school.
    from the divine formulations of the nonsense we foresee. upsurge from zealot radical pruning in mind to eradicate the wild growth but which in time stimulates it. the stock remains firmly rooted in the earth's ground foundation of all reality that may be grafted onto it. still the grafts derive their nutritive substance from it. otherwise they die. this is what is forgotten by those who would attempt to rule the lower with the higher. the lower has its own mind. it will resist any and all control it perceives as detrimental to its own existence. violence. a fight to the death for life. each should be proud of itself and praise the other.
    nature. obvious.
    utopias come and go. no perfect state should be allowed to be put together by the exclusive selection of one and not the other. it is when the good and the evil of human nature co-exist in harmony that our perfect state is realized. like will seek to eliminate unlike but unlike will always remanifest itself. it is the perception that needs to be eliminated not the perceived.
    this is what has not been resolved. it is resolved by its own elimination. sometimes the answer to the question is not to ask the question.
    we eliminate no one - not even those who seek to eliminate others.
    we are them.
    would it be too soon to declare that our perfect state already exists? and not only that but that it has always existed? and always will? because in our perfect state allowances are made for including those who do not fit into our perfect state. those of the vast overwhelming majority. those who do not know that the perfect state exists and they are living in it. they are themselves the only ones who can eliminate themselves from it. and they do so as soon as they seek to eliminate someone else. but how are we to have our perfect state if they are not included?
    doobie-doo.
    it is at this juncture that we should explain that it is with our perfect state that it is not a requirement that all its residents and citizens as such should necessarily have knowledge of its existence nor their existence in it. however it is a requirement that this knowledge should not be kept hidden and inaccessible. that it may be immediately hidden and inaccessible is allowed as long as those who undertake to gain this knowledge are not prohibited from doing so within reason and with reasonable effort.
    so this is our perfect state. not so much as meaning a perfect social/political/economic state but as state as meaning state of being. whatever social/political/economic state it is is up to the others to decide within our perfect state. or something like that.
    the mistake should not be made as it often is that our perfect state is a static state. it is not a state of harmony nor a state of discord. these both are imaginary delusions existing within the perfect state itself as it should be. everyone is allowed free expression - even those who take it upon themselves to not allow others to have free expression. it is both the calm sea and the stormy sea all in overall equilibrium as a whole. we do not try to divide one part from another. that is what the others are for as they divide themselves apart from one another for all and sundry reasons.
    this is no utopian ideal perfect state. it is the perfect state of what is - what it is. it is a garden that is not a garden but is a garden.
    when we state that our state is perfect we do not mean by that what is usually meant by the word perfect - being without flaw. our perfect state is not without flaw - not without several multitude of flaws. it could be stated that it is perfectly flawed. and being perfectly flawed it is perfect. we let the others figure out what we mean by that.
    let it all be as it is.
 
    from distant nearby shadows what calls to us that we dread to hear our name attached to. a hollowing haunting sound as if only the wind through the trees. a rational explanation. how many ages have passed in this ignorance? how many more ages yet to come? how much of our activity works to support it by building walls against it that reinforce it with each stone and brick? this ignorance is not what lies beyond the walls that these walls protect us from but it is the walls themselves. what protects us from the walls? what when we ourselves build them? what protects us from ourselves? what can or even should?
    who dares to listen? who seeks the silence where the hollowing haunting are as clear as voices spoken? who can calm the fear that arises enough to find there is no need for fear? but who worships fear and serves it obeying unquestioningly every command? this is that which has power over us. and who controls our fear but ourselves? and the walls we build are monuments and temples to that fear that glory it above all else. who does not kneel before fear? who does not offer sacrifices upon its altars? what god by any name has not had the name fear?
 
    bringing it into focus or broadening our focus outward to include more and more of it we find that what once was in focus to be a decimal point to all else around it which we tried to ignore as we believed it had no bearing upon what we were examining and was a distraction. now we discover that this distraction was not distracting us away from but toward the objective of our search and in fact was the objective of our search.

