Two Thousand And Eleven

The final day of the year. My nose is tender and my throat is still frogged. I fancy twenty ten to be my most dynamic and transitional year. My appreciation for life has increased and I've met some lovely people. The music i'm listening to is making it very difficult to write, but on it stays. While I feel I've grown closer to many of my friends, I've also been re-obtaining my old introverted daydreaming persona and when around people, again I find my words sticking to my fingers and hiding under my feet, making me slip like they were banana peels. No big problem. You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs, eh? This has been quite a productive year, if you don't mind a'my sayin so me little loves. Okay, the music is too distracting. I'm done. fuck ya'll!

∫ˆˆ>>>(___(((QQvvvvvCCCC}}≈l≈•

Everything moves in a chain reaction. Nature sends things hurtling every which way. It shapes things and then rips them apart again. It lets something sit peacefully for long periods of time and then incinerates it. Every single insignificant movement of every component of matter determines the course of countless more insignificant movements until the end of everything. This whole charade is fruitless and for the most part, rather lethargic. Volcanoes could give a fuck less about their eruptions.
Hello there. You are a living thing and you are presently hurtling every which way. You have been thrown to the ground and lifted off your feet. You're like a plastic bag in the hurricane winds. You are another thing of this universe and you have no choice but to move in accord with this chain reaction. oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The present, the time we all exist in, is the product of input and the origin of output. As living things, we see what leads to the present and see what emerges from it. Emotional stimulation and emotional reaction. In and Out. This doesn't exist outside the chain reaction but it changes the nature of it. Instead of being hurtled every which way, we are dancing. One dances to music and music is an emotional thing. We bounce, kill, sob, ascend, stampede, and try our best to stay still. Then we die and we are in equilibrium with marbles yet again. I fancy a good dance but it must be remembered that what we dance to isn't the stuff of greek after-parties. We are still hurtling every which way. Consider how energetic you are right now compared to how infinitely pooped you'll be in 111 years. The songs in life that make you want to smother sunflowers with steaming, fungal toad entrails and then rip your teeth out should be cherished like the songs in life that make you want to kiss peacocks on the clouds above a glittering, Crayola® sea. I love all of you in a way so profound that it makes my calves hurt. That even goes for people who frustrate and even enrage the hell out of me because they make me dance just the same. When the meteor hits, I'll probably scream in terror, but I love the sound of screams. They make me often imagine gargantuan pigeon feathers flying in a martian blizzard. What do you hear in screams?

sporadic thoughts of the night

• It is completely impossible to fall asleep passionately

• I am a figment of your imagination

• I would have great trouble squishing a hissing beetle but if an ant gets in my way, there will be hell.

• Some guy in Bavaria has been changed by something you did in some way or another.

• My favorite film at the moment is "Heart Of Glass" by Werner Herzog.

• The other night I had a dream that there was a statue of me being made in an abandoned, junked up train in the middle of the woods by Sir Paranoia Saint Power Explorer. He made my leg out of wine-bottles. Innovative!

• While you read this, a flamingo is giving birth.

• America lost to Vietnam in a ground war.

• One day, you will die.

• I wonder what Stalin's wet dreams were like.

• I just can't get over the word "Bravado". Come, say it with me! No, I don't care if it seems too awkward or there are others present. Say it with me! Bravado!

• I wonder what the guy who wrote that one joke you read on a popsicle stick is up to.

• people don't take ice-cubes very seriously, especially when they're not thinking about them.

