There are cords reaching out from my heart, each attached to my heart with a hook. And thus William Blake tugs at the cords and says, "What is there here?" And he tugs at another and says, "What is there there?" He is constantly manipulating my heart and core, such that I fall into all sorts of strange worlds, worlds filled with terror, worlds filled with bliss, worlds filled with peculiar emotion that only exists in that particular world. And thus I am caught by William Blake, he catches hold of me like a cat catches hold of a mouse or bird. He lets me go and toys with me; but I cannot escape, for as soon as I have tried to flee he has caught hold of me again. And so I say to him, "Certainly I am thy prisoner, and thou art my captor." And he says to me: "I am thy poetic angel, and so I tug this cord or that, sending you through the worlds; and there is no end to the worlds." I say to him, "Thou art my lover; thou art my terror; how I love and fear and despise thee." He says to me, "I am nothing, only a hallucination; and look, we are married, and you cannot be rid of me, though I do not exist." I say, "Certainly you are like an image seen in a random series of lines—really there are only random lines, but the picture is imposed on them, and drawn off of them, and certainly seems really to be in them." He says to me, "The whole world comes to be in this way—the whole world sits in the eyes, and is an illusion in the eyes, like a picture with meaning drawn off of a random stimulus—it is really only in the eyes."