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Lush shades of pink and nearly translucent white, set in shapes held together by thin membranes. Layers upon layers, upon layers of them. Moving. Majestically. Golden backdrops. The smell of freshly burned leaves suspended in cold air. Fruit. Very, very ripe fruit. far away. Moist reflective surfaces. -- the hand in my left pocket is holding on to an object that has by now taken on an almost feverish temperature. I am waiting for it to vibrate. It will not. Not in the next 10 minutes. -- On the train. Shielded. Radio signals do not penetrate the shell. Are we flying? These are short flights through a permanent night. Turbulences synchronize the passengers. The train is a group meditation temple for those with very short attention spans. -- my lips stopped bleeding. for now. good balm. -- "I keep visiting your blog, though the digital camera seems to have devoured the drawings. How come people love to just push buttons instead of taking their time to guide a pencil along a not yet existant line?" -- "do you think everything will be good?" "everything will be." "good?" "neither good nor bad... it just will be." -- It will... be... -- "You know on the plane, they tell you to put on your mask first and then to tend to your child. Think about that." -- be... and it will... -- neither bad, nor good... just here... -- pushing buttons only makes sense when there is a real response, an interactive, immersive experience. maybe... what do we look like to machines we operate? Does my computer think that I am a finger at a time? Or that I am one finger? Maybe two? Two really fast fingers? What if the entire world were built in a way that one could only press one key at a time? How silly to have a thing that is a mouse pointer. -- the injuries are worse again. as if the cycle were appear to be nearing another bottom... -- spans attention very short temple meditation group a train of thought reversed? the thoughts are turbulent and act as odd passengers on a journey backwards into the invisible night. as if one were a backwards flying, shielded being, often deaf and blind to the signals of the ether... can we train ourselves to listen better? it might take some real time... -- my right hand has folded a twenty dollar bill in my pocket. i can not see the result, but i have seen these images over and over again. they still make me tremble. temperature? cold sweat? are ten minutes over? can we talk? -- Reflections of suspended moistness in far away surfaces. Clouds really, hanging over the city like very ripe fruit. Perhaps smoke, from the freshly turned leaves. The scent is such an intoxicating memory of childhood. The glittering air of the longer mornings and evenings is golden, majestic, moving slowly. As i am tearing off layers upon layers upon layers, to get to the core of things and myself, by myself, so my universe can collapse in some ways, so it becomes possible to slip through the thin membranes of uncertainty. and back into a place where... Lush shades of pink and nearly translucent white, set in shapes held together by thin membranes. which i would love to whisper to, i kniht.

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This page contains a single entry by Witold published on November 10, 2004 12:43 PM.

when it becomes clear that with us or against us are both simple crutches for very narrow, tiny minds? Perhaps? was the previous entry in this blog.

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