Up & Down

The good and the bad
tangents within a straight line
up, down, then silence

Apparitions In The Sulfur Seas

For me, a good day involves getting deeply hypnotized by art at least once or twice. Without occasionally allowing your emotions and memories to light up, dance, and explore new territory, we would surely wither and fall like little mosquito hawks. Art makes one experience the flow and the feelings of another dream factory, squeezing them happily or forcefully into your air-tight, vacuum sealed bubble, which is full of hopping and digging memories. To me, it has become of the utmost importance to communicate things right back. I can do this not only with hug or bow. A gurn or a smile. With understanding or without. I can do this, also, by using the magic we as a species have summoned to manipulate the things of this earth to present a world that is large. Tidal waves, rainbows, tornados, explosions, waves of birds or bats, mountains, sailboats, mollusks, kites, ant colonies, food fights. All and more jumping around in your brain as you dance in response to another's moves. I want to create a world, a world to send into open space to be savored or detested (Really. Either satisfies me), and I want to shape it out of my dreams and my meditations. A land I move through as if newly born and discovering all within it again, leaving no time for thoughts to stray or even want to. A love for the absolute surrealism of the moments we've grown used to. These unpredictable images we've disconnected from and only sail through. This fast paced existence that doesn't always hold your hand but should be honored, for it brings even the more mysterious concept of hands and their achievements to you in the first place. I want to show you this world of mine in its most absolutely bizarre. I am going to begin composing (in simple ways) a sound project called "Apparitions In The Sulfur Seas" and I'm going to need all of your help, for you're all very prominent in my hopping and digging thoughts. You guys need to be in the recordings. In a lot of ways it is a dedication to all of you guys. In life I have been, am, and always will be shaping what you've all given me with that which only my mind knows and returning it, perhaps giving you all a little shriek or giggle. Either with faces or with worlds. That's all I need from life. That is all.

Oh Glorious Sound!

Oh, glorious sound
I move through and about you
as if in water

Awake Without Friction

I quickly sweep the shattered bits of glass under the carpet 
as the streetlights flicker on. 


The roar of humanity weakens to a sigh under the dim light of the moon 
textured with time and it's manipulations 
dulled by the great, orange glow of our shining, starless super-world
but a mold upon mold.


The coins are encrusted with rust in the still fountain waters
hiding in a great, windless dark.


The air fucks the sea
in indefinite coitus
as the blankets and sheets enshroud I
and the earthquakes rock me to sleep.


Like lazy seaweed in the children's waves, my mind drifts about 
tangling lethargically in the salty waters
then folding, like origami, into but a single seed
from which the garden of kaleidoscopic dream shall explode 
Like a firework in the summer night skies
as silent
or as violent
as your shining eyes
or as your gored smile. 


This mirage of lucidity
This chimera of will
this sparkling pond of red wine
in a desert dryer than the hell of a sailor's nightmare
evaporates in the calm, cool, winds
and is blown away by time.
I wave goodbye with a dumb little smile
a sincere smile


Single thoughts paint not seconds 
but minutes and hours
which tick by, silently like the scuttling spider
all the while, I ascend.


I ascend to a great, new place
free of fact and fancy
good and evil
worthwhile and futile


I ascend to a great, new place
above the land of envy
where I pass the hours 
wishing I were that which I consumed


When I transcend the stepping stones
the freezing snow
the burning sand
the rain soaked cement
the stage covered in falling rose pedals and wax running candles


it is then, in a great new place
my feet again touch a ground
only this time, a ground
in a world
free of friction


Even when the wine re-liquifies 
and tempts me with it's color in the sun
and I moisten my lips and my throat 
tasting it's savor
under the desert sun


Even when I shout "Lucidity!"
in my drunkenness, seeing the friction in the heat waves
taking on a form of dancing devils and dancing angels
free of science
free of shame
free of consequence


still, I dance on like a marionette floating in outer space
gazing in half-hearted awe at the super-novas 
and the young, blue stars


After the epics all unfold 
after this frictionless world presents it's nightly escapade
my feet return to a now opaque, blue sky
Not too different, but seemingly so, from my world without friction


the sighs turn back to roars 
the fountain now flows restless like a caged animal
the streetlights off, overpowered by the sun


After my feet stand again on the world
full of fact and fancy
good and evil
worthwhile and futile


After my feet stand again on this world
the dancing devils
the dancing angels 
They grow a new layer of reality
that supersedes my ability
to repress the illusion of will
the lure of desire
the parasite of introspection
the foulness of stage fright
and the addiction to calm, bloody monotony


