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There was something unmanagingly deep about the way my dog sighed. The way he gave me a sidelong glance before doing so. The way he seemed to contemplate as I talked on the phone, knowing that he’d never understand. The way he perked and heaved himself up and bumbled over to me anyway when called, unquestioning in his trust.
That trust was total. It was earned by witnessing me – something so obviously, staggeringly capable – choosing to be gentle. That sigh communicated a distance between us vaster than the stars.
woah
>be god
>be lonely
>meditate eternally as the entirety of everything all the time
>repeatedly try to fall asleep but keep waking up as life
>see yourself from the eyes of countless organisms
>woah
Delusion Machine
"Hydrogen is a light, odorless gas which, given enough time, turns into people." - Edward R Harrison
We are pieces in an unbroken chain that goes back to a scattered cloud of hydrogen, and the unthinkable amount of solar generations hence, each one a dice roll that peeked at our inevitability. For as sure as we exist to say so, we were in fact inevitable. It was only a matter of time.
And even before hydrogen. The quarks, the gluons. The tethers of energetic forces piecing themselves together from a voidless void perpetually filling itself with the only patterns capable of being patterns at all. An infinitude of pure potentiality.
We're no
Galactic Prime
I'm Galactic Prime, number-ornate, dust-woven thermodynamicism incarnate. Bathed in radiation and wrapped up in garments. I see the nest of the hornet and wonder what God meant.
Words come out of my brain seemingly pre-ordained, a matrix of matter combining matters that make the rain feel phatter and fatten the lessons that implode anyway as each new day I am forced to realign my ideals with the actual, factual mess of this consciousness.
Energy spires into wells, conspires into cells, feels its way through the dark until the parts of it that survive the cannon-fodding of its own hapless nodding manage to thrive.
It's doing all of this to
@
The animations in the fire. The ways it falls together, into itself, out of itself, into every next moment.
The thing that chooses, the thing that doesn't. The thing that needs, the thing that doesn't.
The song that ends. The song that is remembered. Not by you. You have to give up. At some point, you have to give up. Most likely, because you'll be forced to. We'll have to leave each other. We'll have to remember each other, and never again get to see each other. But then we, too, will get to die.
We don't want to, do we? Not really. Though we deprave absurdity, we crave potential.
But a song is defined by silence. Death is singing to
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