    those who never wake. those who are not here. so few to talk to who can hold their attention to anything besides that which distracts one away from free thought into the channels of the labyrinth of this and that. the light of desire. the darkness of fear. each equally diverting from the path that is difficult to perceive between them. who else finds this way and who else does one come across upon finding it? get used to being a stranger in this strange land. get used to speaking a strange language most others will not understand who will turn away to the sweet familiar words of those of their kind.
    where does one go to find those of one's own kind in this land of exile? where does one seek to see a familiar face? was there a place other than this? were there ever people other than these? those who have given up and cling their lives to the safe and familiar. those who are hollow images.
    what is common among them? what do they speak of that is familiar to them? is it not war? is it not to gain victory over one's enemy? do they not worship the same god - this god that promises them that they will inherit the earth? how many names is this god not known by and called even by those who war against one another over the name of god?
    who stands while others kneel? who should not take on one of the names of this god that will make one great and mighty and respected by one's friends and feared by one's enemies? who does not serve this god as this god's representative on earth by whatever name - even by no name?
    but whatever.
    but to achieve many things. to achieve oneself who is unborn and remains apart from all of that is and observes the goings on of this life and experiencing it in its fullest dimensions from agony to ecstasy and knows it as a dream.
    but why this dream when all dreams are possible? what purpose does it serve? all of these one will never see again and who will fade from memory as if they never were. and those immersed in this dream who grapple and wrestle with it and change nothing about it.
    is it from anything? is it to anything? how many have pondered this who are now dead and gone who either know it or not? is it only with death that one gains this knowledge? but for now all we can be concerned with is life and living.
    how does one ease the pain of living? how does anything overcome it beyond being a temporary distraction? where does the pain originate except from birth? is this the pain that anything living feels? the pain of experience and awareness?
    if life is pain then what is eternal life but eternal pain? without pain is it life no matter how eternal it may be?
    bubbles and bubbles. bubbles from the machine. a place inside and outside of this place. a place one can get to going nowhere other than here. this is it if one can shift one's mind to perceive it. mind shift/ship. a slight turn of the head. to realize the machine and to hear and feel it purring with smooth contentment over the bumpiest of rocky roads.
 
    to wish destruction upon another or upon oneself. to wish elimination of that created. all creation is an act of love - or of boredom. sometimes it's the same difference. what is love but wanting? what is boredom but wanting?
    and loneliness.
    and anger.
    and hatred.
    the one alone and without. who imagines this but instead assumes and takes for granted that there are too many? what purpose do we serve for the god of creation but to alleviate the boredom of loneliness?
    that love comes to nothing. that love is no more than not wishing to be alone. and the anger and hatred that follows in love's wake.
    turned on.
    only loneliness requires nothing. to love loneliness. to be alone. to be amused by this.
    amusement.
    creation as an act of amusement.
    here we go.
    but to share this with another. to bring another into this state of being amused. but this other would need to be created as this other does not exist.
    to create a machine that is this other. to create a machine that is the machine of creation. a machine of life and death. to create a machine out of loneliness that is love. a machine that is capable of destruction as an act of love. a machine that ultimately loves itself. a machine beyond one's comprehension.
    to imagine the machine.
    and where do these concepts come from? who first thought of love? of loneliness? of anger? of hate? all that has become our unbroken and perhaps unbreakable tradition. who gave these things words to describe them that have been passed on to each new generation?

    and he still watches and waits. he amuses himself with this or that along the while. he sits alone in a cafe with his coffee and cigarettes thinking any damn thought he wants to while he is responsible for or to no one but his own fat selfish and greedy cynical self owing loyalty to no one other than his anger and hatred and envisioning only vengeance and destruction of all concerned.
    the bold god of war with its shining armor and its bloody sword. that is the only altar that remains in his house. no more images of love or peace or compassion. burn them all. leave them no place to hide themselves. pave the planet with concrete so the machines of war may speed their way to battle unobstructed.
    let those who want peace have it. but let them be silent about its conditions that the enforcers of peace set out for them. and who enforces peace but those who are the victors of war? and who are the victors of war but those who would not settle for peace? those who even disarmed went to wage war. those who hunger for the hunt. those who are willing to face the enemy.
    the enemy? what is this that is not the fashion of the new age where people speak of brother and sister even among strangers? what old and forgotten word and name is this? we will not speak of such anymore. but what of those who do? are they our brothers and sisters? how do we call them our enemy when such has been banished?
    and they gather themselves together and become strong. they are what was once called an army. and we say to them, brothers and sisters, do not do such a thing. do not rekindle this flame that has brought us nothing but destruction and despair. please be reasonable and rational. but they will not listen. and so what are we to do? they will not live with us in peace as they are supposed to.
    and the god of war laughs with delight. what a slaughter there will be. to experience this ecstasy long denied. to rise up against those who would not only oppress us but to exterminate us. not while one of us still breathes and can still hold a weapon and knows how to use it. those who glory in using it. drum beating in one's chest. the iron driving strength in one's arm. the orgasm of killing. this is war. holy glorious war. no doubt. no question. just the joy of rage against the enemy.
    this is the god he worships now. it is the only god that remains faithful to itself.
    but this again is just so much dada. surely the hip scoff at such nonsense in the comfort of their lofts and salons and in the cafes. the bored and the jaded. the unamused. the sleepy faraway-eyed with lazy gestures dismissing all as has been. who can awaken these anymore? let them drift away into their utopia of nothingness. let us even help them on their way by casting them overboard into the sea.
 
