I never could count backward from infinity, the concept of eternity casually eluded me on a silver-back horse holding reins on the floods of organized cacophonies speaking louder than the silent ones. To the silent ones with frozen mouths caught quivering, consumed in doubt: don't let the symphonies of simple minds convince you that you shouldn't try. Forget these medieval magicians bending spoons with indecision -- they're just jesters sharing feasts with crooked beasts, swept up in the tide of disappearing time like rivers ripping rightly through the earth to an oceanic expanse of karma-laced incidents. I can  tell which moments are meant to be, scripted in the folds of destiny by the way space crackles opalescently then glows and ripples incessantly. The ancients knew the riddle, and wrote the verse in broken words.