could it think the heart would stop beating

the dangers of decay are the dangers of a sentimentalized fear

mysticism is psychic holography

lifes goal seems to become as rotten as possible so that when one dies theres nothing left to rot

i have no rest from a consciousness that primarily seems conscious of itself as conscious of an anarchically diffuse and paltry consciousness

i must tremble if the possibility of play no longer attracts me

the plant intrudes in the human and speaks inside

dying is a mode of seeing the invisible

holding within word

languages of earth

the only legitimate autobiography would be one with dozens of prefaces introductions forewords postfaces prologues preambles epigraphs afterwords prolegomena conclusions postscripts addenda with little consistency (thematic stylistic chronological …)      no body to speak of

hornbook of sadoo hirpyz

for those new to planet earth

and

wishing instruction in the ways of the human

a brief version of a multivolume treatise on the practice of law

to prime students in the application of dimensions and the geometry of time

through case studies

in this age of relentless and pervasive light sound communication our craving for the darkness of incomprehensibility increases commensurately

i do not renew i denew  i am full of denewments

transcendence is the mathematics of the souls geometry

writing literacy from literacys grave

the world              make your voice count

i                             0 17 81 257 912

m.d.

the feeling that comes with aging … feels like nostalgia but isn’t, lacking its reduced colour, its need to experience certain configurations of time and identity as superior (or inferior – as regret, bitterness).

nevertheless, with accumulation of losses, a feeling visits in relation to these accumulations, these assets, that feels as if it has something to do with time. but, when explored, has more to do with the nature of dream.

my experience of dreaming has increased and it is this – oneirocompetence – that i would name this feeling, and nothing sentimental ... experience that skirts deftly around the scrimmage of opinions, the tedium of politics, the oppositions of feeling, and a false pretense of language toward knowing.