because the road is no object.
possible explanations: You Don't go there. Just keep your back straight. Capitalize on your sentences. Wasn't she in your class, or your neighbour? Still alive, like you. Impossible to explode. You wanted to explode in Asia, in America, on the moon, in the ocean, in the air. Words are not even words. The handle is lacking on the drawer. The key is inside the locked drawer. You can peek through but it's all dark. Why shouldn't it be dark? The jar of water is transparent. Did you know water is invisible? I'd like to be water, or the dark. Your own personal invisibility-button on your chest. What a relief! The observer only. Of time goes by. It would turn into an addiction, large parts of humanity would turn into dark matter, dark energy not accounted for - but a way to keep the population away from future claustrotopias. Called culture, observing the traditions. You don't know what it is. You don't understand it. Time goes by. Are you someone? Living inside your head gives this sense of unreality, though it's possibly more real than reality, and not less. (The argument usually claims that deviation from practical reality, to shake hands with memories from thirty years ago embodied in their people, is The teacher told you to write in complete sentences though. Those times are gone. Your thoughts don't necessarily lead anywhere. Unless you lead them. As soon as you see where they're headed you avoid them like destiny. You only know that one breath follows another. Want to know. General anaesthesia surprises you. Death is supposed to tell you stories, no? That story must be _life_. When you walk in the woods, you follow what is most probable a path; you write like that; it can be misunderstood at every turn if the mind is put to task; on the other hand it's following a path, not a highway; use the poetical sense, don't complete sentences. don't don't the poe-noetical, a thought for your penny scattered throughout, the read thread, the trodden path, stepwhy's. capsules, time capsules. You didn't go out of the car. Afraid of the ghosts. They will tell you that _you_ are the ghost, and that scares you. you don't want to be turned into one. nobody. though you think with the earth-bound life led, it would be unavoidable... unless they pick up the book and lead a double life - man and his soul. then you can always jump. though, doesn't the gap always widen when attended to? leap into the void. There are many books around, all which will leave you at their sentences. You thought of her yesterday (as a matter of fact). The tent put up in the woods. Grounded, or lead astray into things. Does every memory contain? Or is it just the now? Everything is forgiven and forgotten, a general anaesthesia. And who cares? Life is now. The moments that don't, and sentences without endings, words not properly applied, thoughts not properly defined. It's hard to comprehend the reality of reality. Without the misleading tent we put up, and a bubble text. You are a writer who write words. That's your invisibility-button. A glass of water. 'Glass' has two s's, which also has two s's, and so on. Transparency doesn't end, you just tilt the problem-axis over, x becomes y, and infinity turns into a feature instead of a threat. The long, sole, invisible dimension. The flat tent expands into three, but contracted to one it disappears completely into memory. Couldn't the ants be a little more focused? Why don't they go to that thing over there and investigate it, instead of just roaming about aimlessly? Or they could visit each other and gossip about the queen or just exchange information, what's wrong with that? The queen would understand. Otherwise why bother? Is it nice to be an ant? I don't think they complain about it. Neither do we. The ones who _do_ just disappear, because there's only one anthill. There's no anti-anthill, I mean. What more is there than existence? But if you don't like it you can always write about it and feel better. Ants don't have it this easy (as far as I know). Culture is our anthill, it keeps you from disappearing. But then culture isn't culture, or you would disappear. What we call culture is just something that doesn't really come together as one piece or anything at all. That's why it remains, and why we do. Something happened in 78 When I look at an ant I have to laugh because what is it? I don't know if I laugh at myself or at the ant, or at life in general. We feel we need to know what life is, but then looking at an ant you have to laugh, because what is life? And death of course, the soul and spirit, the after-life with its after-shave. The ant is always busy, here I am sitting on my butt "writing". "They're just feeding their brains", the ants say about us, "they're no better than us, actually a bit worse since they're so mesmerized by it, it's like a drug to them, the sugar thing, only worse because they're supposed to be the top dogs but are simple junkies without knowing it. The can know, but the knowledge also turns to sugar, immediately, everything is sugar to them. For us, only sugar is sugar, but for them everything is sugar, so they have it harder." On Fri, May 31, 2013 at 7:30 PM, James Morris <[email protected]> wrote: > > todo: punchline. > > _______________________________________________ > NetBehaviour mailing list > [email protected] > http://www.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour _______________________________________________ NetBehaviour mailing list [email protected] http://www.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour
