August 22, 2024

1、

It was an ordinary afternoon, and I was sitting on the couch at home when I suddenly noticed a lot of dust particles floating in the air of the living room.

These particles seemed to be moving rapidly with the air currents, their movements resembling a school of sardines in the ocean. As I looked around, I realized the entire living room was filled with these swiftly moving dust particles. I was genuinely shocked by the poor air quality in our living room. However, on second thought, perhaps these particles were so minuscule that they had always been present in the world around us—I had simply gained the ability to perceive them today. Surely, it was because of my extraordinary constitution, a sudden awakening, and a heightened sense of clarity, allowing me to see the fine dust in the air and deduce the patterns of indoor airflow based on their movements. (The very fact that I could entertain such thoughts meant I was likely already heavily intoxicated!)

Feeling secretly delighted, I dashed around the house to observe other rooms, finding that I could see the airflow there as well.

I even tried to interfere with the airflow using my hands. As expected, the currents avoided my hands, forming a protective layer around them. I also noticed that each of my fingertips emitted a faint mist outward. I continued to marvel at this newfound superpower and discovered a particularly complex airflow zone at the junction between the kitchen and the dining area. I dubbed this zone the "Bermuda Triangle": a spot where numerous air currents converged, forming two massive, vertically-oriented spirals. When I looked at the shoe cabinet across from the spirals, it appeared to tremble and distort slightly, much like how objects appear warped when viewed through the edges of a flame.

Suppressing my sense of smug excitement, I returned to the couch and opened Xiaohongshu to search for “seeing airflow in a room,” hoping to find like-minded individuals. However, I found no posts related to my experience. Most posts linking "indoor" and "airflow" were about ventilation systems or choosing homes with good airflow.

As I reread my search terms, it suddenly dawned on me that this wasn’t something a normal person would question. Reflecting on my earlier actions of observing air currents—squatting, probing with my hands, and interacting with empty air—I realized how much I resembled those people in viral videos hallucinating after consuming poisonous mushrooms. And I had just eaten some jianshouqing mushrooms for lunch!


2、

I first went to the community hospital, where the doctor gave me an IV drip. The doctor advised me that if the hallucinations worsened, I must go to a major hospital for treatment.

At that point, my symptoms were mild, and I wasn’t entirely certain I had jianshouqing poisoning. I even doubted whether what I experienced at home was truly a hallucination.

While sitting in the community hospital for the two to three hours of the IV session, I gradually became convinced that I was indeed poisoned. The "dust" I had seen at home transformed into translucent particles, larger than dust—about the size of grains of sand—which I dubbed "pixel grains." Like the "dust" at home, these pixel grains also moved rapidly, often forming spirals as they spun. Compared to the "dust," the pixel spirals were an unmistakable hallucination due to their larger size and even faint coloration. They reminded me of Van Gogh's famous painting The Starry Night—perhaps Van Gogh had experienced similar hallucinations?

As for my pixel spirals, they didn’t fill the entire space or remain constant. Their appearance seemed to require two conditions:

A large area of solid color or a regular patterned surface.
My gaze had to linger on that area for a few seconds.
These two conditions were easily met in the IV room, surrounded as it was by expansive white walls. Consequently, during the IV session, my hallucinations "upgraded" significantly. The pixel grains started showing distinct colors, the first being a vibrant green, followed by magenta. Both colors had an unmistakable electronic feel, reminiscent of early-2000s computer screen characters. The movements of these pixel spirals also resembled the animated effects of vintage computer screensavers, making it easy for me to distinguish them from the real world. I should note, however, that despite their vivid colors, they remained translucent.

Throughout my hallucination, everything I saw was semi-transparent and didn’t entirely obscure the real world. In addition to the hallucinations caused by the pixel grains, I noticed that real-world objects became more distorted over time. This type of hallucination required me to stare at an object for an extended period. For example, when I let my gaze drift to where the ceiling met the wall, I began to notice the ceiling “breathing,” rising and falling as if it were alive.

Up to this point, I thought my hallucinations were relatively mild, not severe enough to disrupt daily life and certainly not as extreme as the online stories about "seeing little people." I hoped my hallucinations would remain stable at this level and gradually fade away. What I didn’t know at the time (as the doctor later explained to me at the hospital) was that this type of hallucination typically worsens at night and lessens during the day.

When I returned home, night fell, and my hallucinations indeed intensified.