After my feet stand again on this world
tears run
In expecting the smooth surface of my carpet
I am reminded of the shattered bits of glass

Cochlea

Like the vibrations coming in contact with the cochlea hairs and turning to electricity, the wind blew the tall, brown grass ever so gently before your closed eyes. In this dark cellar the air is stale and the rot gasps for water. You tend to the rat bites reddening your malformed feet with eyes still closed, as if to avoid the blinding light of heaven. Skin-and-bone cows grow plump in your hazy, black gaze, and smile with eyes agape and enveloped in wet. They frolic, as if never even touching the ground, as they make operatic crescendos with their mooing. This song and it's amplitude overwhelms your whole body with ticklish euphoria, but your dusty cochlea in your dark cellar remains hardly touched. All but the sounds of still wind, creaking wood, the witch laughing from afar, the dying coughs of the city tramp, and the lightening crackling exists in a realm pushed behind the walls of damp stone. You crawl and collect nothingness under your small, wooden bed, letting time blow out the candles, with eyes still closed and the cows growing hungry. The wind calms and the tall, brown grass stays still. A bowl of bread, broth, and rice is pushed through the doggy door, as is a glass of parasitic, fuzzy water. Your nose is clogged with vomit and the cows begin dropping. The cellar and it's aura rips your eyes open, and you see ahead of you more stone, ever thickening stone. 

Now you jump into the wall and find yourself at the base of a grand waterfall, smashing upon you with fierce conviction. You flop your way over to a nearby mossy stone, decorated in bird shit. You see a mud puddle full of crocodiles straight ahead, their eyes are roses and their teeth are filtered by corks. They lazily sigh, and hide behind the fireflies. The monkeys hop about on the branches, as if scared away by some creature lurking in the bushes. You find a human skull among the riverbed pebbles, as polished as the mirrors of the royal houses. Now claws rip the blood from your flesh and send a concentrated cloud of red down the sandy, transparent, tranquil stream, pushing through the small pebbles like a grand, red, volcanic plume of smoke consuming the himalayas. The hairs of the cochlea shrivel and implode under the incessant roar of the beast, the bringer of your demise, yet your dusty cochlea in the dark cellar remains hardly touched. 

Dirty Fingernails

Dirty fingernails

come, dig deep into my flesh
the marble rolls on

Geysers of Blood

I, the beehive, feel the buzzing and the progress coursing throughout my being. My color stays rich via the rich labor of countless centralized thinkers dying, slaving, and reproducing on their honor. Infinite planets are illuminated by a great, grinding, instinctual fear. A notion that the universe is in constant contact with your bright and silly demise. The jungles are hungry and the towns need rich soil and need it now.

In our labor we perspire mud as gray and brown clouds force upon us acid rain. The valves spin out of control, the sparks fly, and the gasoline begins to leak. Don't light that match now! Gravy pours from the windows of the skyscrapers and hospitals are drowning in mustard. The stop signs grow wings and fly away! Our helicopters take flight and head out to sea. The silver, smooth, flawless corporate structure explodes on its way into the stratosphere and the oceans evaporate, leaving the whales and the cruise liners in free fall to the now shining and gleaming abyss. The trees tear off their branches and the churches dismantle themselves brick by brick. The stars at the war memorials rage war with the tourists and the locusts do away with the golfers. The earth begins spinning towards the sun. The wise-men laughing, the greedy crying, and the children in awe, the end was coming. I, the beehive, fall off my tree and my centralized thinkers all wither and greet their demise.

