Curving back on myself in three dimensions and a fourth. Fictionalizing a global positioning system to locate the wormholes that would connect distant points in my thoughts. Figments of my imagination lighter than nothing, repelled instead of attracted, floating in deep space away from meteors. Deviating from the past. Each of my seconds never absolute, but fluctuating according to how experiences can move me around.
Spending most of my time at the subatomic level, I find an infinity of infinite answers, an affinity to them, because they're always dying in one place to be reborn elsewhere. Since their two moments vibrate in unison, I can retain some coherence as well as information.
Teleporting photonic ideas, applying beams of dense matter to explanations, and force fields to the atoms of my train of thoughts before they tumble down to an absolute zero temperature.
Suppose extreme entanglement. Suppose it’s traversable. That a theory of everything can make sense of even meaninglessness. Suppose we’re speculative entities meandering across complex spectral molecules, time traveling through dark times, ourselves our own event horizon.
Suppose that our throats can get crushed by the negative masses we swallow as we try to speak at the speed of light. Suppose we’re the creation of mathematics, of an abstract science, its very experiment as it tried to calculate radiation effects and disorders when establishing deep connections at micro-distances.
Wave amplitudes shaping electrons, one at a time, back and forth, no particular location, unable to tell differences as humanity keeps overlapping itself, an eternal folding and refolding of copies and originals. Transferring our bizarre state of consciousness into pulses of light occupied at shedding their energy away, to prove that bright bodies of knowledge can defeat the art of the impossible.
We’ve managed to attach our machines to nature, we've e-mailed ourselves over the wireless system of a Vedic philosophy, with a cc to many gods, transmitters-receivers invalidating each other. In sync. Repetitive signals from an electric storm. Telluric currents as evidence of partial sanity. Hitting the resonant frequency of our own fears while, simultaneously, we complain about it to the police.
Our volte-face are mind-blowing. All our tergiversations occuring at the same rate, our reversals as unescapable as a black-hole. And time is no arrow.
Laolao
Spending most of my time at the subatomic level, I find an infinity of infinite answers, an affinity to them, because they're always dying in one place to be reborn elsewhere. Since their two moments vibrate in unison, I can retain some coherence as well as information.
Teleporting photonic ideas, applying beams of dense matter to explanations, and force fields to the atoms of my train of thoughts before they tumble down to an absolute zero temperature.
Suppose extreme entanglement. Suppose it’s traversable. That a theory of everything can make sense of even meaninglessness. Suppose we’re speculative entities meandering across complex spectral molecules, time traveling through dark times, ourselves our own event horizon.
Suppose that our throats can get crushed by the negative masses we swallow as we try to speak at the speed of light. Suppose we’re the creation of mathematics, of an abstract science, its very experiment as it tried to calculate radiation effects and disorders when establishing deep connections at micro-distances.
Wave amplitudes shaping electrons, one at a time, back and forth, no particular location, unable to tell differences as humanity keeps overlapping itself, an eternal folding and refolding of copies and originals. Transferring our bizarre state of consciousness into pulses of light occupied at shedding their energy away, to prove that bright bodies of knowledge can defeat the art of the impossible.
We’ve managed to attach our machines to nature, we've e-mailed ourselves over the wireless system of a Vedic philosophy, with a cc to many gods, transmitters-receivers invalidating each other. In sync. Repetitive signals from an electric storm. Telluric currents as evidence of partial sanity. Hitting the resonant frequency of our own fears while, simultaneously, we complain about it to the police.
Our volte-face are mind-blowing. All our tergiversations occuring at the same rate, our reversals as unescapable as a black-hole. And time is no arrow.
Laolao
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