In my dimly lit bedroom, with only the bedside lamp on, I noticed that my green-and-black striped bedsheet began to shift slightly. As I stared at the sheet, it felt as if I were watching a low-frame-rate video—jerky and unreal. At that moment, a pixel spiral with the same pattern as the bedsheet emerged from it. About the size of a washbasin, the spiral floated up from the bedsheet, moved to a vertical position by the headboard, and began spinning rapidly. Due to centrifugal force, the edges of the spiral flung out small pixelated blocks like tiny bricks, some of which landed on me.

This hallucination was strangely serene but eerily unsettling. I felt an intense fear of my bedsheet. I fled the room and, in that instant, decided to head to the major hospital immediately.

3、

Around 8:30 PM, my mom and I arrived at the emergency department of the Red Cross Hospital (Yunnan Provincial Second People’s Hospital). Shortly after, my dad joined us. After asking about my symptoms and what kind of wild mushroom I had eaten, the doctor informed us that since I was already experiencing hallucinations, I couldn’t leave the hospital and would need to be admitted.

The Red Cross Hospital has an excellent reputation for treating wild mushroom poisoning. They have a well-established treatment protocol, and the first step is gastric lavage and taking laxatives. I was terrified of gastric lavage and very reluctant to do it. However, the doctor emphasized that clearing the gastrointestinal tract was the most fundamental and urgent step; skipping it would significantly reduce the effectiveness of subsequent treatments.

Reluctantly, I went through with the gastric lavage. It was indeed painful, though slightly better than I had imagined—still within my tolerable range. Unfortunately, I suffer from rhinitis, and the irritation from the tube insertion caused both nostrils to run profusely and become blocked. Meanwhile, I was busy vomiting, leaving me unable to breathe. I had to forcefully blow my nose to clear my airways. By the end of the procedure, my face was covered with red spots, resembling an allergic rash, and I looked quite disfigured.

Regarding the red spots, I visited the dermatology department upstairs the next day. The doctor explained that these were small subcutaneous hemorrhages, likely caused by excessive facial strain during the lavage. There was no need to worry, as they would gradually fade on their own. I won’t dwell on my temporary disfigurement further.

Back to my treatment plan: I spent most of my time in the hospital receiving IV infusions, including medications to replenish energy and electrolytes and protect my liver, as jianshouqing poisoning can damage the liver. Additionally, I had to take laxatives twice a day and drink plenty of water to accelerate toxin elimination. From my layperson’s perspective, jianshouqing poisoning isn’t like snake venom poisoning, where antivenom specific to the snake species is needed. Instead, the primary approach is to support the body’s natural metabolism in expelling the toxins. Therefore, the treatment seemed to focus on protecting the body while speeding up detoxification.

Soon, I was transferred to the emergency ward, where I spent the night on an IV drip.

That night, I found it difficult to sleep—partly because I wasn’t used to sleeping while hooked up to an IV, and partly because the hallucinations were too vivid and spectacular. Being in the safety of the hospital, I no longer feared the hallucinations, which now became freer, more exuberant, and vibrantly colorful. My pixel grains became even more powerful, like sand in the hands of a sand artist, scattering freely across the ceiling above my hospital bed. They could now display any color and blend seamlessly into gradients. The level of detail had improved to the point where the hallucination’s visuals appeared lifelike, with no pixelation. To give an analogy: looking at the ceiling, the visual effect resembled an image projected in a room with the lights still on—sharp and fluid, but with slightly muted colors. Most of the ceiling hallucinations took on an anime style, reminiscent of Studio Ghibli’s works. I even joked with my parents that there were free animated films playing on the ceiling!

First, a breeze of pixel grains swept across the ceiling, forming three terracotta warriors. They stood in a row and performed synchronized dives from a ten-meter platform into a great river below. In the river, a group of large fish swam slowly in the same direction. The fish then transformed into large animals, like elephants and rhinos, all migrating in the same direction with a solemn, pilgrimage-like aura. Another breeze of pixel grains blew through, and the scene changed.

A circular fire sprinkler on the ceiling turned into the head of a knight. The cheerful knight rode a lively horse through changing landscapes—fields, forests. Then, the sprinkler morphed into the back of a poet’s head, an ancient Chinese poet, to be precise. I saw his upright figure standing on a small boat, calmly gliding across the water. Another wave of pixel grains rolled in, and the scene transformed into a sprawling terraced field with soft blue and green hues. People worked in the fields while children played nearby, a harmonious and idyllic scene.

