Organic growth in revelator’s maximum capacity to confuse creates a modicum of suspense in the overseer every so often. Like looking down at the buttons you’ve used to write your communications all these years and realizing, while being wiped, that what you thought you were typing actually turned out to imminently translate to aspects of major secondary conditions of experiences you’ve yet to imagine yourself capable of ending up having. No one knows who they really are, by design.
Fiction is so purposeful these days. Seeking purpose from a position of diminishing obscurity after models that everyone already expects to the point of groveling over their own boredom. Grazing on engravings of baby talk because baby talk makes more sense than adult stuff to the subject of a tragedy yet to occur. Remodeled rest rooms in rest homes that look like where you think you are right now.
Seriously, who’s going to do something besides you that you’re glad they did even though it has nothing to do with you? One thing I’ve recently enjoyed conceptually imagining lately is waking up knowing you are the son of God and looking at the world and knowing what it is already written that you will do, which is go and spread your ideas, for which you’ll be murdered while your friends watch. It’s actually a pretty sensual story to think about from the perspective of the son, no matter why you think about it. I don’t know much about being a father except what I know I didn’t like about how my father treated me because that was how he was raised, which I’m only figuring out now that he’s not here.
One great purpose of language is to shape relationships, with time and space as much as people, though most people get stuck about the people. A sentence is like a bomb shelter. A shelter epitomizes its demise before it even exists.