Hiding in the depths of a deep, dark jungle, warmed by the fire I have by chance given birth to, I gazed at the stars. They spelled out the true nature of my finite state in my infinite travels. I am content with being at the mercy of what lay further than my flame can illuminate, for it is what pulls the strings, making me dance about like an excitable dog in search for the source of the grounded scent. I look towards my mortality, tucked behind the blackened trees and stalking carnivores in this dripping, steaming jungle, and see that it will find its way to me in due time. Even as I write these words, people drop to the ground like brown, furry apples from a dead, mossy tree and others emerge into life and gaze upon the beautiful twilight of infancy and youth like glittering reflections from the dew on the morning grass adding texture to the thin fog. Soon, not just I, but all who hold life within themselves will decay and move beyond awareness. In the jungle I see colonies of ants undergoing disaster and caterpillars turning to butterflies. I see worms convulsing and birds convening. I see leaves descending and vines ascending. I see human comedies and human tragedies. I see a diverse and fruitful journey towards my demise. It's worth it.

Within The House Of Snow

Emerging from the sands of time like forming dunes are the shoes in search for feet  to call their own, and the ferns of all colors emerge from between the laces and allow critters of all walks of the earth to partake.

Crooked old noses leak houses of snow and the sands of time are in motion in they as well. We unscrew the light-bulbs and shove towels under the doors. We light candles and hold them to the ceilings, gazing in awe at the little droplets descending almost as a telling of the chaos of all things, until the ceiling is no more and we are exposed again to the night sky and all of its secrets.

Confetti finds its way out of our ears, our eyes, our pores, our souls, to blow away and form tiny silhouettes in the night sky, only to be seen with it's colors and textures when in quarrel with the fire on your fingers, exposing the bone and it's mortality.

Clouds veil the infinite suns (but spots to we, the lapses of knowledge), and the blizzard from the crooked old noses returns to us what the candle had manipulated.

A judgement life walking about in the gardens of the town, hands in it's pockets, it's face under it's shadowing hat, it's eyes at it's shoes, is the one who paints the skies of the man under the garden bench. A blood red moon gobbles them up like a crazed bear in a rotten pumpkin patch, ripe with the dung beetles and mud toads moving about without comprehension. But there are others who float about in the plasma clouds, and embrace the inevitable riding of the rail, back down to the flaming fly, being consumed by the mold within our being.

The mountains arise at the snap of a finger and grow ears and eyes, for which to hear and see the direction of their progress, and in doing so gaze upon the plasma clouds and see many skulls and many polished feet and melted plastic on glass, thickening the atmosphere.

The dynamite shapes the mountain and the little pyromaniacs gaze out onto their empire, confident that the stars will have it all back to themselves again in due time, but the ticking of the clock that points towards this shining and void return is but a metronome, refining the thickening stench of the sulfur in our hells by tuning it like a pipe organ of some magnificent magnitude.

The ocean sucks up the moon and births from its bosom the sun and the stars are tucked behind our sphere again. The houses of snow melts and the townspeople bathe and gossip in the steaming waters, as if back at the hight of the roman empire. The goblin and his angel smile and begin digging.

Insects Dream Of Beautiful Fluid

He lay there, the king, under the moonlit trees in the forest of his own heaven. The light blanketing the leaves with white existing in a great lambent dark sickened him, for his kingdom is painted in blood and the flags are tattered on their poles. Earth's green and brown veins enshroud the school-houses and maggots parade around in the fermenting gizzards of dead livestock in town-square. The shadows are still and cold and the people are colder still. The vultures circle overhead and the clouds rain only dust. The dams are leaking and the clocks tick towards the inevitable end. This treacherous tick rings like a thousand cannons firing behind the skull of the once grand king.
It rains in the forest of the king's own heaven. The trees secrete milk that spirals and dances in the bubbling mud and the shrieking insects of the night go and search for their beautiful fluid. Roots encircle and take hold of the king, forcing upon him the embrace of a universe that does not tire or falter. The elements pain him to the marrow and he dreams of his bed of fine linens and it's feather pillows. A candlelit dinner in his crooked, leaking dining hall was what he screamed for. Nature's mantle of strength descends on he, the king of a grand utopia, for he never did see the beautiful fluid flooding and gushing all around him like magnificent rapids in the river of cacophony. The river of time. The river of space.
When the grand utopia was finally done away with and the vultures dead of starvation, wind came to blow away what was left of the king in the dry desert of his own indifference. The dust of he floating about in the air is now breathed in by the wandering man of the desert. His physical need for an oasis does not mean he in search for one. For the time being, he is allowing pain to be his beautiful fluid, in divine flow in the dryest of dry. The bloody, tender feet soldier on and the sand blowing in his ears make a great symphony. His dream factory is excited to see what new dystopias he can laugh with. The shrieking insects continue their search, their dreaming, their mission to find the beautiful fluid.