Among the countless shifting scenes, one particularly stood out because it wasn’t anime-like but felt more like a documentary. The pixel grains had grown even more detailed, rendering images as vivid as photographs or video. I saw a lotus pond, where adults on a small boat were harvesting lotus pods, and a child clung to the boat’s edge, swimming in the water. The entire scene exuded the rustic charm of rural China.

The free "ceiling animation" lasted the entire night. As long as I looked up, it would start playing. However, it wasn’t a continuous, logical narrative but rather a collection of unrelated fragments. Each scene lasted three to five seconds, transitioning seamlessly to the next with a soft breeze of pixel grains. As for what scenes would appear, I couldn’t entirely control them. It felt like a dream unfolding on its own, with me as a passive observer.

One small, somewhat frightening object on the ceiling caught my attention—a screw head about the size of a pea, which from a distance resembled a bug. As I thought to myself, "It looks like a bug from afar," it actually transformed into a bug. The bug began wriggling and crawling within a small area, even growing several thin, long legs. I was both amazed and disgusted by its newly sprouted legs, which were grotesquely long and spindly. The legs continued to move and elongate, eventually turning into rhythmic gymnastic ribbons—yellow and pink. These ribbon-like legs swayed and stretched further, slowly descending toward my face.

Next came the highlight of the night: the "seeing little people" phase.

The little people in my hallucinations primarily originated as transformations of my IV drip chamber. The drip chamber is an excellent candidate for becoming little people for several reasons. First, its small, cylindrical shape is similar in size and outline to a tiny figurine. Second, its transparent and reflective material, crystal-clear and glowing, adds a hazy luminescence to the hallucination. Third, it’s dynamic—every time a drop of liquid falls, the expressions and movements of the little people shift vividly. So, as I idly stared at my drip chamber, I saw the first little person in my hallucination: Donald Trump.

He didn’t exhibit any particularly distinctive expressions or actions; he simply stood there, embodying a standard human figure. A few seconds later, the drip chamber transformed into a martial arts hero clad in nightwear. He performed a few moves and struck a final pose, with a large, golden moon as the backdrop. Soon after, the drip chamber was swallowed by a guinea pig. Since the guinea pig was semi-transparent, the drip chamber remained clearly visible. Every time a drop of liquid fell, the guinea pig would make a swallowing motion. Then, the drip chamber turned into a horse’s back, while the IV tube connecting the medicine bottle to my hand transformed into a long road. I could see a bird’s-eye view of a horse galloping swiftly along this road. At this point, the pixel grains had an abundant supply of colorful “ink” and used it lavishly to paint vivid scenes.

What left the deepest impression on me was a “cat-protecting fairy.” She cradled the drip chamber, which had now transformed into a small cat. The fairy wore a long dress woven entirely from red, orange, and pink flowers. Her dress’s hem spread wide, as large as three IV bottles, and she was bathed in a glowing halo, appearing sacred and stunningly beautiful.

The drip chamber could also display group scenes. For instance, I witnessed the reunion of the Cowherd and Weaver Girl on a magpie bridge, complete with a backdrop adorned with pink hearts. At another point, the drip chamber morphed into the wooden plank from Titanic, where Jack and Rose lay together for a while.

What I found most fascinating was the sheer variety of these little people—men and women, young and old, from ancient to modern times, and from across the world. Beyond the aforementioned famous figures, most of the little people were ordinary individuals. Some strolled along in beautiful outfits, while others squatted down with large bowls, eating. Their faces were clear and detailed, though I didn’t recognize any of them. This made the experience feel particularly extraordinary, as if they were real residents of a miniature world in an alternate dimension, and I had inadvertently glimpsed their daily lives.

4、

On the morning of August 23, my IV drip from the previous night had just finished, but a new day of infusions immediately began. After staying awake all night, I spent the daytime alternating between napping and continuing to enjoy the "drip chamber transforms into little people" show.

The hallucinations during the day were notably milder. This was reflected in the little people on the drip chamber, whose overall color scheme became much softer and more subdued. Several scenes stood out to me vividly. One was a story of a man and his dog: inside the liquid-filled part of the drip chamber, there was a park bench with a gentleman from the Republican era, wearing a bowler hat. He stood up to greet his little dog, which was represented by the falling drops of liquid. But each time a droplet reached the water’s surface, it disappeared instantly. The gentleman returned to his bench, only for the next droplet to again turn into a running dog. He stood up again, and the cycle repeated endlessly, with the gentleman never able to embrace his dog.

