Here's a short text I wrote right after. Maybe some can relate. Enjoy 
"A total breakthrough, but, and the experience was singular in this, in this that I could think. 'I' here makes little sense, let us say that a thought had a thread, and let us say that this thread was localized the way a wave can be. I write here in metaphor, it is perhaps a little easy and, yet, there is here something of what separates the experience of N,N-DMT from that of LSD. LSD works with biographical material, it pulls it, shows it, twists it, displaces it and unfolds it and then, and then it is the valley of mirrors, and the ordeal that weighs the soul, given the sufficient dose. DMT is different, there is a note in it, a call to resonance, Tune in takes on a corporeality in it that LSD does not possess, not in this way, not with this anhistorical sensoriality. A thought, a thought sufficient to interrogate the nature and the movement of this encounter with something that was not something. And it is there, right there, the knot of the experience and the absolutely radical vertigo that holds it as much as it held me. At the end, I finally moved my arm, the hand I had been holding high for probably several minutes, I lowered it and, almost by common accord, the movement ceased to be the movement. I stayed motionless a long time, trying to find words that would not betray, that would not reduce, because the sublime, that cannot be said. It takes modesty, and words sometimes have the ridiculousness of a tribunal. I thought back to the shrug of the image-taker in Deligny's famous text, the shrug of the image-taker which like a stub of a flight that does not take place tells of a powerlessness, a despair too. And I laughed, I laughed so much and I shrugged, sitting on a sort of bench on a balcony somewhere in the north of France, sitting and returned, just barely returned from a flight so far, so far that to fall silent was the only thing possible for me. How not to betray? Something that was not something, an upsurge of impossible paradoxes that left me enough of myself that I could think even as I was the witness of it. Enough of myself that I could speak, and, today, remember the words. If for the rest, almost everything has disappeared, the words remain. To think, without thinking, movement, without movement, something and at the same time it is not that. I insist. Lord I insist. It is not that language cannot translate the experience, that is not what it is about, the trouble is far deeper, the experience itself is made in it of an impossible matter, laughed and almost by common accord, the movement ceased to be the movement. I opened my eyes. One speaks there of alterity, pendant la matière. And well there it is."
"A total breakthrough, but, and the experience was singular in this, in this that I could think. 'I' here makes little sense, let us say that a thought had a thread, and let us say that this thread was localized the way a wave can be. I write here in metaphor, it is perhaps a little easy and, yet, there is here something of what separates the experience of N,N-DMT from that of LSD. LSD works with biographical material, it pulls it, shows it, twists it, displaces it and unfolds it and then, and then it is the valley of mirrors, and the ordeal that weighs the soul, given the sufficient dose. DMT is different, there is a note in it, a call to resonance, Tune in takes on a corporeality in it that LSD does not possess, not in this way, not with this anhistorical sensoriality. A thought, a thought sufficient to interrogate the nature and the movement of this encounter with something that was not something. And it is there, right there, the knot of the experience and the absolutely radical vertigo that holds it as much as it held me. At the end, I finally moved my arm, the hand I had been holding high for probably several minutes, I lowered it and, almost by common accord, the movement ceased to be the movement. I stayed motionless a long time, trying to find words that would not betray, that would not reduce, because the sublime, that cannot be said. It takes modesty, and words sometimes have the ridiculousness of a tribunal. I thought back to the shrug of the image-taker in Deligny's famous text, the shrug of the image-taker which like a stub of a flight that does not take place tells of a powerlessness, a despair too. And I laughed, I laughed so much and I shrugged, sitting on a sort of bench on a balcony somewhere in the north of France, sitting and returned, just barely returned from a flight so far, so far that to fall silent was the only thing possible for me. How not to betray? Something that was not something, an upsurge of impossible paradoxes that left me enough of myself that I could think even as I was the witness of it. Enough of myself that I could speak, and, today, remember the words. If for the rest, almost everything has disappeared, the words remain. To think, without thinking, movement, without movement, something and at the same time it is not that. I insist. Lord I insist. It is not that language cannot translate the experience, that is not what it is about, the trouble is far deeper, the experience itself is made in it of an impossible matter, laughed and almost by common accord, the movement ceased to be the movement. I opened my eyes. One speaks there of alterity, pendant la matière. And well there it is."
