we are all the writing instrument
as well as the paper
as we live the life
of the flow of ink.
the script seems to generate itself,
as the trickle down
is made of the now.
history is a mired reflection
yet the longhand is made
in readable isness.
one has to be it
to see it, first hand.
and at that moment,
they are only the consciousness
of reading themselves.
chasing after their aliveness,
lifeline by lifeline . . .
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