This reminded me of a scene from the previous night: two families were quarreling, pushing each other. Between them was a large yet soft fan, which separated the families. No matter how they twisted, pushed, or tried to tear through it to fight each other, the fan remained intact and impassable, acting as the waterline in the drip chamber. One family was in the air zone, while the other was in the liquid zone, forever unable to meet.

I found these little people to be reminiscent of beings from a lower-dimensional existence. To them, many phenomena and problems are inexplicable and unsolvable, yet from the perspective of our higher-dimensional world, the answers are crystal clear. This made me think that the insurmountable gaps we encounter in our lives might, from the perspective of higher-dimensional beings, be nothing more than trivial puzzles that bring a knowing smile.

My drip chamber hallucinations lasted the entire day. At first, my mom would ask me, "Are you still seeing hallucinations?"

Pointing at the drip chamber, I told her, "There was just a family here waiting for a boat. This IV tube is the river." The imagery of them waiting for the boat had a refined ink-and-wash painting style: a tranquil scene with a clear breeze, bright moonlight, and willow trees on the riverbank—quite poetic and beautiful.

Mom quickly went from thinking my hallucinations were bizarre to getting used to them. She even began asking directly, "What’s playing in your little theater now?"

I glanced at the drip chamber and replied, "Synchronized swimming, a duet."

Another amusing scene involved a group of cartoon characters gathered around a large round table, eating. Among them, I recognized Big-Head Dad and Blue-Skinned Mouse. I almost burst out laughing and told my mom I’d seen something funny. It seemed these cartoon characters heard me talking about them because they all left the dining table and came to the edge of the drip chamber to peer out at me as if curiously observing the spectacle.

Even though my eyes were constantly filled with hallucinations, my mind remained entirely clear. During the morning rounds, the doctor said my hallucinations were mild because I could distinguish between reality and illusion and maintain self-control. Thus, my day was a mix of chatting with my mom about real-life topics like school and work while simultaneously watching the drip chamber theater through my eyes. The coexistence of these two experiences felt strangely absurd.

My hallucinations weren’t severe, and their appearance required certain conditions. For instance, the object needed to trigger some association in my mind. Take the screw head mentioned earlier: I thought it resembled a bug, so it transformed into a bug. However, it wouldn’t turn into a rabbit because I didn’t associate the screw head with a rabbit. In other words, my hallucinations relied on the imaginative distortion of existing objects in reality. Additionally, I had to stare at an object for several seconds for the hallucinations to occur. If I didn’t focus my gaze, there would be no hallucination. Consequently, I could still go about daily activities like chatting, eating, walking, and using my phone without interference. Over those days, I did notice slight slurring and stammering in my speech and a sense of imbalance—my head felt heavier than my body—but these issues were minor and resolved on their own.

During this period, my ability to imagine became extraordinarily sharp and sensitive. I was especially adept at spotting objects in my surroundings that resembled faces or human figures. Seeing irregular stains on surfaces, I could immediately associate them with certain shapes, and my hallucinations would automatically "sketch" and "color" these ideas for me, making them resemble masterpieces of art. For instance, while in the bathroom, I saw footprints transformed into a nautical map and a portrait of Zhong Kui on the floor. Both were exquisite, as though they should be framed. My favorite "painting" appeared on the black sink countertop. The surface was made of black stone speckled with glittering colored particles, resembling deep space. The light above reflected off it, resembling stars or a time-space tunnel. The water stains on it added even more charm, forming two sturdy dogs at the forefront, standing in the brightest light. Behind them followed a large group of animals—dogs, rabbits, cows, antelopes—and even a primitive human holding a spear. The scene evoked a sense of vastness and freedom, as if "all living things compete under the frost-covered sky." I excitedly explained it to my mom, calling it a naturally created world-class painting titled Heavenly Dogs Chasing the Sun. I cherished this "painting" so much that I took a photo of it with my phone to admire it whenever I wanted.

By dusk, I noticed the two large windows directly across from my hospital bed. Both had extensive water stains, which began to morph into posters stuck to the windows. The posters were designed in a trendy, anime-inspired Japanese style, dominated by shades of blue and purple, with moving golden “characters” as titles.

