Syrup soaks the coherence of distributed representations.

Symbols reveal a fuzzy map.

Mouths slur, mechanisms creak, hearts break. Charles Bukowski as a friend. A friend that hates you.

Morning.

Evening. The attractor oscillates;recurrence. Close if slightly disturbed otherwise wild.

With effort, with energy I make my own traps.

Trap; Land that presents as intersubjectivity failure; But ahoy! Pitch introversion with introspection sailor.

For the poisons.

Shamans offer me brews and I decline.

Instead

I turn to bearded men, I read their big-bearded-men-books.

We talk, and exposed I explain and recollect.

Technology, phenomenology, metaphor to vector geometry and to love.

First, then

For this journey.

I prepare

I bury my feet in the hot sand.

I sail then

From a sea and a mother, to a maiden.

The deer?

they come every so often

I name them

The first, who linked with a contract
The swift, who came with a burden of verse
the silent, or unspoken
The devoted, Amor
The fawn, for the future
The spirit, for care
The clever, in the mind
The impatient, who will learn
The trembling, of the seasons
The strange, of creation
The black fire, he persists
The heart, she  binds

I open this channel; send them,  in series they carry this message

We meet.

We talk. Our weeks.

You worry.
The why, the how, the what; the future.
I worry.

You're
strong,
sweet,
sensitive.
I'm
fiery,
withdrawn,
se­nsitive.

You talk about people, the plants, the doves, the seasons, your hands.
I talk about simulacra, the measures. Inattention; the future.

We meet.
In philosophy you rekindle.
We meet.
In language. We build one; we furnish; we move in.
As a space.

We meet in childhood; me and you 12.
We grow up.

I rush into a slumber.
My senses I blunt them. I break the space and I run.