a refusal to die

no this will not be the last.

it cannot stand–this absence–this beastly sleeping

enveloping the last stand we would dare to make against all.

a wizard spent the day once, dilly-dallinging at this and that–concocting a moment to reveal what truth's he'd derived from triangles and circles, superimposed on the shapes coming from all directions reality's made of. in feeling these inchoate things, he then learned their properties–and through learning gained mastery–to turn what he was once passive to into activity–

(the war machine, at this level, is tantamount to any explanation)

a star swallows up itself and becomes the antithesis of light–

event horizon:

where the body passing into the hole passes, but appears, nevertheless to be resting

this alone is genuine conundrum; the one thing worth pausing over...

and so it goes–the aliens in my head spell my name for me in response to ms. tingle asking me:

"AND WHAT's YOUR NAME LITTLE ANGEL...you are not on my attendance record?"

i tell her

because the aliens told me

and we speak across a multiplicity of species

all in one

one in the all-minded self who creates all that we do and thereby are

one day, while walking dogs, i realized they know me better than many others; this alone is enough evidence to convince me–talkings all it comes down to, it's what the world's made for.

no no.

this is not over.

we've only just begun.

yours in bravery,

the scalper!