Perception – bolus in a timeworm.
And every day to think what’s keeping us alive. Must be something (otherwise – all for not). To think, planet collides with rock tumbling through, all creation to dust. Then some microscope, some telescope a few inches about or millions of lightyears away asks “why?”
No point, though. Many have since consciousness did, but that’s all we can do with right ‘n’ wrong. Still much too easy to live for self. Still much too fun. (Still much? To fun!)
Certain people are so pretty that others must clench fists/bite tongues to stop idiotic, sauntering emissions born of quenchless aching for the nude form. Horses mouth.
(but is it really that? the idea of pretty person? or is it the pretty person and a thing more intrinsic, like two magnets tugging on each other? pulling hiccups of desire out of one and the other’s body as they pass by each other, never never never again…)
All this anguish struggling for a seat at my think-table. Special guest: mortality.
Intellectuals perish when push doth shove. A whole other batch of time, fresh out the oven, if they return. Will they have reference, all this that’s been made? Sickening thought.
And I know you aren’t feebly defined I know you aren’t coincidence, keeper of keys.
Consciousness: element of the fourth dimension.
There would be no time, if nothing noticed its passing, eh?
All anything allows is the right combination of words to make a sentence. Tut tut tut Mr. Koch. Reaching into innate somethings buried. Ho hum har har – how bizarre, to be a thinking thing.