I think about his quest for answers, his fluctuations from atheism to Christianity to humanism to nihilism to animism. I think about how badly he wants the world to make sense. How it tears him up, so he tears through ideologies, testing them with all his might. As the mushroom magic courses through my brain, I suddenly understand why he loves experiences like these. For a few hours, the world makes sense. Everything has meaning. Everything is alive, in perfect friendship with everything else. I want, in this moment, for Weston to have peace in his heart. I want him to feel what I feel all the
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