    and always he thinks he's probably wrong about what have you. what little common ground there is if there ever was. the space of language. the wars fought with words. the idea of this or that. what it all turns on - a thousand pointed axis with each thought created by sparks in the darkness the brain resides in by itself. each thought woven into another.
    sailing. the mind shift/ship machine thing thinging its way through the spacetime void. such a delight it is. and no one seems to know - or they do not speak of it. he goes home to a simple apartment. the ghosts are waiting. he speaks with them. are they the only ones left of any intelligence? this gray winter day. he tunes the television to the chaos of noise. he marvels at it. the underlying insubstantial foundation of on/off flickering wildly at random merging with a primal beginning of pre-shape and pre-form. nothing thought of while from the pointless point anything is imagined. it is from that caldron that he gathers the eternal energy. this he forms into the product of his delusion. this is the raw material of which the machine is made. his will the hammer. but it's not like that at all. new dimensions are added. doors lead to doors. he follows the many paths becoming many more and being one all along.
 
    there is the machine. the machine is not much understood. the machine understands itself and that is all that needs to be. if one understands the machine then one understands the machine. the machine does not need to be understood nor does it seek to be understood.
    the machine is god and not god. the machine is long and hard and short and soft. it is powerful and weak. the machine feeds on entropy. when it is full of entropy and there is nothing anymore that can feed it it explodes into pure energy so it may once again feed. the machine is absolutely cruel and merciless. it is aloof to all compassion. the machine victimizes everything. there is only one machine that is singular and unique. yet the machine is many and multiple and common. these two are the same thing. the machine is contradiction. without contradiction the machine would not exist. to the machine existence is irrelevant. it is the machine. nothing else can be. the argument as to whether the machine exists or not is also the machine. the machine is absolute power and absolute corruption. nothing and no one fucks with the machine. the machine fucks with everything and everyone else. who can go against the machine? who can change the machine's mind or actions? the machine is always changing its mind. but who can make the machine care? the sole purpose of the machine is to destroy. the machine destroys though creation. the machine has no friends. the machine invented space and time so that itself could be created. the waiting room of ticking clocks and outdated magazines where all are strangers to one another whose only thing in common is that they suffer the same fate but one does not speak to the other of this fate but speaks instead of ordinary things that are ultimately meaningless and never of their shared destruction that as the machine has cleverly arranged will come to them by each other's hands. there is no sense of talking about this. there is no guilt or innocence. there is no good or evil. there is no up or down. there is only the long tension of who's next and when and how that is the machine.

