Winds wash the roaring sorrow, a blanket of days gone by. I see the hours ahead of me and its overwhelming just like the word eternity. Desire and death, candles melt away, as my flame, it will sway, counting hours, counting days.

Slipping down and falling with the restless myriad. Hello we say when we greet and bye we say when we go. To say neither is to say i am always here and will always be, right here. And you, you will be there lost in the same listless mediocrity coated in charmed molecules alike. You love the ride as much as i but that is what it is a ride...

I do it because i have nothing else driving me. The pursuit of something unobtainable at least with this limited perceptual borders only traversersed with the ambitious grunt work of satifaction that leaves you panting like a dehydrated stray. The only thing i have that pushes me forward in a frenzy of info-lust lingering day to day. Save it up, spit it out. But why, ah **** why ive settled into who i am and thered no turning back. Ive seen ends as beginning and vice versa realities spinning from the center of humanity out, nautilus nature of all. Mathmatics and mind, and why...

If i got the perception i question the validity of its origin, the realization that the illusory construct before me is a subjective star struck image cast from the dust of delusion, molecules beautiful and mad arranging the bits of existence into something i call life and you call your own. Its never-ending here in the twilight of truth and the light beaming from far off planets obscured and red shifted just laugh at earthly wisdoms cartooned by its bound.

Yes, futility my old shell of justification left upon the sand of a million grains of thought, every speck individual in the moon spun tides taking the nothing back to the shore writhing undertoe be thy bain, ethereal electra existing in a lie lying existential just like Sartre on a beach blanket.

You are awake, i am asleep in your pineal run through shuffling thumbs of discourse breaking over the atmosphere.  Channels push the erroneously held dissaray of the speculative. One more and more or less, less is more and more is the ***** of self control, shook by the hand that shook the world from its fantasy haze following the enigmatic resolution to an abando and awe struck as always.