t h e s e n s e s.
and then..
.
return. they will have become ticklish.
Notice: the space between
the seeing & the feeling,
the tasting & the hearing.
infinite & meaningless, and at the same time pregnant with all things.
Now I'm properly embarrassed
(sometimes i feel this chemical trail guilt
from incessant prognostication.
into what flesh does philosophy sink its scalpel?
these philosophical maxims, these poetic expressions...
they are but technologies, shortcuts. we understand on their terms.)
remind me again: no arrival,
only an infinite series of failed experiments performed through the work.
Alas, we must
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