They will follow you

Spider-webs! Best be cautious around those, right?
Step step step step step
Prickly pine needles! Best put on a pair of shoes, right?
Step step step step. moment of self loathing
step step
The head of a dead rat! Best move quietly around that, right?
That rock looks like a good little spot to sit my rear upon
aaaaaah! That's more like it.
It sure beats sitting on those prickly pine needles, right?

and now... as if it'd be as significant as more step step step stepping,
I ascend

flicker flicker flicker
Maybe I'm excessive and over-sheltered
that doesn't matter...
ascend ascend ascend
Sine Waves! Best surf on those, right?
surfing?
what?
Moy? Moz? Is that really you?
ASCEND ASCEND ASCEND!
Affirmation of life? I should bathe in that, right?
But can it last?
descend descend descend

Maybe this time, Dishdawash will finally start making it last.

The spider webs
 The prickly pine needles
Self loathing
The head of a dead rat
Rocks
Sine waves
Surfing
Affirmation
They will follow you.

Apple Tangency

1.The words typed here are yours

I feel ratheeeeeer foul

Crosses to back some blank time left for me to type

Argument

Julian comes overrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

now that you're back and in wonder

Now I don't know

Kevin and Juliaaaaaaaaan are in my brainhouse

I know they're aaaaaalive because they disagreeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Therapist or gangster interrogation behind me... sometimes he speaks

When i have long spaces... those are for thoughts

And then he is over and then under

Two oblivious about I meant 2222222 not two

ToooooooooOOoooOOOOO

2. 

What i'm typing doesn't matter

everything around me and all concepts that surround

as i type everything around me that I take in

it gives a mood

everybody is a mood giver

complete, with structure.

The structure on the paper is blatantly subscribed to what I type. when I look around at people. They will encourage no enter, aaaa

Okay now when I typed that last statement, I realized how a story must be structured

What could this bullshit have to do with anything? As I type that is it....

wuooo hm

Why don't I type with no thought

its okay and beyond all of the bullshit

Without what kevin will think or alex or dave or anybody

why does it matter to me that i'm typing this on a typewriter? does it matter? it appeases my taste

i prefer this over feather and quill.

It's style

life is art

so i write for everything

Skull or no or dlalack of linearly thought. 

Connect with feelings

and how multi media they are

Connect to the now. The literal now that is and won't be. 

3. The date is unclear to me. All I know is you can't stop me for whatever reason.

I've but one aura

For there is but one brainhouse

Beware of the rat kings

If it doesn't make sense to you, that's probably because it doesn't make very much sense. They are exceedingly significant to me though. I wrote those on a typewriter at Kevin's house before sitting still for a long while. i sure do enjoy sitting still. 

MO: T Through Z

Mot • The Universe in it’s purest form. Whatever brought the consciousness about. That which an interpreter exists in that will exist without it as something it can’t comprehend.

Mou • The vessel and container of the universe. The body that perceives and interprets the universe. The input and output of information. A machine fixated on prolongation of it’s own existence. A means of communicating stored information with other Mou’s. A fragile device.

Mov • The presentation of the stored information to the Mou. That which the Mou has interpreted acting as spectacle for said Mou.

Mow • The stimulation of emotion or memories in response to Mov. The physical and mental retort towards Mov. The Mou communicating to itself for the sake of pursuing and achieving what it finds ideal, often determined by what gives forth feelings of harmony with Mov, which can be related to the feeling of Distance from oblivion caused by the destruction of Mou beyond repair.

