Two things I'm interested in clear statements of, are truths, and lies.
Also errors. Three things.
A rock or
a tree could not describe it. A fish couldn't put it into these words.
Sometimes
it's as if the world, by which I mean my perceptual field and the external
world half crystallized in its goo - the world has been well-greased, and
teeters on a tilted plane, - and I want to try to hold on, not that there
are handholds anywhere, or even that its slope has any particular direction
- just a sense of the gathering fall, an anxious useless scrabbling of
the astral fingers at a world that gives no purchase -
But on the
up side, there's nothing wrong with me that complete and utter annihilation
wouldn't cure.
What if everybody's
wrong about everything, all the time? Can't disprove it. If there's no
death, for example, which everybody's so sure of. If that comfort too should
be snatched away.
shmoetry
Surrealism
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