there is a weep to the weave,
a shadow without a say,
a breeze without an obvious purpose,
a moment not gravity defined,
a standstill of time without momentum,
a feeling in a free-fall without buoyancy or wings,
an alphabet without vowels,
a context without dimensions,
just a presence of thought,
without content.
we all live there unceasingly,
without notice as escort potential,
in a self without capture or viable code.
yet with our face to the reality glass,
yelling in a that soundproof room of a self.
and the richness of our being
goes on in there,
without the potential
of our being there,
as so described . . .
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