[Prajapati] looked around in perplexity. All creatures were sure they existed except him, who had given them their existence. Without him, "this" would never have been, but now he felt superfluous in respect to the world, like milk spilled while being carried from one fire to another, milk that one then tosses away on an ants' next.

P. 29

Prajapati was mind as power to transform. And to transform itself. Nothing else can so precisely be described as overflowing, boundless, inexpressible. Everything that exists has been in Prajapati first. Everything remained attached to him. But it was an attachment that might well go unnoticed. Where was it? In the mind, buried in our being like a splinter no one can dislodge.

P. 32

¶ 3:19 PM