And the man with the battle-bruised segmental fracture fists turned to the cylindrical tree
And asked,
“As you are a wise tree of such a unique shape, I must know if I am the self of tomorrow’s past or the momentary projection of a conscious spirit swimming in a perceptual slew of today’s virtues?”
The tree shed a leaf and observed a drop of rain, now multiplying.
“What difference does it make? Your existence in this interchanging moment is undeniable, when all else, consequently, is.”
The tree paused and saw a ray of electric energy pierce a nearby farmhouse, setting fire to its mahogany foundation-
“We serve witness to a recurring pattern of chaos, always singularly consistent in form while simultaneously imploding within itself against a vacuum.”
The man walked home and thought on this until the wrinkled hands of tomorrow drowned this form towards oblivion.
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