understanding is a complete desecration of the now.
therefore, experience is a complete imposter
of the present.
it makes us all shills unto ourselves.
we are not unlike spiders.
for we are the fabric
of the webs we weave.
only to catch ourselves
as evocatives of self consumption.
we are vicissitudes and peccadillos
in self in consumption.
now passes through us
without any hindrance or mire,
as if in the air we breathe,
but not a breeze to ride high.
give me a now,
dressed in the wardrobe of being
and I am the exiting of my self
as finally,
fully complete . . .
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