I see you, staring down into the pool of your light filled machine, gazing, your own reflection obscured by words, these words, which you are reading, entering your mind, via the cortex, visual, being patterns, recognized, being categories, categorized, placed, as on parchment, as though to be dried, as though for collection, collecting, you trickle through, aware, of these words, falling, falling down if I say falling, tripping, your tongue is involved, but it is a, backseat, driver, its only job, a minor flexing, for inward pronunciation, inside, above it, sounds which it will never, itself, form into complex and uniform vibrations which would be put into the world to be caught, exclusively, that is, for only the ears, specifically your ears, specifically, my ears, which will not catch anything, except the tipping sound, keys going, which I can hear, but which will, by the time you are seeing this, be over, expired, this will be no longer a process, it will, cease to be, in motion, it will be a record, of the event, of my thinking, the cortex, again, I think, but not only, it is, a whole body, it is, a whole mind, it is visual, black and white, symbols, it is, thought, it is, distilled, a distillation, I am reaching you, am I reaching you?
I am trying, typing, to get through some membranous barrier that exists, inherently, between us. This inter cyber web that has the both of us snared, me, on my end, putting in, you, on your end, gathering out, getting something, somewhere, or, are we? Maybe not. I have a feeling though, it is not from here, the cortex, which here is merely the translator - translating for us, from me, to you, this feeling, so that you might come to see it, read it, understand, and through some strange human from of transmutation, come to feel it, too. The feeling is of seeds, gathering, and ripely, and about to spill, from the grassy fist, of their mother, and about to burst, and what will come of them, the progeny, the bursting forth, the new life, as solitary, they become, another, this is how my thoughts are, now, and if they land on your soil, then perhaps they will bloom, and so, I say them again, and again, silently, and you pick them up, if you like, and gather them, save them, put them by, for future use, in your garden, which, in this case, is your cerebellum, and I say that I want you to have these seeds, and I say that they are seeds of something good, and that is because, what I want you to know, is that perfection, it is impossible, and creation, it must be made free from the tyranny of
perfection's grasping groping choking distorting disorienting fist, because perfection,
is only a concept,
only have power if we give them power
is not a concept
creativity is a force