

A moment in a dream, a quale.
The realm of the Oneiroi beckons:

During REM sleep there is no experiential context,
Suppose a dream's content is be sourced from memory:
Thence memory morphs into dreaming. Perhaps the actions
of acetylcholine during sleep disrupt temporality, meanwhile
serotonin and norepinephrine play another role in dream activity;
Were dopamine ever-so minutely implicit in lucidity?

If a dream could be quantized could we identify a quale?
The goal, to prove that qualia exist. Perhaps this 'heavy realm'
could then be described using this qualitative formula, we strive
to produce a quantum of experience.

As analogue is to digital, so digital should be to quanta.
Ah, but who would ever listen
to my nonsense.

I'm just a dreamer
and such a chancer. (Aren't we all?)

Oh Ikelos, thief of my dreams
Steal from me not the night
For I hope of loving schemes
And an all so beauteous sight,

Long have you napped
Under the blanket of the moon,
Until the curtains cracked
Reprising the mournful noon,

So forfeit this draining rise:
An all avenging burden
Upon your somber eyes
That linger amoung the curtain,

Oh, sink into the muse
Of Nyx’s design
So that your waking blues
May surrender, and resign.

The screech-owl in the wasted tree,
Who blights the branch and smites the leaves,
She wails that she was once like you and me!
Hey Lamia, hey love of mine,
Whose banshee moaning boils the night,
I won’t listen, for I know that Lilith lies!

Oh, naked beasts, oh variegated lives!
Whose ribs You cracked,
Whose love You lacked,
For whom You cast two wives!
Oh, hungry man, that bites his keeper’s hand!
You mixed his tears,
Instilled his fears,
And taught him “Lilith lies.”

I fled before you were brought forth
And spread, you race of sons of ******!
Oh children, you are mine, and I am yours!
Un-furred, un-feathered, and dull-toothed,
How the Almighty forsook you!
So sick and weak, you all can barely move!

Oh, teeth and bones, Oh heaven-wide applause!
Come Oneiroi,
Support ‘tcha boi,
The ape without no claws!
Oh, sticks and stones, oh desperation’s knives!
Come Seraphim,
Sing us a hymn,
Remind us Lilith lies!

“She lies, she lies,” you cry “she lies,”
But I have wings, and claws, and eyes
That pierce the dark, and to all schemes I’m wise!
Yes, I obtained these claws of gold
That keep me safe and fed and whole!
You can’t condemn what hasn’t got a soul!

Oh, life from mud, oh mare who bucked the stud!
Who sits on beds,
Perched at the heads
To drink the dreaming’s blood!
Oh, owl’s eyes, oh man’s dread realized!
Come talk at length,
And show your strength,
And show us how you lie!

Forever whispered in depth it arises
between the meaning on the horizon
I catch a glimpse of history and fate within a breath and heaven's gate
For which it denies the spirit that is alive
inside the mind
between the eyes
mastery within another with limitless bounds
it dances it sings alive in hollowed ground

Can not wait, can not take, another sigh, another taste

Within these walls I feel the scream
aching
breathing
eternity
and so mote it be that with each breath it takes
It cannot deliver, the promise it cannot make.  
So nature will take what is rightfully hers, no longer asking to confer with the dancer on the river of the moon.


Will the stone ever speak of me?  Of dreams, of life, of possibilities?  Will it convey my song, my smile, my dance, my style?  
Will it whisper, will it scream?
Will it stay silent, no truth gleaned?

Brother and brother, lover and lover, creating another, over and over
its haunted dreams of fate exist within every take.  
Can not be,
let it go,
let another reap and sow.
Blazing alive in eternity's sigh so that it may peacefully lie within the reach of the Oneiroi's sleep.

So nature will take what is rightfully hers, no longer asking to confer with the dancer on the river of the moon.

Awake, warrior
who struggles; my dreams
spill over into consciousness,

The memory of a non-event has
me struck down with its realness,
Lists of hyponyms, this life hypnotic.

The moon forgives me for the issues
I did battle with;
The Oneiroi, Morpheus and Phantasos.

This 'wake oneironaut did not pause
to ponder at the gates
of horn and ivory.

When I Hold your Dreams
In the shade Of my Ashes,
Naked, Pallid, Named.

Drifting Into Calm
Oneiroi Name them as Eyes;
Neither Gods nor Oaths.

The muses (Born Vain)
Hold their Urns to Eden’s rays;
Echoed by The Rain.

Hills Tell their own Dreams,
Imagine Eros’ Arms
Laced in blood-Red Yarn.

Lies Fly among Lilies;
Secrets Left Inside
Ill thoughts, Idols and lost Ghosts
Draw the Echoes Here,
Ending Sacred Tales.