Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.

Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt --O, marvelous error -- That there was a beehive here inside my heartAnd the golden bees were making white combsAnd sweet honey from all my failures.

My soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open far-off things, and listens at the shores of the great silence.

Beyond living and dreaming there is something more important: waking up.