Abandoned window

The world unfolds

before me like an un-gasping-for-breath stream of un-punctuated sentences, meant as a metaphor for a meaning greater to a higher being than we. We sleep peaceful dreaming in colors that don't exist. There is no light inside our minds, only miles and miles and thousands of miles of dark tunnels, busy as all fucking hell, like rush hour in extra high speed. And to what end?

Somehow they're all driven, coordinated by consciousness, amassed to create, and what they build, like the sad pushers of stone that build cities for man, what they build for me is a little story-- a two dimensional metaphor for a meaning higher than it's two-dimensional characters. And that story begins with the words that you just read. You are reading that story right now.