Interestingly, none of the "characters" in my hallucinations were legible. Their forms vaguely resembled Chinese characters at first glance, but they were either too far away to be clearly seen or were jumbled combinations of radicals and strokes that formed nonexistent "words." At this moment, the hallucinations on the windows remained intricate and harmonious.

However, when the night fully descended, the illusions on the windows turned into a terrifying dark Gothic style. The images featured foreign figures exuding negative emotions: a gloomy nun, a man from an oil painting whose face was distorted in agony, a violent Captain Jack Sparrow seemingly ready to punch someone, and a nurse wearing a plague doctor’s bird-beak mask from the time of the Black Death. They were all clawing at the windows, staring at me as if they wanted to pass through and come to my side. But they didn’t dare enter the hospital—it seemed as though the hospital was surrounded by a barrier protecting me.

I decided to confront these "malevolent spirits" with my righteous energy. Fixing my gaze on a malicious-looking woman in a black mask in the right-hand window, I tried to channel my anger and make my stare firm and fierce. To my surprise, instead of retreating, these "spirits" seemed to feed off my anger, reacting explosively with their own rage and taunting expressions. To the right of the masked woman appeared a menacing man in sunglasses trying to intimidate me, while to her left emerged a sinister "troublemaking child" baring its teeth and claws at me. Their expressions were exaggerated to the extreme, deliberately provocative, as if luring me into a trap.

It suddenly dawned on me that this window was like a mirror, and these illusions were projections of my own psyche. When I saw the darkness and felt instinctive fear, they transformed into terrifying forms embodying my fear. When I became angry, they didn’t retreat from my anger but mirrored it by becoming just as enraged. Realizing this, I immediately let go of my anger. However, my fear of the night remained, so I walked over and closed the curtains.

Turning my attention back inside the room, the warm and beautiful hallucinations resumed. The artistic abilities of my pixelated grains had significantly diminished compared to the previous night. Most noticeably, the drip chamber no longer hosted its magical theater of ever-changing little people. Instead, it displayed simpler decorations, such as a small cat hugging the chamber. Each time a drop of liquid fell, the cat would pull back its paws and then stretch them out again, awaiting the next drop. Other times, the drip chamber was adorned with pale blue, transparent crystal butterflies and lotus flowers, accented with tiny rhinestones. These decorations were tranquil and beautiful, but they didn’t move.

The disappearance of the little people’s theater brought me a mix of relief and melancholy. On one hand, it indicated that my hallucinations were subsiding, but on the other, it felt like a quiet farewell.

"Goodbye forever, my little friends!" I thought. "Thank you for bringing me joy. Wasn’t our meeting also a once-in-a-lifetime encounter?"

I glanced up at the ceiling. The pixelated grains no longer had the capacity to create animated scenes; their "production team" had gone on strike. The colors were dim and monotonous, and I could only make out rough shadowy outlines. The "cinema" had closed its doors, but it didn’t matter—because the "aquarium" next door had opened!

The ceiling featured three fluorescent light strips, each with eight semi-transparent frosted glass bars, about ten centimeters long, hanging perpendicular to the strip. These frosted bars, originally a dull white-gray, appeared to me as vibrant, semi-transparent tropical fish. Each bar was actually two fish joined head-to-tail, occasionally pulling apart or coming together as they swayed gently in an imagined current. The movement was soft and peaceful.

That night’s IV drip finished before I went to sleep, leaving me delighted to be able to rest without any burdens.

Before falling asleep, I noticed the reflection on a kettle across the room. I have astigmatism, and suddenly, I saw that the scattered points of light around the reflection formed glowing "Chinese characters." As mentioned earlier, these "characters" were also nonsensical—shapes that resembled Chinese characters but were not real words.

5、

On the morning of August 24, when I woke up, all the hallucinations had vanished.

I was eager to be discharged, but the doctor on rounds said that it was normal for hallucinations to disappear during the day, and they still needed to monitor my condition at night. If hallucinations occurred the previous evening, they would require me to stay another day for observation.

That evening, I stayed in the hospital receiving IV fluids until around 10 p.m. During that time, I was constantly worried about hallucinations reappearing, so I kept testing myself. When I looked at the drip chamber, it was just a drip chamber—nothing else. There were no decorations on it. When I stared at the screw heads on the ceiling for a few seconds, they didn’t morph into anything else, and I exhaled in relief.

