Outside of presence to presence, truth
spoken or written is flawed. It is a contextual house of cards. A depiction of
critical acclaim, but a collusion all the same. In an ocean of being, doing is
a surface dweller, a water-bug of business, a clamor of surface tension to stay
self-consciously afloat. We are a flotilla of separateness, sailing upon a sea
of oneness. It appears to be the case that there are no ports of entry, thus
the truth embargo endures . . .
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