'Tis quiet here in the hinterlands. The stories are piled high in Rick's for winter reading, honest fuel for thought.
A lazy old fool am I. Could be shaping the forms into which concrete pours, hardening plots and climaxes permanentlike.
The clean purity of a blank slate sets my gaze afixed, instead.
The world 'tis what 'tis.
Despite our anger in misunderstanding caused, we guide ourselves using words and ideas like intelligence.
The motions, imperpetual, perpetuate.
Untroubled, relying upon the undertow and counterflow to float scales between the midpoints of the midpoints, I rest.
My time is gone. Youth has to dispose of disposability now.
Wisdom is not mine, only contradictions and contraindications.
The stage is set, all seven billion characters casted.
This is what I call peace.
Home on my home planet, happily anonymous in the stirred up crowd of people whose emotions cover the spectrum of states of illogical states of energy.
The unremarkable moment, indistinguishable.
No separation of you from me.
Do you see its blurry borderlessness, too?
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