These lines are straight, cut into the fabric of time, the moss of the liquidated mind-- measured and steely faced. But thought, irrational in void and memory, psychic optometry that refuses the linear constrain of space in the face of a world delegated by man-- Oh! thought is broken circles! four dimensional fabric bubbling softly like a thick stew, crisping like flowering smiles unfurling and thousand and a thousand buds, petals singed by the hot violet oil swirled around and around in the mental pot of nourishment. Theories of relativity...they are drawn in arcing curves that crest like jagged mountains thrust techtonically into sharp, upward slopes, predicting percolating sacrelige in primary hues; forgotten blending, thought can never be expressed verticallyhorizontallymelancholy the stressed, mummified yawns of gridded gallops through tracks of woven rigidity. Even the line of gurgling laughter breaks, trips, and at last ceases to be, and there the birth of submergence lingers. But in the infinite reflection of reality all line is a mobius.
all straight lines, circle sometime ...its magical how life does that... experiencing the standing wave of time and space and our freefall orbit along delivering chills of awe as we slide along the black-deep-space velvet fabric that always yawns upon itself inverting and transposing this a 4th dimensional loop that lives inside experiential movements feel it in the breeze see it in the hills, cricks, and plants familiar unknown faces -from a transient portal in this land swiss cheesed at the mercy of mans hands