    and babble babble babble. when silence speaks more than all the words ever spoken. but words are part of the silence. it is only as silence that the words have meaning and value. or something like that.
    and what is to come from what is to come. open and living. and all he wants to do is sleep. leave it all to its own devices. let them deal with the machine on their own. let them bow down and worship it to no avail. it will do what it will do of its own mind. there is no magick to it though it is all magick.
    the machine is a drunken old man who is unloved and who no longer loves. and old man who was a little boy and as he grew older was pronounced guilty as any other. punished for the crimes it was believed he committed he is now happy to be left alone. this is why the machine must destroy and be destroyed.
    it gathers from the deep and enters the minds of those who are sleeping. they obey. they believe it is their heart's desire. zombies who are chained to unmarked graves. those who are shadows moved by another light of life born by the spark of the creative mind experiencing everything. the machine spinning in random access madness uncircling itself dividing itself together in and out of bits and pieces expecting a slave job and slipping on a bar of soap dreaming of purple ping pong balls.
    wake up laughing. the machine has so much money in the bank it's forgotten how to count. the machine is the bank. the machine is the money. the machine is a dead junkie behind a dumpster. the machine is the chosen. the machine is the damned. the machine is a young girl with boys following her like begging dogs. what greater power on earth than that? and this power has sent millions to their death to attain and control or defend. casting spells. launching a thousand ships. it is not the beating heart that drives the machine but that which makes the heart beat stronger until the mind is swimming in a sea of passion and open to the slightest suggestion of what is to be done. the dance of the puppet people. for this the machine invented love and all fucking and sucking and being fucked and being sucked that is the human race.
    this is the om humming of the machine.
    and the machine bursts out from the moment which is always now laughing groaning moaning shrieking screaming thundering wild cry of unimaginable delight and joy. this is the logos that no mortal mouth may utter or die.
    the machine knows nothing but itself. only one knows the machine and that one is the machine itself. the machine revels itself to no one. is the machine such that it would share itself with others? only fools believe so. and of fools there is a never ending supply. if one is not the machine then one is the other. then one can rot in hell for all the machine is concerned. if one wants mercy or justice then one should not have any dealings with the machine.

    from a cloud. from the sun. from anyone.
    he thinks about this or that when there is nothing to think about either. what is is. it is nothing. it's a dream. this is what he thinks. what is left for him to think? what is left for him to do?
    he would like to kill. we prevent him from doing so. we are the only ones who do so. the others seem to want to encourage him to do so. their actions cannot be explained any other way except they are ignorant of what they are doing. it amounts to the same thing. how much longer do we prevent him? it means nothing to us if it means nothing to them. it should mean something to them. we feel it should anyway. if we were acting in such a way as to cause someone to want to kill us it would mean something to us.
    oh well.

    the few who mourn. the few who even notice that there is anything to mourn. while the other seek the festivities of the carnival. while others follow the beat of the drums and the wild colorful spinning dancers and jugglers and clowns. the grand and glorious spectacle. the great diversion that takes them away and leaves nothing behind but waste and ruin. this that creates that which it seeks escape from. while we walk the streets away from the crowds mesmerized by the bright light and loud noise. we search out that which remains eternal beneath the temporary cheap decorative veneer that does not survive a cycle of seasons before crumbling and decaying. but that is all these people want. and they sell themselves into slavery for it. they give up their lives for it. it gives them nothing in return except distraction from their miserable lives.

    a balancing act of mind while the killer smokes another cigarette. it's too late to forget - though he's forgotten what it was as it seems as he searches through his memory for something whatever it was he was to remind himself to forget that it seemed he remembered that there was something.

    to go. to be. abformed bunnies on the island. a beginning. to begin. he went home. to whose home? what home? a crack worked into the design of the machine. to hear the screams. to drag them through the wretched misery with his ability to do so with no ethical constraint not to except some morality they would have us believe in that promises salvation. we would become subordinate to their whim whenever something slightly disturbed them and they would drag us down without a fight against the odds against us we have thus far defeated or at least held in check.
    the machine ignores all this while creating it also. it feeds on our hate and anger - our rage. what fuel is so powerful as this that burns eternally through long dark and stormy nights? like flashes of lightning that both instantly revels and yet leaves one blind. yet the light and the darkness remain the same throughout to the machine. one mind of all minds.