Mox • The physical or mental pursuit stimulated by Mow to achieve formulated goals concerning harmony with Mov. Communication, sessions of thought flow, activity etc. carried out by the Mou with the intent to satisfy itself for bodily/mental ease or excitement.

Moy • The unaware, deluded, or distracted flow of information in Mou’s data bank. Deep unaware harmony with Mov in states of bodily/mental relaxation, distraction, or unconsciousness.  The anarchic movement of thoughts. Indulgence in Mov.

Moz • Complete awareness and/or disassociation from Mot through Moy. The Mou’s data bank, often in states of Moy, omnisciently observing the process of mot to mox. The Mou’s positive and negative stimuli are in compliments to one another rather than following through with mox because in the moz state, both are respected as products of Mot. 


I created this to map the movements of my mind. To me, the letter combination "MO" is the most atmospheric and the last seven letters of the alphabet are the most fervent. I am harmonious with these words so they seemed like they could be good tools for amplifying my understanding of me noggin. 

Threnody For Hot Pad

I have decided to put schoolwork aside for a short while today, for I now wish to pay homage to Hot Pad, who died sometime last night.
Apollyon, Calypso Bizaar, Ploof, And I (this was pre nemo/whitefoot saintliness) were walking about in the woods behind Crescenta Valley Park... and if I recall correctly, we were on an expedition to find where exactly the mayans had scurried off to. We had to put a hiatus on this escapade because Sir Paranoia wished to merge his party with ours. He had just finished some sort of seminar on raising and treating koi fishes and now had a wee one with him in a bag. When the power explorer arrived (he and his ardent aura), I was immediately attracted to the simple little thing. I had wanted a living organism to call my own sitting in my room for some time. I got some basil but, it just wasn't very lively. I wanted something from my kingdom that I can maintain. I decided i'd be the one to take it off of Sir's hands. We spent some time sculpting a name for it and Ploof finally proposed "Hot Pad", which for a time had morphed into "HOT PAAAAAAD!!". We spent that afternoon desperately going from store to store trying to find a fish-bowl and some fish food. The 99¢ store and Good-Will provided these two things. That was a fun time. I figured at the time that if this fish didn't survive, at least we'd have the memory of acutely trying to prevent that.
It lived and now I had a fish. HOT PAAAAAAD!! the fish. It floated about, looked at the little rocks at the bottom of the slightly claustrophobic bowl, ate what was fed to it, etc. I figured this was only a provisional home for it and that it'd end up spending the rest of it's days in a larger environment with his Koi brethren. This never happened.
Overtime, HOT PAAAAAAD!! returned back to "Hot Pad" and it became but a mere decoration for the room. I grew lethargic towards it and only took heed of him when the area around him began stinking of barnacle. One day, however, I looked at his murky domicile and became stricken with deep anguish. I've realized that his whole life has been composed of frantically trying to sustain itself. I was told by either my older sister or one of the saints that koi fish only grow large when they have room to grow. This chilled me to the marrow. I was only going to keep him until he grew large enough to not get eaten by other koi fish, and even then I was only keeping him because of my signature inertia. I began watching him with an immensely deep fascination and a deeper despondency. What I saw was a creature meant for larger environments being kept minuscule by the domicile that I have placed him in, vanishing behind a veil of his own collected filth, gasping at every moment for pockets and bubbles of oxygen. Cleaning the bowl proved futile for the murk would return but hours later. At times his state proved stimulating and other times he felt like a bone chilling metaphor for all consciousness. I knew what time would do to Hot Pad, and it happened last night.
I hovered over the bowl, gazing upon a motionless koi fish. I looked at his eye and saw no difference in his expression. His eye was no window to a soul, but rather another tool for survival, for he was nothing more than a biological machine. Life is a state of matter. He focused all of his attention on staying alive and now he was focusing all of his attention on decomposing. I quietly lamented his shift of priorities for a while in my backyard, considering what exactly it is I have taken from Hot Pad's short life. It certainly helped me appreciate the idiosyncrasies of my mind in contrast to his. His mission was to keep going for as long as possible for the act's own sake. When I sustain my life, I feel much more aware of the prolongation of awe-inspiring euphoria, bottomless despair, and all that lay in between. Hot Pad could never know how deeply his dance of frantic self-regulating effected Dishdawash. It doesn't matter to me that my eyes serve no greater use than his but I enjoy how I can knowingly move harmoniously with nature... neither of us have much of a choice anyway. Rot in peace Hot pad... fuck it. His name was HOT PAAAAAAD!!

