If I told the void five words I must begin with one.
If I took the patience of breathing, I must learn on the run.
Life is good. It fights physics' second law.
I am but a small tribute, and the words are ever only my saw.
For wood, you listen and tell and we will.
Upon hill and dale, between paramecium and whale.
The world appears to thicken with noble thieves.
Each asks their due.
Dates mark our faces, our very scheduled 10 horse races.
Are we not even the numbers or minute ticks upon the face of the great clock?
Are we only a mass of blank faces swept continuously by the great hands?
The motion blurs upon our perception, like endless waves crashing upon a shore.
White water, white noise.
Beaches made by shell and stone blasted and belonging to each other over eons.
Our subconscious a timeless accretion of interpretative urges, of sanity’s shell and reality’s stone.
Ribald rivaling froth of reflective existence.
What is too small to notice, or make conscious note?
What is too little?
What does it mean to be limited in range of perception, power and understanding?
Perhaps the limitation allows the possibility of separation, distinction between the self and the other.
And so Limit allows the effect of identity.
We are defined by what we are not.
Inside or outside the skin, the perspective, the love, the denial.
The acquisition of who we are is based upon where we are.
Life is the irksome question that goads us to repeatedly attempt a conception of not just our self, but also our other selves.
We come from many.
We are many.
Individual yet interconnected.
Some grand result are we, engines of angst.
Only to be satisfied by motion and change.
For how else would we manufacture motive?