“Was it not an Illusion?”
The Father touched an illusory image. He touched a mystery. Nothing was there. The Father, Who-Has-an-Illusion, seized it and, dreaming, began to think.
Had he no staff? Then with a dream-thread he held the illusion. Breathing, he held it, the void, the illusion, and felt for it’s earth. There was nothing to feel: “I shall gather the void,” He felt, but there was nothing.
Now the Father thought the word. “Earth.” He felt of the void, the illusion and took it into his hands. The Father then gathered the void with dream-thread and pressed it together with gum. With the dream-gum iseike he held it fast.
He seized the illusion, the illusory earth, and he trampled and trampled it, seizing it, flattening it. Then as he seized it and held it, he stood himself on it, on this that he’d dreamed, on this that he’d flattened.
As he held the illusion, he salivated, salivated and salivated, and the water flowed from his mouth. Upon this, the illusion, this, as he held it, he settled the sky roof. This, the illusion, he seized, entirely, and peeled off the flue sky, the white sky.
Now in the underworld, thinking and thinking, the maker of myths permitted this story to come into being. This is the story we brought with us when we emerged.