As the narrative disintegrates, it does so in the trajectory of its purpose, its cause, its destiny.
It should read like it’s falling apart for a reason.
This book is falling apart as I write it, it is a work of art to be horribly misunderstood… 76 pages, 77 pages, 78 pages…. 79 pages …. so far.
One writes narratives about forms, interpretations of the material time based, ideologically based world, giving form for ego to play with. It’s all one consciousness, talking, speaking….
.., When once time had embraced love.
… And as the gravitational pull had lost its grip….
… As the weight grew larger and time began to sink…
…. threads, tethers, chains….
…. the unifying threads of Being, as the past had never been
……all tomorrow’s narratives,