My greatest hope is to exist wholly—until then as much as possible—in imagination. I believe one can only fully do this in death, which is why, far from fearing it, while I don’t pine for it, I do somewhat look forward to death. My imagination, which partakes of omnipotence, omniscience, the Imagination of the All, the oversoul’s imagination, is quite literally my Heart Sutra, coincident with that of Buddhism.

Love turns me into an eagle, makes me want to carry the world in my wings. Symbolically, I am America; symbolically, I am the world. They’re part of my imagination, but only part, not the entirety. My imagination is made up of all worlds, all worlds being coincident with heaven, or heavens, shot through with the shining of my imagination which is heavenly.

Why speak of hell except symbolically? Except as a place, an attitude, a nightmare, a nerve ending, an absence of love which I’ve departed—am alway departing? It doesn’t exist if I don’t want it to. And my heaven does if I do, this is what I believe. I reserve the right to be wrong; that makes no ultimate difference. I become what I think.

Heaven is no more or less than love. It turns imagination into bliss, ecstasy. Sometimes I dance ecstatically; I dance my love, and my love, my dance is worship. Worship that is gratitude, joy, ecstasy—bliss of the moment’s beauty and perfection. It’s aesthetic as well as sensual delight coincident with yearning, reaching for a world beyond form, a state beyond flesh, existence beyond time. Existence coincident with the nonexistence of my ego, my individuality, yet gloriously affirming their blissful fulfillment, the best of them. Mysteriously, an affirmation that’s equally a transcendence and immanence of who I am, proven by nothing so much as by my imagination.

The eagle flies not just on Friday but every day. The eagle carries my imagination as easily as it carries the world and symbolizes my life as strongly as it does America and mankind. I am here to heal the world, to make it a better place only insofar as I love. Nothing else will heal either me or mankind. In the long run, in the cosmic scheme nothing else matters. When my imagination is coincident with love, heaven is here and now, on earth as well as in my future, my yearning and the fulfillment of my poetic images, my mythical devotions, my winged clowns, laughing horses, blood-red dreams, pale radiant flowers . . .