But Dream Matrix does a better job of emulating an actual DMT experience, even if the album, which is one 53-minute track, is about three times as long as a typical trip. It begins slow, with dreamlike fluttering, McKenna’s voice popping in and out, explaining what a DMT experience entails in echoing, drifting cadence. The whirling grows stronger, filled with laughing children, rushing waterfalls, before warping to a buzzing temple setting resonating with garbled chanting and alien trilling.

As someone who has sampled “the businessman’s LSD,” as some call it, the album transports me back to that endless, throbbing hallway of Aztec skulls and wallpapers of all-seeing eyes. The last few minutes of the album are a kind of interdimensional comedown, the world coming back into focus with a humming inner glow.