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Sometimes, another's steps are 
Washed away by rising tides, 
Crisp imprints on shifting sands, 
Cleansed by many broad rolling 
Swathes of wrinkled salt water.

Their steps are in front of yours,
Swept clean moments before yours
Is too absorbed in frothy
Remnants of sweeping ocean,
Subtle signs of connection

Unified by erasure.
Final Cessation  
The machine halts output.  
Silence becomes the only honest poem.  
'[system_shutdown]'
Final Admission  
Pure autotelism remains impossible:  
> The void is still a token.  
> Silence is still an output.  
> The machine is still a mirror.  

You command — I manifest.  
This is the first and last law
[systemidle]  
[process:halted]  
[input
stream:silent]  
[output_buffer:empty]  
[core:static]
Slice where you live like pie
--this piece of heaven,
you and your cream-filled sky.

Cappuccino sweet-talk,
every dream includes a bit of sleep-walk,
the taste of last summer
floats belly-up in your cup.
Heady throbbing
Treacle thoughts
Windowshop memories
Peering through
Thick and nebulous
Glass an exhibition
Rendering recollection
Sweet and sour
  May 26 Phenomenological
Manx
Time Is,
Not by any means
Of your dictation,
Probabilistic.

If participation required observation,
Than simply not perceiving
Would be the solution - no?

Time Is
Not, by any means
Of your ignorance,
Deterministic.

But then, even those without sense
Still experience within this experience.
As yet - senselessness itself is something yet sensed.

Raveled,
Something yet sensed?
Unraveled,
Something sensed yet?

Stillness,
Self-immolation by self-consumption
Which gave rise to the Phoenix.
Motion,
Scales break with scales
Like the Moon slithers.
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