"While I was sitting one night with a poet friend watching a great
opera performed in a tent under arc lights, the poet took my arm and
pointed silently. Far up, blundering out of the night, a huge Cecropia
moth swept past from light to light over the posturings of the actors.
'He doesn't know,' my friend whispered excitedly. 'He's passing through
an alien universe brightly lit but invisible to him. He's in another
play; he doesn't see us. He doesn't know. Maybe it's happening right now
to us.'"
- Loren Eisley
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