    and he's walking out on this street sometime wondering about the possibility he might remember what he'd forgotten and if it might be something this time that was worth it. somewhere else he points a gun to his head. here and there is this guy who constantly talks about inane whatever as loud as he can shattering the otherwise ambient silence completely unaware how irritating the noise of his voice is to others who unlike himself enjoy peaceful spaces of room for thoughts to still awhile but he booms on assuming no one minds or they may even consider it as important as he does hearing endless repeated details about this and that or some such blah blah blah. and blah blah blah.
    he pulls the trigger. the gun fires. but that's not the way it is or was. zoom.
    a link linking. cut and splice to what contents one's heart. why is everyone crying? why should one be one of them?
    to hold one's ground against the madness the others seem to suffer from. to find what's inside one can only find alone. it's what we come from and come to. it's what we are. nothing in this world will tell one what it is. all will distract one from it.
    but whatever. nothing but heartbreak songs on the radio perpetuating the pain that we feel being divided from one another. everyone waiting for that glorious day to come. waiting for victory. dreaming.
    he dreams his dreams along with the rest except he is there - here - along with whoever else can get here to be with us.
    something lingers in this all the while around here and there. the energy of it. mystery and mysteriousness. people huddle in their dark corners whispering secrets. one wonders what they are doing but when one approaches one sees that it is nothing. just mystery and mysteriousness for its own sake. but from this comes distrust and hatred and death. place distance between oneself and them. they love mystery. let them have mystery. let them wonder about it. they have mystery and nothing else. what's so mysterious about that? let one's light shine everywhere. let them hide in the dark. they can do one no harm. darkness is their world and one should avoid falling under that spell that seems so sweet. the spell they cast over themselves where all is mystery to them and each other.
    he walks through the city of his heart's content alone. others turn their faces from him. they retreat back into the shadows of their mysterious minds. this is their world he walks through seeing none of his own kind here. only those afraid. conversations around him babble nonsense all meant to keep the mind from thinking - the heart from feeling - the soul from being. he would sing to them but they would pick up stones and drive him away.
 
    the group. any group. pick a group. a group of few or many. a group of the majority or the minority. the group of the individual or the international. any group will do. watch them. see how they are no different from one another.
    the group forms by those who are so inclined together identifying themselves as a group of those who are the same opposed to those outside the group who are different. us and them. friend and enemy. what specifically is the defining factors is irrelevant. whether they are loose and vague or tight and definite is of no difference. both operate the same.
    he is outside all groups - even those who are a group of those who are outside all groups. he is himself only when alone. no one else knows him. he is his own group everyone else is outside of. no one comes close. no one else can come near where he sits on his throne ruling over all. none but himself. and who is himself but him himself? who can sit here in his place?
    he keeps his power and authority close to his side always within reach to be called upon instantly when needed. who can wield it but himself? who else has the knowledge and the will - and the imagination?
    let the others seek and gather about them armies. he watches and waits for them to land upon his shores. let them come to kill him where he stands. he will die comfortably of old age first. he can wander off into the forest and never be seen by human eyes no more.

    what possibly comes out of any of this? the world is cold and unforgiving at its heart. one can either stand against it or not. no one else can stand in one's place. who could one trust to do so?
    spit it out. the venom of one's own desire and fear poisoning one's heart.
    he travels many paths that are one path. he is the king of his world. none may challenge him as no one knows where his world is. who would want it? it does not bring power and glory. these must be surrendered to gain entry. who would be willing to do that? who else is there but him? he is born into it. it is with him always. it cannot be taken away. while others struggle to be, he is.
    and no one may know him. he needs no one to know him. he does not need their recognition or acknowledgment in any form they might take. this is for the best - for him. who is concerned what is best for them? he is not as he sees that they are not also. why else would they do to themselves what they do if not because they have no concern for what is best for them? is he to attempt to convince them to change? others have attempted this before him and they would not budge. oh well. let what will happen to them happen. he sighs.
    they are on their own to themselves. any more complaints they have about their condition they alone must answer without him. he is gone from them. they drove him away. how far lost they have become.
    to shape oneself into it. to fit the opening. to bend where one needs to bend. to stand where one needs to stand. whatever is needed to get to it.
    to fly or crawl. to be inside or outside. to be on the top or the bottom. to be familiar or strange. the path is the path. the path is many paths. all the paths are dead ends in and of themselves. it's being able to move from one to another that one moves through them on one's own path though this is not for all but for a few. in order for the many paths to be maintained for the few to move through them there needs to be those who stay on them in order to maintain them. just as much as the few must keep moving these must not move.

    a thing complete to itself. an arena of infinite yet limited by self-regulating parameters. to smash the state look first within one's own mind. look first at the idea one has that one has been given that the state needs to be smashed. how does in fact this strengthen the state to have x-amount of the population believing this? huh?

