Within the vast spaces between the mountain caves that reach into the sky, darkness gathers in dense masses, filling the realms where clouds dwell. The wind, wild and untamed like playful spirits, shakes the very gates of the world as if they were but delicate stalks of trees. In such a night-haunted battlefield, long stalked by dreadful beings who roam in darkness, the howls of vetālas mingle with the cries of owls, rising into the air. As the night deepens, the armies of sky-gazers quietly depart just as they arrived, and the kings, each in their own place—whether in chariots or resting spots—find ease and repose. Upon the battlefield, now visible like a great and tranquil lake, people stand as if it were broad daylight, for the dark ones have withdrawn and night seems to have ended its passage among men. In the house of night, whose walls are made visible by the very handfuls of darkness, a host of spirits dances joyfully, their minds swelling with the delight of sudden gain. In the tranquil quarters of the sky, where all movement is silent and serene, the noble lord of play appears somewhat weary, his spirit suggesting the gentle gesture of sleep. As dawn approaches, the affairs of the state are swiftly discussed by wise ministers, while the ruler reclines upon a bed cool and soothing as moonlight, long and curved like the crescent moon. Within a chamber that glows like the rising moon, sheltered and cool, he surrenders to sleep for a brief while, his lotus-like eyes softly closing. Then, O lovely one, leaving that house behind, they move into the sky—just as a breeze slips through the opening of a lotus bud. But, O foremost of the learned, how can this gross physical body, limited as it is, pass through an opening as fine as a thread? O sinless one, those whose minds are deluded into believing, “This is a physical body,” cannot pass through such tiny spaces. Yet, for one whose understanding is not confined by thoughts of limitation—“I am obstructed by this,” or “I am not here”—experience itself becomes the experiencer. Whoever perceives the first half of experience, thinking, “I will go,” is the very one who performs the act. But how does consciousness then turn towards the next stage? Just as water does not rise upward and fire does not descend, so too does consciousness move according to its own nature. How could one seated in shade feel the heat? The experience of one is never felt by another. However the mind proceeds, in just that way it remains; only through supreme effort can it be brought to another state. The mistaken notion of a snake in a rope, arising from false perception, is dispelled only by force—otherwise, it persists as it is. As is awareness, so is the mind; as is the mind, so is action. Even a child knows this truth—who does not experience it? But that which is merely the form of a person, seen in dream, imagination, or image—having only the shape of space—how and by whom could it be restrained? For everyone, everywhere, the body is nothing but mind; it is experienced as sensation, though sometimes it seems to arise from the heart. For such a one, sunrise and sunset occur just as he conceives them; at the beginning of creation, they arise from nature, and later, from the contemplation of duality and unity. Know that the space of the mind, the space of consciousness, and the physical space are truly one, for their existence is inseparable. This mind-body is all-pervading in its arising, coming forth with the desire for experience and manifesting as experience itself. It dwells within a speck of dust, travels into the hollows of the sky, merges into seeds, and becomes sap in the sprout. It shines as the wave in water, dances within the heart of a stone, pours down as rain, and, becoming stone, remains firm. It moves as it wills through the sky and even within the bellies of mountains; it takes on the form of infinite space, and then that of the smallest atom. It becomes the support of great mountains, the steady seat with the sky as its head, bearing both the inner and outer aspects of the body, and the sprouts of countless forms. It becomes space itself, holding millions of lotus-born abodes, unique as the ocean of its own being, like the formation of countless whirlpools. This mind-body, before awareness arises, is as vast as space at the dawn of creation. Once it becomes great, it knows itself and, having attained its own nature, it abides in that state. Its watery nature is, in truth, unreal, yet appears to arise through understanding—just as a man in a dream imagines himself to be the son of a barren woman. Is this mind, or is it not? How does it become so, and how do forms arise from it—or not—in an instant? Every mind has the power to create such appearances; for each mind, separate illusions of the world arise. From the gathering of worlds, whether they last but a moment or an epoch, they arise and dissolve—sometimes in the blink of an eye, sometimes over ages. Immediately after death, or from great delusion, this state occurs, emerging swiftly or slowly. The stupor of death and its kind is experienced by each person individually. Know, O wise one, that this is the path to the great dissolution. After that, each one separately unfolds creation, just as dreams, imaginations, and confusions arise by their own nature. At the end of the night of the great dissolution, the cosmic self—whose form is mind—manifests this world; likewise, after death, each one does so individually. Creation after death is experienced as memory; so too does the cosmic self experience it—thus, the universe does not arise without cause. O Rāma, at the time of the great dissolution, all beings, including Viṣṇu and Śiva, attain disembodied liberation; how then could memory exist at that time? Indeed, one whose self is awakened, as ours is, is necessarily liberated. How then could beings like Brahmā and others, who are disembodied, not be liberated?