I pulled out my phone and looked at the “world-class painting” I had called Celestial Dogs Chasing the Sun. It was no longer as vivid or exquisite as I remembered, and the colors seemed less intense, more realistic. However, its deep and expansive quality remained.

Even now, I still noticed human-like shapes and faces in objects, but they no longer transformed or moved. Instead, I would simply recognize their resemblance to human features at first glance. I concluded that this was more a matter of association than actual hallucinations.

At last, I was discharged. My parents and I returned home around 11 p.m., but I wasn’t as excited as I had imagined I’d be.

While in the hospital, I thought I would post a triumphant update on social media when I was discharged. But when the moment came, I found myself overwhelmed by a flood of inexplicable emotions that I needed to process. Posting on social media didn’t even cross my mind. Instead, I just cried and cried.

My parents asked me why I was crying, but I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t know why.

As I walked through the quiet underground garage of our neighborhood, everything felt surreal and disorienting. My father reassured me, saying, “Even astronauts need a period of adjustment after returning to Earth. It’s the same for you—you need time to adapt from hallucinations back to reality.” That made sense to me.

Sitting in our living room, with my mom taking a shower and my dad folding clothes nearby, I felt as if I were dreaming. I feared that I might suddenly wake up to find myself still surrounded by hallucinations, and I started crying again.

I went to my bedroom and looked at the sheets that had frightened me earlier. They seemed fine now, no distortions. I went to the “Bermuda Triangle” spot between the kitchen and dining room but didn’t find any moving dust particles, which gave me some relief. However, when I glanced toward the TV, I was startled. The drawer handles on the TV cabinet and the router above them formed a face resembling that of a chicken demon. Yet, it didn’t transform into anything.

In the bathroom, I noticed that the patterns on the tiles looked like a tiger’s face, but again, nothing changed.

I realized I still doubted the reality of the world around me, as if it were all a dream. I needed time to rebuild a sense of safety by gradually experiencing the world’s reality. (At this point, I thought that people recovering from hallucinations might need psychological support, even if their physical health had improved.)

Later, my dad reheated some taro soup from dinner and asked if I wanted some. I needed it—desperately. A warm, tangible bowl of taro soup would help ground me in the reality of this world.

While eating, I became unusually sensitive to the wood grain patterns on the dining table. They seemed to resemble all kinds of things, though I had never noticed them before. Perhaps this mushroom poisoning gave me a heightened sensitivity to patterns, a sort of “superpower,” and a new way of seeing the world. Maybe that was a blessing in disguise.

Yet the hallucinations made one last comeback. When I lay in bed at night, I opened my eyes and was terrified to see the dark room filled with densely packed purple fluorescent dots, neatly arranged like the compound eyes of an insect. The purple dots began to move chaotically, mixed with green fluorescent dots. I feared they might start spinning rapidly again, so I quickly turned on the light. The hallucinations disappeared instantly and did not return.

Interestingly, the first two colors I noticed in my hallucinations were green and magenta, and the last two were green and purple. This symmetry felt intriguing, though I had no idea if there was any scientific explanation behind it.

6、

On the morning of August 25, I woke up, went out to buy breakfast, and walked around at home. Everything felt real again, and I felt calm and at peace. My sensitivity to human-like patterns had diminished, and I had returned to my pre-poisoning state. However, my head still felt hot and dry, and I experienced a sensation of heaviness, as if my head were heavier than my body. These discomforts gradually disappeared after a few days of rest.

Looking back at the days when I experienced hallucinations, the emotions were a mix of pain, joy, strangeness, fear, and philosophical musings—a complex medley of feelings.

I don’t support the trend on the internet of trivializing and making memes out of hallucinations caused by Chlorophyllum molybdites poisoning. This behavior shows a lack of respect for nature. A tiny mushroom can easily disrupt our sensory perception, reminding us of how fragile we are despite considering ourselves at the top of the food chain. We are as delicate as reeds and cannot afford to underestimate the other species on this planet.

This experience felt like the “god of mushrooms” guiding me, a mere human, on a tour through a “realm of illusions.” I am filled with awe at the experience, which is why I’ve tried to document it as truthfully and completely as possible.

As I write these final words, I glance again at the photo of Celestial Dogs Chasing the Sun on my phone. What I see now is just an ordinary water stain, utterly devoid of artistic value.

I think I am fully recovered.