“If you can imagine an impossibly articulate liquid flower whose form and extensions elaborate as expressions of both sensation and understanding (at once), riddled with inward iridescent tapestries of flowing light and hue, extending into ecstatic flamboyance and retracting into an unremarkable husk, by turns, in rhythms both musical and informative — you will begin to have some grasp upon the intrinsic character of your own soul. It is analogous to a transphysical timespace anemone. Your body is one of its minor extensions. Your mind is primarily an (ordinarily) modest temporalized prosthesis of it. Unless it decides to occupy that mind… directly, in which case, well, all bets are off.”

— overheard at transluminal velocities