He closed his eyes.
Found the ridged face of the power stud.
And in the bloodlit dark behind his eyes, silver phosphenes
boiling in from the edge of space, hypnagogic images jerking past
like film compiled from random frames.
Symbols, figures, faces, a blurred, fragmented mandala of
visual information.
...
And flowed, flowered for him, fluid neon origami trick, the
unfolding of his distanceless home, his country, transparent 3D
chessboard extending to infinity.
...
And somewhere he was laughing, in a white-painted loft,
distant fingers caressing the deck, tears of release streaking
his face.
-- William Gibson, "Neuromancer"