"Slowly, Clearly, Calmly"

What does the cat think about when it sits ever so delicate and halcyon against its lucid reflection? It has nothing better to do for the day. It has just woken up; Its eaten; groomed; played a bit with its favorite object; gotten what it needed out of its human; and passed its waste. What does it think while watching the lives that shuffle down the street? Do you need language to hear your own voice? To form thought? What is the cats voice of thought? What does it fill its expansive space with? Is thought a product of boredom? Does it wish for escape? Or does it appreciate its post in the threads of your curtains?

Inside a dim and ancient hallway lies many rooms and many lives. The doors echo each other for what seems like an endless square canal. Tucked away inside the numbered rooms are their minds and information. Open one door. Pick up one belonging. Does it host a meaning? A reason for themselves? Can they explain themselves? Or year after year of acquired knowledge do they question their motives? Do they try and refine their previous weights for more balance?

One day an individual inside this still and unchanging hallway exits. The individual walks against the dark tan walls and above the red carpet. Before the individual knows it - there stands his door - his number. There's a hum of incandescent lights playing softly in the ears. Its as if it was calling from miles away. Its a fuzzy, warm, distortion, now. Like the most delicate pressure of bells or chimes. With the grip of a cool handle this individual is sleeping again. There's a cut, some phosphenes, and its sun break. Up again. This individual stares out the one, almost wall-sized window of light. The window here is a seamless addition to the house; with no smudge and no fingerprint. He sips his coffee and stands against his lucid reflection. His cells peer too. They all wonder.

One day an individual inside this still and unchanging hallway exits. The individual walks against the dark tan walls and above the red carpet. Before the individual knows it - there stands her door - her number. There's the hum of incandescent lights playing softly in her ears. Its as if it was calling from miles away.

One day an individual inside this still and unchanging hallway exits. The individual walks against the dark tan walls and above the red carpet. Before the individual knows it - there stands his door - her number.

One day an individual inside this still and unchanging hallway exits. There stands her door - his number.



And its because we all exist here - like so many megatons. We try and find all the correct motions - the necessary motions. We step like mannequins against fox fire. A cruel sheltered hue of coexistence. We interact with things we will never be a part of. We're trying to complete something that's been solved. Its always been solved. All of it. Its a simple act of definition - of order, class, phylum and so on. We have taken this long to decipher everything - still things left unturned - it almost seems unreasonable, really. All these minds... we correlate with what? How do we examine the expansive flow of linear processes? Isn't that what decision is? Or, if we were to examine the flow, could we peer into the future? We are great time travelers you and I. We divulge all of our senses with great precision - Or perceived precision - we can revisit the past and potentially foresee the future. Where are we and what is this majestic place we tromp through? A muddied mess of concrete. The world will be over-run by rocks - by calloused barren soundscapes. The only thing to reminisce of times of old would be the wind. Could we change that? Are we all calculated strands of the same epicentrum? We can all say: it wasn't me? I want to illuminate. I want to be a spur of imagination or hold a conversation with one. Its all such a delicate persuasion. Maybe a roundabout.

We are made of cells. Every facet of our body is something else that is living so to say. Do we imitate their behavior? Are we run by them? Do we imitate there monumental builds? They facilitate with practical, perfect tune. A road is a capillary. A building - an organ? Leaving and entering our bodies these organisms defy the things we still try to conquer. Synaptic firings. An electric, pure transport. From the macro, to the micro, is all the same. Rotation, rotation. Our own minds have the potential to fool us - literally - into seeing things that are not there and doing it in such a completely real manner. We have our own ability to fool ourselves, even, manually. Do we really? We believe in so much illusion. Sometimes we can understand "this is not real. This is an illusion, a delusion". However, we still cant shake its validity. The world could in unison shout "its not real!". You'd still feel it, know it, see it. How is that so possible? Slowly, clearly, calmly - this organic material yearns. I'd exchange life for a moment of knowing everything there is to know. What would you do with immortality? Does death scare you because of the idea of not knowing everything? Where this is all going? Why it is going? We all like to predict. Slowly, clearly, calmly, yet with a subtle power and passion and perhaps, lastly, then we can find a whole source. We concern ourselves with frivolous motions. Or is that up to who perceives you? Can any one carbon-based entity define your practicalities? The theorem for the flow seems so reasonably easy when you think about it. We have successfully been complicating ourselves since thought began. This is a useless riffle.