Can books save us?
Chapters? Paragraphs? Words?
Is that overoptimistic?
I feel perfectly engineered, marvelous,
not limited to events.
Our brains, wired to the beautiful universe,
are important: a kind of glue that holds together
the world. I think, and knot together the fabric
one word at a time.
There is a special kind of tool that flattens one self into another;
there are, often, beautiful universes to be found on the other side,
though this constant hopping from one to another is also exhausting.
My days are exhausting days.
I exist, holding together the world.
So I started making changes. Random, usually.
The shocking thing was how I didn’t have to fight time and space.
What a wonderful feeling it was!
My mind, however, remains a problem.
If you have suggestions for that, please let me know.
(I am starting something new here.)