No. Does the foot walk?
No.
Does the brain make us dream?
No.
The wind of the cosmos blows through us and plays us.
When we dream it plays us, in dream fashion.
When we wake it plays us in waking fashion.
Like a flute on the one hand and on the other hand a sax.
Eric Linus Kaplan 
Whose brain have you got there? Do you think the person will miss it?
“Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”
— William Shakespeare, “The Tempest,” Act IV Scene 1
A espantosa realidade das coisas
É a minha descoberta de todos os dias.
Cada coisa é o que é,
E é difícil explicar a alguém quanto isso me alegra,
E quanto isso me basta.
Outras vezes oiço passar o vento,
E acho que só para ouvir passar o vento vale a pena ter nascido.
**
The astonishing reality of things
It is my everyday discovery.
Each thing is what it is,
And it’s hard to explain to anyone how much that makes me happy,
And how much that is enough for me.
Other times I hear the wind pass by,
And I think just to hear the wind pass it’s worth being born.
— Fernando Pessoa, Alberto Caiero, Poemas Inconjuntos
***
Dazzling, dazzling smile…