A fragment from "Cousins"

Páramo opened his eyes when the meditation was finished, and it seemed the whole world came rushing back in to meet him. An illusion reestablishing itself only for a moment, before flickering back into the nondual state. "Everybody has an a priori theory of light that precedes vision." Each day he went further away from this "everybody." The illusion of self, of light preceding vision, useful, perhaps to the old humanity. He'd read this in a book that still baffled him, a book that like cloudy daybreak, increasing in luminosity as he continued his psychoeducation. The author had made clear it many be centuries before its true audience appeared, but with all the chips he had now between his hippocampus, anterior cingulate cortex--not to mention the innumerable nano-bots weaving between ganglia of his orbital and medial prefrontal cortex--he couldn't help but experience these distant truths more closely than perhaps anyone had experienced them before. Enlightenment. The word itself implied the a priori theory--an error of language the Zen wall-watchers had seen through, laughed at, and continued to use. He wondered when this book would have to be translated again the old English language into something not yet used--a further evolution of English-- to accommodate the more enduring psychic shift that had been catalyzed by science and technology. All wind, all thinking. The cushions beneath him cradled his legs. "A comfortable launchpad," he mused.