In the world of Messy we watch a shadowgraph performance of the drama of the daily news. The shadow of my hand floats over the shadow paper as the shadow charcoal settles onto its surface. It is all symbolic, and as a symbol I leave it. Then comes the cynic mind who transmutes the symbols. We picture the mind like an editor in his sanctum receiving through the media scrappy messages from all over the outside world, and making a story of them with, I fear, a good deal of editorial invention. The sparsely spread nuclei of carbon become a tangible solid; their restless agitation becomes a smudge; but the octave of aethereal vibrations can never become a gorgeous rainbow. The alchemy does not stop here; In the transmuted world new consequences arise which are scarcely to be traced in the world of symbols; so that it becomes a world of rape and pillage - and, alas, suffering and evil.
Consciousness is our touchstone of actuality. If we apply it we should realise that this sorry world of ours is actual and Utopia is a dream. And then we sing Kumbayah