Endless access Infinite entrance Cabaret of the nameless August 16, 2023 Leave a Comment Cancel Comment Name* Email* Website
Love. This is the central word of life. It is a mass. A mast. A density. And a gravity. A force. A presence. And an absence. Of such unimaginable immensity. That not even light desires to escape. We speak of it seriously, and casually, because it divides our cells. We fight wars, and build nations, because it originates the land. Love. She is everywhere. She is the lungs. She is the rose She is the very air
It's a kind of vastly futuristic technical stitching. Not like a printing, or a growing, but a stitching, a sewing: that tactile, that overflowing, sharp and soft, and super thrilling. The heavenly, into the terraforming. The glacial, into the summer snowing. The eclectic, into the coolest clothing. A golden jacket, from a field of knowing. It's a kind of interdimensional architexture, long forgotten, and forever glowing 🪡
Despite all appearances, one can not comprehensively regard any object, whether a book, a song, a movie, a dance, a painting, or even an item of clothing, as a fixed or finished product. We perceive them that way solely on the basis of the edges of their bindings, recorded in time by our systematic claying of the molecular speed of light. Yet each is active in a continual state of dynamic signal contact, as the individual, the culture, and the environment which envelops it, engages it. Attention animates the material animal. Eyes flourish the latent particles to life. Fire given to a finite book, unpublishes its ink. Context, as a spatial medium, is an acumen, an atmosphere, and a temporal amniotic cocoon, that articulates, permeates, and accounts for all interactive dimension. And these intensive fluid dynamics, include every atom, span all eon, exhibit enormous complexity, betray stunning simplicity, defy all technical measure, and invisibly form the singularity of the esteemed Laniakean quantum. Even our language to describe it, is as water drawn by hand from a lake. All human forms are extensions of these hands, momentarily claying the gracile furnace of the mind to the grapheme mach of air
My first attempt at outreach was of fawning idiocy. But it got me to attempt 63. And by then I was in infallible reverie
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