consciousness forever splitting into the various possibilities of thought, each one with its own self-perspective, jeezus, the ever-burgeoning image of all that might be, activated by thought alone, and unknown to exist anywhere outside it.

anywhere.

I have heard claims of egg-shaped, smooth metal objects, etched with unknown symbols, found embedded in people’s brains. I’d like to see one, see the hand of it, how I might pick up a ceramic cup, turning it over, guessing about its age, origin, if it’s a contemporary studio piece, maybe I might know the maker. will this metal egg seem machined, or poured, or meticulously carved by madmen? I would inspect the smooth metal with my hands and eyes, under good light, and sense the small pull the maker’s attention always leaves in the made. See it without confining it, the Seeing is without strings. not knowing is the most powerful position, the ripest. what i’d be feeling for is familiarity, the object reporting the sensations of its own making.