Everything comes together deep down.
The gentle tendrils of the mushrooms and the fungi, the mycelia, form into knots beneath the damp ground, and those knots reach out and connect to each other, knots of knots of knots connected in a single vast sheet below the world.
The fungi do not think.
But they know.
There are more connections in the mycelia of the rich dark earth of a single farm, than in the brain of the greatest human genius.
But they do not think.
The stars are connected, by channels where gravity waves sluice in and out of the twelve extra dimensions of the universe, the ones whose nature we haven’t figured out yet.
The stars… the stars think.
But they do not know.
The fungal and stellar networks found each other and connected a long time ago.
Every tree and every stone, every mammal footstep, every shovel of earth. Every spaceship and satellite launch.
They are always watching.
Or no.
Every tree, stone, footstep, and every launch, are part of the network already.
Every tree, stone, footstep, and every launch, is just the galactic star-fungus network, thinking, and knowing.
“Really?”
“I mean, absolutely. There’s no way it could be false.”
“They’re connected? We’re … part of their giant brain?”
“Of course. Everything is part of everything.”
“I — but if it isn’t falsifiable…?”
“That’s right, it’s not really a scientific theory. It’s more a way of thinking.”
“A religion?”
“A philosophy, more.”
“But if it isn’t true…”
“Oh, it’s true.”
“Stars and fungus… sounds sort of paranoid.”
“Nah, it’s just how the universe is; everything is connected, and the fungi and the stars more than anything else.”
“How did they find each other?”
“How could they not have? It was inevitable. Necessary.”
The stars and the mycelium resonate as the ages roll on. Life comes into being, and the network reacts, rings, with pure tones in every octave of the spectrum. War is a rhythmic drumming; peace is a coda, or an overture. And death is percussion.
Deep in the space between the stars, there are nodes where major arteries of coiled dimensions cross and knot, just as the mycelia cross and not deeper and deeper into the intricate ground. In the space around a star-node, in the stone circles above the spore-nodes, beings dance, constituting and manifesting the thoughts of the stars, and the knowledge of the mushrooms.
“Like, faerie circles? There are … star circles of some kind, out in space?”
“There are. Things gather at them, tiny things and big things, people from planets coming in their starships, and beings that evolved there in space, floating in years-long circles on the propulsion of vast fins pushing on interstellar hydrogen.”
“That seems like something that might not be true. What if we go out in a star ship sometime, and there’s nothing like that out there?”
“There is. An endless array of them.”
“How do you know that?”
Those who dance at the nodes of the stars and the fungi, over the centuries, absorb the thinking and knowledge of the infinite universe. Whence our stories of wise ones, of wizards, of the Illuminati. Whence the yearning songs of the star-whales, of forgotten ancient wisdom, and secret covens in the darkness.
Those who evolve on planets have an affinity to the fungal nodes. Those who evolve between the stars have an affinity for the stellar nodes. They complement and complete each other.
No planetary culture is mature until it has allied with a stellar culture.
No stellar culture is mature until it has allied with a planetary culture.
“So are the, y’know, the Greys, are they visited Earth to see if we’re worthy of allying with? Are they, like, an immature steallar culture looking for a fungus-centered culture to hook up with?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Haven’t you heard about it in the fungusvine?”
“Fungusvine, funny.”
“Myceliavine?”
Everything comes together deep down.
The semantic tendrils of the realities extend, purely by chance, into the interstices between universes. Over endless time, over expansions and collapses, rollings in and rollings out, the tendrils interact, purely by chance, and meaning begins to flow.
Knots, and knots of knots, and knots of knots of knots, forming a vast extradimensional network that binds the realities together.
Every reality is underlain by its own networks, of mycelia and gravitational strings, or aether winds and dragon spines, the thoughts of Gods and the songs of spirits, or thrint hamuges and the fletts of tintans. And the network of each reality connects to the extradimensional network, and thereby to everything else.
Every tree, stone, footstep, and every starship launch, is part of the unthinkably vast mind of the universe, heart of the universe, the sacred body of everything, in the largest sense.
“Ooh! Are there, like, reality-witches, who find notes in the network between the realities, and have dances and stuff there, and slowly gather extradimensional wisdom?”
“Of course, there are!”
“I want to be one of those.”
“Oh, you will.”
The mind, heart, interconnected web of the universe, the multiverse, thinks (and feels and knows) slowly, deliberately. For a single impulse to travel from one end to the other, if the web had ends, would take almost an eternity. But for the resonating tone, the mood, the energy fluxes, of the network to change, all over, from end to end, takes only an instant.
“Wouldn’t that violate the speed of light and all?”
“Different realities, different speed limits.”
“I don’t know, it seems like you could you that to cheat.”
“You absolutely can.”
It is a category mistake to think that because All Is One, I can make a free transcontinental phone call.
But it is universally true that the extradimensional web of interconnections holds ultimate wisdom.
You are a neuron of the multiversal Mind, you are a beat of the multiversal Heart. You resonate always in harmony with its thoughts, its knowings, its feelings. You can accept the harmony or try to reject it, and either way you are sending your signal from one reality to another, and your breathing is a message to another universe.
ceoln 
Hm?