The herbal artist may wander the damp october meadows and find himself drawn to the thousands of little mushrooms poking up out of the grass like the pointed hats of tiny beings. These can be munched raw by the seasoned psilocyber, even washed down with a flask of mushie tea. Too soon it seems the afternoon sky turns dark, dimming on command like a movie is about to start. Mushrooms in the watchers belly are turning to butterflies. Space and time are suddenly fragile, the tripper knows there is no turning back, he is about to go crashing through the doors of perception.