Hallowed spare. I came across your crashed spaceship. And wondered what was inside. Heron’s stare I saw you. Stepping out like a being of light. I made a raft in my mind. We sailed off on when I saw you. And you flipped your hair when you came up to me, and you said, “What’s it?” and I said, “Who’s there.” En I am an Orb, Bro. na Maine? That is the palindrome. But I realized amid all this subterfuge winking at me I was not doing truly much of anything. And so, what was this indebt? And what was the Tantric Tibetan MAHAKALA freedom chant doing for me now I was listening to on the World Wide Web? Likewise, how could I expect to seize the interest of a reader with a clamor of words that are not carefully prepared? How could I ever know, then? I walked from the edge of the world to a brittle stalk in the center to understand, but nothing seemed to come. I cursed the face in reflections I was closest to as they slid between slats I was moving past. I did not know. And I do not know now. But if I could, I would carefully describe you. Or for you, something. And linger in the gnosis bright endings of sparks. Clairvoyant mystic selves that never came to pass in this world. But which know you, from another life. Reaching their hands through the light to touch you.
Harrier hindered blotter, paper I paper I might. Even the mistakes are not mistakes, and they never were; we were always being written. I wanted to show you something kind of like my soul. It was a novel I had started writing in 2015 or so. It has still not come to pass, and I do not know. Any longer what it is about or who my protagonist is, as a person. It is very sad and strange. And I am strange. I’m aware. I don’t care. There are reasons there are stories at all. I cannot light to you the overbearing feel of things. Watch as what you thought was real walks away. And I, too. Burden says to proof I know you’re many things. Triumph at the last great will to do whatever you feel you have to do. I don’t know. This was supposed to be a subjectless article. I was supposed to be the nonauthor in a veil of smoke. We were supposed to do many things in many places, but none of it mattered or else none of it came to pass. Do I know you?
I came across your crashed spaceship. And I wondered what was inside. Haven’s swears, then I thaw you. Rubbing my arms and my legs to create heat with the friction. It was a cold night. It was a nonexistent night. Then I saw you. God may have torn me up and put me back together a bit, but I don’t know. I kind of like it this way. I may be sick and alone in how I view things, but I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I kind of like it this way. May all dependent reeds permit. In this order high flow. Water stills my understanding of “I want to change.” You can’t help but to. How do you want to change? Tell them I am coming home when at last sight I am getting a sense of what it means to be alive. To have a life. I heard her fixes in escrow. Coming down off a strange trip. Especially so, considering. I was hiding out from The Man and listening to the agent angels reaffirm goodspeak in the self-talk. I was reclining on the sleeping bag in my room full of boxes more perfectly than I’d ever reclined. And crying and laughing and looking through my hands to see the infinite stack of my legs on the sleeping bag. One over the other over the other, such that it occurred to me how time is just a figment of things in which space goes on forever. And it felt like a proper realization. I had seen the world as a painting I was walking through. I was not the same, til I came down again. And you can never reach the top floor, so they say. And you can never know, so I say. I say it a lot. I don’t know. But maybe I do. Something. Intelligible. Able to be picked out from the noise and silence all the rest and wondering how long have I been speaking out loud these words I’ve been typing? Oh well.
It was calmer snow. The sober life seems so mundane. That is what life is supposed to be like, I’m told. It just doesn’t make much sense to me. I’m not sure I will make it too long. I don’t know that I really want it, or want to. I want to be rehabilitated. I want to be able to drink and smoke again. I am an all-seeing nothing in a world of listening eyes. Gradually numbing to the sensation of sight. Gradually thumbing “Let’s go. Let’s go.” Have you heard or can you hear me, fallow? Have you heard or can you hear me, sight. When it comes down to it, all this meditation doesn’t seem to end. It’s not a problem to be solved or anything. There are reasons there are stories at all. But so what do you think is going on, at the heart of this? Do you want to reach your hand into the light? I am sitting on the cusp of a great field haunting. I am wondering what’s…