post no. 169: transformational paralysis and the evolutionary process of the novel

the clarity of time   the breaking churning, lurching  dismantling   of its   trajectory  i woke up at 3 am to   meditate Before  i loved anyone or anything, i loved good fucking writing.  i   would find   meaning to   this twisted   sculpture :: the school of god, school of language, school of literature, school of fiction, school of self/development,    Language, there was a school of    language,  perhaps it was only   a 2   year investigation   of   god   and   the   universe.    there’s nothing more the masters can tell me about god.   and the book will reflect the posts and the posts will reflect the book, a language intertwined   , the condition through which it perceived ,    the endless action was     _  as the i  burns through    time, it perceives   whatever   the thought   became    it     was.   the churning  , wrecking   resistance        of      time

when things make sounds, and the y sound like emotions   as when every sentence  hurts , time lost and remembered    .      the wool of a sentence keeps warm   the guts of a thing like    time       and               the repeated loudness of things   now expanding the scope of reflection   i used to sleep    with my books, shit,                 i sill sleep with my books, as time begins,                      as                                  the writing dissolves

when you write something and it dissolves y o u