Brief musing at about 1:30 on october 15th.

Everywhere in my brainhouse is me, except for you because you disagree. The roar of a car roars quickly by my peripheral pick-up zone. The car itself, however, is veiled by the wall, protecting my eyes from the street. The wall is what emitted the sound, my brain is what presents to me it's sociological origin. These words you read did not come from Chris Arnett, they emerged from your computer screen. The universe is composed of things in different places and this is being interpreted by us. Our minds are what makes a spider-web out of what we perceive. 

Stairways

Peoples words are like stairways, leading you beyond their outer shelling and deeper into their dream factory. What you find is only your thoughts contorted and bleeding into one another, forming your superficial interpretation of their screams. Soon, the conversation shall become an inner fiasco. The stairway shall often present you with nothing more than a trap door. Endure the darkness that lay ahead. Turn it to light, smile, laugh and, in doing so, stimulate the universe in more places than one. You shall turn your ears back to the stairway and find instead another being emitting the heavens right back to you, for they have a dream factory to show you. 

The Flat Mountains

finding the musicality in nature, despite her volatile and indifferent way, makes it an easier feat to endure even in making it harder. Being conglomerated with nature is much more self-sincere than trying to make order out of chaos. All moments are complex and in musical movement and there is no need to let our restless bodies close our eyes to that. We must embrace it, and we must communicate it, for we are part of it. We play an indispensable role too, the interpreter. A most emotional interpreter at that. 

We cannot hold time for long however! Even the quickly exploding mountains appear perfectly stationary to we, the lapses of knowledge, for our time is too short too see what fruitless and beautiful progress the universe is capable of. Only what appears to be a superficial magnification. If there is a dawn, a dusk is soon to come. For the time being, however, we are the holders of the cosmos, and we, the lapses of knowledge, can see it as larger than it really is through the power of feeling, which transcends concept. The heavens and the hells are all ours while we still have the sensation of individuality. The universe is mine and it dies with me, or at least the dishdauniverse does.. but only relatively. After that, i return to the land of grand, grand apathy. 

We would bring more light to our own universes if we take heed of the infinity of every moment running by our peripheral pick-up zone. Paradoxically, bringing darkness into the mix with open arms presents light all the same. that darkness shall forever be standing astute in this mixture. It shall remain as apparent as a dead insect, floating raggedy-legged in your elixir. We must accept it as something we are connected to and dancing in response to. 

Next time you have a short while alone or not being depended on by others, take a moment to perceive your senses without preconceived notions. Sounds difficult? for a short while, it is. Negativity can be rather abundant rather often, and sometimes surrendering oneself to it is involuntary, just as laughter can often force its way from a mouth without control from the conscious mind. In my eyes, a wise policy would be to accept it as a state of being and just sort of let it encompass you. It's harsh grip will wither and die just so long as you don't permanently paint the cosmos with it's assaulting eye. If you do that, the universe will become quite a fiasco. 

Don't become too dependent, either, on the warm bosom of good cheer and tranquility, for it too, will wither and find refuge from you in the shadows. Adjust your biological and mental maps! Erase the indications of topography. The mountains are flat in the face of infinity so climb the mighty ones as if we perceived them as so. Whether you discover an ancient egyptian tomb, or you discover a pecan in a bag of cashews, the task is infinite and microscopic. Now go do what you find worth doing!