(no subject)
Nothing gives thought more injustice then a few unread words, written to some convention of private-speech to be read but not understood. Even as I sit here pondering the matter of the subject, the meaning is not a matter of itself. The meaning rests largely without reference. The words go in and out. They are pronounced in a dialect of a crude refinement, with overtones of the personal.
All cerebral form is a reaction to an unknown. All lack of understanding creates vaccum and weight for understanding to mature and assimilate.
I digest things in my head. Long strains of digestion and short bursts of anxiety-like-saturation are the digestions of the cerebral. The chain of life is like the chain of meaning or language. The unknown equates the direction, the mystery is all wise, all consuming, all powerful, and all producing. The egoic moderations between this movement and itself are the very fabric of design, which is built to release itself back into the movement, which again is the mystery. The chains, the strains, the compositions of energetic perception. The perceptual genesis stores itself into concepts; concepts are like fats to be broken and created, into and out of the non-contextual sense.
MY MIND RACES TO AN EXTREME PACE, it takes nothing more seriously then certain certainties of END. What beauteous transformation I could impart upon the world if these importunate desires and impotent waitlessnesses could be re-juxtaposed. If only new meaning could allow for all to begin against nothing less then itself. Only then would I change END into AEND? No it never begins and ever ends; know it ever begins and never ends!
Non-contextual coin flippery, line-knot worked dispositions, equates any side to any side equalling the wall truly magnificient peace that I always imagine should come after my ideations but never appears, succumbing instead to an opposite of continued opposition, almost homogenous in its contentionality, in its reactionary dischordance.
All cerebral form is a reaction to an unknown. All lack of understanding creates vaccum and weight for understanding to mature and assimilate.
I digest things in my head. Long strains of digestion and short bursts of anxiety-like-saturation are the digestions of the cerebral. The chain of life is like the chain of meaning or language. The unknown equates the direction, the mystery is all wise, all consuming, all powerful, and all producing. The egoic moderations between this movement and itself are the very fabric of design, which is built to release itself back into the movement, which again is the mystery. The chains, the strains, the compositions of energetic perception. The perceptual genesis stores itself into concepts; concepts are like fats to be broken and created, into and out of the non-contextual sense.
MY MIND RACES TO AN EXTREME PACE, it takes nothing more seriously then certain certainties of END. What beauteous transformation I could impart upon the world if these importunate desires and impotent waitlessnesses could be re-juxtaposed. If only new meaning could allow for all to begin against nothing less then itself. Only then would I change END into AEND? No it never begins and ever ends; know it ever begins and never ends!
Non-contextual coin flippery, line-knot worked dispositions, equates any side to any side equalling the wall truly magnificient peace that I always imagine should come after my ideations but never appears, succumbing instead to an opposite of continued opposition, almost homogenous in its contentionality, in its reactionary dischordance.