The independently owned and operated Tophets we endure from time to time, or even more or less constantly, are there by invitation only, invitations hurried along, no doubt, by fear or befuddled wonderment at mortal mind's many kaleidoscopic spectacles and seamy sideshows.
There are probably times when we wonder, like King George III of England when confronted with an apple dumpling, "how, how the devil got the apple in?" [His fluency in English was never a strong suit.] ("Historic Side-Lights", Howard Payson Arnold) If the porters at the door of our consciousnesses are snoozing instead of watching we are going to be admitting a sinister gallimaufry of undeveloped negatives (in more senses than one). Once past the dozing porters they go to our mental dark rooms, where they are developed (again, possibly in more senses than one) and then "voila" [sorry about the missing accent grave, LowlyWise] or, more precisely, "quelle horreur!" Some are even sent to the enlarger, and the Gulliver's disgust at the sight of the Brobdingnagians is small beer compared to those enlarged and unwelcome horrors. By then, however, mortal mind has run up its Jolly Roger and we bitterly rue our failure to post a diligent watch.
The rudely awakened or startled student of Christian Science may be tempted at such a juncture to "floor it", to flee in a squeel of smoking tires from the pestilential Blackbeard (I know, he was a pirate, not a NASCAR driver.) , after the manner of the person Stephen Leacock describes who "flung himself upon his horse and rode madly off in all directions", but sedulous, consecrated, and patient study and prayer are needed, not a frantic Nathan's Famous gorging to make up for lost time. Better to post a dedicated doorman and then add a solid plank a day to our bridge from matter to Spirit than be forced to attempt a leap in unsure, unseemly, and Skivvied hasted over the frightful chasm we ourselves have occasioned.