What is the final treatment for bees?
What is it that keeps the floating buzzes of noise from reaching the ears of the ones who eat golden sap?
What makes us so superior to our selves that we are who we are and not what we are?
How is it that every time there is another counter at the end its always closed?
Why do we endure what we endure and not what others endure?
How is it that the quackles of time aren't tangible?
Where do all these lights comes from?
Could they be a a mere network full of imagination?
The imagination that we use to believe in illusions.
The creaming heat of a bagle.
The freezing cold of a near by possibility.
Everything.
With out the the E.
Nothing is left.
You are what you keep your self from falling into a black hole.
Bur why don't you try to stop it?
As long as a anything can get, does it ever end?
Man made or not.
What makes the making if a maker is what makes the maker of nothing.
Maybe.
Too many possibilities.
This or that?
Is that two?
But what is two?
A free form of a limited end?
I think not.
I think not as a thinker but as a stair case to understand what brings everything to being into words.
If you ever do end, then you are an illsuion of your self. And you do not exist.
You keep spinning with out any direction.
But yet what is it that is?
Gobble gobbke gobble.