walk along the codex
rolodex
there is no movement
that is not singular
that is not me
the universe unto itself
is one flat landmass
without a rough edge
when i die it will be no more
i will make it so
when i live it will blossom
life will be found in all its non-corners
there will be no end
to life
the trees that grow out the skin
are all one tree living apart from
human time they are gestating
not yet to be born this earth is
too young and only the amoeba
swim on it
when i die i will cast you off
witness that true language is a virus
that thoughts outside your own have
ever slowly crept inside your head
nothing moves without my eyes to see
why have i created all these sad things?
this is not my fault
the rivers are spontaneous memory
do they begin or terminate at the source
without one there is not other imagine
how the mountain and the rain become
the shore and the ocean how land becomes
water and land again
i have ignored all these things
they arose sprouting from my mind as fungus
as vestigial reveries of other worlds
i am pulling the wheel
one day i will walk upon it
next in front
in the end it will crush me
packing me deep in warm soil
i will bask in the womb of entropy
i will have done many great and terrible things
least of which is this.
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