They seem dreams to you to-day.

Yet, if they were dreams, dreamed then, whence the substance of them?
Our dreams are grotesquely compounded of the things we know.

The stuff of our sheerest dreams is the stuff of our experience.

As a child, a wee child, you dreamed you fell great heights; you dreamed you flew through the air as things of the air fly; you were vexed by crawling spiders and many-legged creatures of the slime; you heard other voices, saw other faces nightmarishly familiar, and gazed upon sunrises and sunsets other than you know now, looking back, you ever looked upon.
Very well.

These child glimpses are of other-worldness, of other-lifeness, of things that you had never seen in this particular world of your particular life.