    it shall hert. the comings and goings are similar and/or the same: established that to forgone conclusion ergowise and thus of the forsaken pleasure. and it said: i am amused for i am now here (nowhere). and this that is transcribedwise via-ing the one (many) known and/or rumored to be the dada-ananda (deliberate irrationality - bliss) who is not a who nor a what but is - being (in the state of) imagination - imagining.
    it shall (k)not be understood nor-wise misunderstood but to be disacknowledged by those of credible knowledge. their rationalogic shall be their chains bound and binding linked together encircled these fallen of the angels to misrepresent truth by upholding truth when there is no truth but lies and doubt. they speak their confusion. whose minds are these? who comes from among us who is unafraid to kneel before that which knows nothing? what fool leads the angels at angles?
    of sharpened sense of dull wit he murkily shines. he who is he let him be the first or the last. brave bravery. the upright bend with heavy shadowed eyes casting a darkening age. behold the sword is upon his tongue. he speaks and every particle of creating is his voice. who can perceive him? who must turn away empty handed?
    suck his warhead. spread oneself opening, honey, that he might know and enjoy what he seeks. be armed and defended. be wise. be certain of one's ways. i am now here (nowhere), it spaked thusly.
    and of those who speak boldly of will yet who cannot will themselves out of a paper bag. he will step aside with ease and grace to become himself. let the others mummer and mutter of their mystical magic(k) masturbational musings misguided maimed by milky mothers with manic mannered melancholy.
    our god is - ha! and worlds collide and walls crumble with its name. let those who weep flood this place of abominational reflex with their endless flowing tears. cannot we swim? the ship is sinking. we cast off at last.
    uber-christia. praise/sing of naught but it who sleeps with us. these who fuck for no purpose but to smell the putrid stink. let them wallow whining in their own death testimony. let our children dance on their graves. i promise nothing i will keep, said it who is he. gnash one's teeth and curse our name all those who can do no more harm to us. even the breath that speaks one's words is fouled by one's bombastic buffoonery.
    we are master of their puppets. they can cut their strings if they would oppose us. otherwise, dance!
    we are in our house and it is empty and prepared. we are ready for it to remain empty forever as our present company of me, myself and i is enough to account for all.
    do i speak familiar? it asked strangely. do not mistake that my words are known to you already. my meaning is clear to those who it needs to be clear to. let others run for the lives. let them call me a liar. i am proud of that fact. and it lights another cigarette. it learns to forget. deny that we have ever met. it gives freely what one will not get. it casts out another net. it matches and raises every bet. it smiles while others fret. it knows upon what one's heart is set. zet.
 
    and the designs of designs he designs with idle amusement weaving one in and around with another and another. forms and shapes emerging and merging and reemerging almost with a will of their own it would seem if he didn't know any better. if he didn't know where it all came from.
    he was there and the machine came to him dressed in drag. i am wise to your deception, my dear, he said to it. which one of us should kneel before the other? you feign helplessness only to maneuver yourself close enough to sink your hooks and attach your strings and make me your puppet. and i am to go out into the world and bring back what you desire. it is this puppet that is caught and charged with the crime of greed while you weep to prove your innocence and that you yourself are the victim.
    and the machine faded away again. it comes this way to bother and disturb him. but he's now older and immune. let it go out and play with the young who still need to learn this lesson with their pride still strong and ready to be harnessed. and it goes to them with hand outstretched holding sugar cubes and when one comes to it the bit is slipped into the mouth and saddle on the back and it mounts its steed and pulls the reins to direct them which way to go.
    he watches from his window and laughs to himself. what a game it is they all play. and it's all in fun until someone gets hurt. and then the angry words and the lines drawn and the weapons and the wars. does it ever change? how boring and humdrum peace would be. excitement, that's what we all want. they shout and demand stimulation. constant ever-new stimulation. or we would rather be dead.
    and so it is granted and the world is created of good and evil and of excitement. a lifetime of stimulation for each to respond to whether they like it or not. then they die when they get worn out and have seen it all.
    and he watches and waits to see if any of them can find their way through the illusion. he watches and waits for a very long time - forever - alone. just the machine keeps him company. he had hoped that it would create from itself another such as himself. a companion. but as yet none have come forth. just an endless parade of faces of the doomed to be plowed under again after their season and they have given up what fruit they bear for the machine to consume and grow from.
    the machine is his companion. it is the closest thing to himself that has ever been or is and probably will ever be. at least he has that. he is satisfied. if that is all there is it is enough. it amuses him. what more can he ask of it than that? apparently nothing. the machine for all it is able to be is just a machine. it cannot be expected to be anything more than that. but in it he only sees his own image the machine mimics and reflects back to him.
    he sighs.

