On its other side was a bigger greener bat, with a ancient, wrinkled face. Is there anyone more, uh, verbal here whom I could talk to?”Īt the sound of that, the big green bat started rotating in place. First one of wine, then one of brine, then one more yet of turpentine, and we three stared at the show. The sea turned hot and geysers shot up from the floor below. But in one of them he mentions a paper by Marko Rodriguez called A Methodology For Studying Various Interpretations of the N,N-dimethyltryptamine-Induced Alternate Reality, which suggested among other things that you could prove DMT entities were real by taking the drug and then asking the entities you meet to factor large numbers which you were sure you couldn’t factor yourself. You know, the usual Terence McKenna stuff. I was reading Scott McGreal’s blog, which has some good articles about so-called DMT entities, and mentions how they seem so real that users of the drug insist they’ve made contact with actual superhuman beings and not just psychedelic hallucinations. A thousand stars of sertraline whirled round quetiapine moons, and the sand sizzled sharp like cooking oil that hissed and sang and threatened to boil the octahedral dunes. Above my head, a watery sun shone in an oily sky. The sea was made of strontium the beach was made of rye. “I’m absolutely in favor of both those things. “Transcendent joy,” said the big green bat. “Universal love,” said the cactus person.

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