Imagine if you could lace the halls of your empty sleep, the moment-to-moment lies and invalid fantasties you hide by with markers, some objects that will always know exactly where they are and what is around them. The maze you've stumbled about uncountable times would collapse into your childhood neighborhood, and the unseen hand would be forced to introduce to you more difficult obstacles lest you come to your senses and make an escape. Imagine if at some time the markers dropped would notice their changing environments, catching on that they notice and remember, started comparing notes and asking questions. The person in the middle serves both ends; your careful introspection may show you to be a tool, an instrument of someone else's revolution.