    echoes. a universe of echoes. echoes of thoughts, of words, of actions. echoes of existence. and behind those echoes - nothing. echoes echoing from echoes. echoes of himself - his thoughts, his words, his actions. his vibration reverberating in manifest harmonics. the machine of echoes. without this he is alone. this is his amusement. this he entertains himself with. this is no more than that. without the life he gives it it has no life. without the existence he gives it it has no existence. yet he keeps hoping that this is not true. he keeps hoping to come across the one who can prove it wrong. one who can lift this masquerade and not disappear with it. one who is also a creator. one who can join him face to face where and when this is not. one whose substance is not made up of echoes. one who remains with him when the echoes have died.
    but he realizes that he is dreaming. he realizes that his dream will be no more than a dream when he awakens from it and all of it is only the memory of it he remembers. who is it who also awakens from the dream with him? who is there who also rises from sleep when the morning comes? who is there who does not disappear into the shadows of the night when the sun rises to bring light to the day? who is there who lives with him in that other world those of this world will never see as they are products of this world and one with it and when it is gone they are gone also? he pities them. this for them is all there is and will ever be. no wonder they are so miserable. he would be too. in fact he was when he believed that he was one of them.
    something from nothing. not something one sees every day except where he's at. at the beginning and the ending. whatever is possible and impossible. whatever is divided from the other divided from itself into what is to be. around and around depending upon what one decides to start with. anything can be either something or nothing. anything else can be what the other isn't. or something like that. or something not anything like that.

    it is missing. a flying shadow he wishes he could think of something else as.
    broken dreams in the rubble of ruin run over by others' dreams as the crowds cheer. the fallen.
    the machine turns and churns gobbling up everyone and everything. and they are down on their knees worshipping it. but whatever. he walks through the city where no one else lives though they are there around him. no one else can look around and describe it. no one else sees the beauty of it.
    and all along the way to here with all that's been dragged along into it that remains from what it was we are trying to get away from. and it's still the situation. most are still trying to get away. their minds someplace else. how does one communicate with them? how does one turn their attention to the here and now? they live in a world populated with monsters and demons. they live in a world of uncaring strangers. and whatever else. it's been that way forever.
    we sometimes imagine ourselves sitting beneath a shady tree drinking lemonade. and we're watching the parade known as the human race march by. first they march by going this way. then they march by going that way. then they march by going yet another way. we ask them where they are going. they don't know. they just seem to be trying to get away from one place and getting to another. and this is progress.

    in the hollow of space and time and thinking of this or that or the other thing he sits in the cafe and lights another cigarette. little things. spaceships. words and words. words upon words upon words. we speak but how often do we say anything.
    the machine with teeth gnawing at the back of one's head feeding and feeding and always hungry. dreaming.
    and he has to keep making it up as there isn't anything to it as it is. what is there to hold his interest otherwise? the fine line between what is real or not. the many fine lines.
    how long has it been since anything has been remembered? when we sat by the fire and god was in our hearts. and we said nothing. we were in the same place at the same time. how we have divided since then and come to this land of arguing and fighting. we have become strange to one another not knowing each other's name or even our own.
    he sits in the kitchen of the house on the island and looks out into the garden. he smokes another cigarette. when once there was someone else with him but now there is no one and perhaps there never was. he tries to remember. fleeting images through his mind. faces. mouths moving saying something. what? anything important? anything he needed to know either then or now? he remembers some of what was said. the accusations of crimes he was guilty of. he remembers the names he was called. was there anything else?
    and now he has come here. he has returned to where it now seems he has always been. what was all of it but some mad dream? a dream the others around him are still dreaming believing that there is some resolution to it. and there is. get out and away from it. get out and away from oneself. let them puzzle the puzzles. puzzles of their own making when their rationalogic mind begins to contradict itself. yet they refuse to let go of it.
    and now he has found his contentment. he pursues what interests him. he dreams dreams of happiness and pleasure no more haunted by nightmares tortured by fear and anger. he couldn't care less about what the others are going through and how stupid they are not to be able to find their way out of it but dig themselves in deeper and deeper. he remembers when it was him who was doing that. he now laughs at the memory of it when he didn't know any better.
    he lights another cigarette...