Neo puts a hand to his head and touches his hair. This….this isn’t
No, it is the mental projection…of your digital self. Lovers and
Madmen have such seething Brains, such shaping Phantasies, that
apprehend More than cool Reason ever comprehends.
This_ is the world that you know. The world as it was at the end
of the twentieth century. It exists now only as part of a neural-interactive
simulation, that _we_ call the Matrix. You’ve been living in a dream world, Neo.
This…is the world as it exists today. Are you sure that we are awake?
It seems to me that yet we sleep, we dream.
What _is_ real? How do you _define_ real? If you’re
talking about what you can feel, what you can smell, what you can taste
and see, then real is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain.
Tell them that I, Pyramus am not Pyramus, but Bottom the Weaver,
this will put them out of fear.
The earth, scorched . . .the desert of the real…We have only
bits and pieces of information, but what we know for certain
is that some point in the early twenty-first century
all of mankind was united in celebration, and then apocalypse.
We marvelled at our own magnificence…. the poet’s eye turns dreams to shapes and gives
to airy nothing a local habitation and a Name. . .
A singular consciousness that spawned an entire race -then you will see, it is
not the spoon that bends, it is only yourself.
If we Shadows have offended
think but this, and all is mended: that you have slumbered here while these
Visions did appear and this weak and idle Theme, no more yielding but a Dream.