Time begins when a calling of music, never stops as measures assess and notes are sent bouncing across a five lined staff of tremble and rhythm of rolling those tremulous ends as beginning starts or stops. An octave away and sound still rocks an ear or two toward silence, not to hear but still vibrating life and crossing spaces between sound and whispering wind without pine forests or desert sands.
Throughout the whirly-twirly of a solitary day many folks start; consume, work, consume again, and care and think and dream and make love and weary or tired fall asleep. Others spend times away and copy daytime dances into night-long-labors and dreams and love and thought and twirl-the-whirl of short nights and sleepless days.
Are we ‘things’ removed from nature? By this removal, do we become no more than an abstract of potential products’ gain and loss? We are, however, information. That information can be changes of whimsy or chance? And! As thread widens, those center bubbles initiate decentering-self and as coding develops bubble self; once rarefied, can mature from a troubled singularity into social unknown starts to traverse zones of yes-to-no and no-to-yes. Line them up and roll ‘em again?
Technical layers stop and start tucked somewhere between the zero and the one. Twin-spins into code is first autonomous self-centered bubbles along a there and not their thread. The thread in a feel-not-see then see-and not felt. A simple ‘yes or no’ suddenly is an absolute everything everywhere. And! No matter-the-type-of-matter we are or become; again, we are ‘small-tiny-great-or-not-matters-little-of-what-we-are,’ ‘cause our subjectivity is; no more than touches of awareness-becoming-aware-of-something-coming-our-way?
Abstracts we are and abstracts we are not. We are poor or rich, sick, or well, big or small; all beings of magic, language, math, music as poets, scientists, artists, motions-in-time, rhythm-or-rhyme, kings or queens, servants, or slaves, we with fingers crossed are all abstractions at the gates of new worlds just waiting to be discovered.
Other ways are to turn speak into words spinning stories because the path is short-long and long-short. Twins speak the notion of new world words when strange tongues often confuse truth prominent in; to-day-to-day working words and pausing stops. One giant mother ship, a trillion samples of life and motion begins to seed a universe-so-fine. Orion! A moving point toward outside vacuums and inside fears. Always! Life inside these stories.
They gather arm’s length apart and touching yet never flesh feeling—just being the same as each cold breath catches and inhales exhales steam across a longer line of waiting and hoping and living and dying and thinking of praying of leaving or staying until few cents ago coffee warm warded away cold from form vision search, to begin again or end for the evening bright of Street magic and Star-ship’s light.
They gather here for rooms-to-find-to-fill have filled again and nourishment gone again, and others line the grates of grate covered heat blown from underground to ground around those standing watch or asleep in one side-warm and one side cold or one side dead or one side gone. Again, the living and dying and the thinking of dying and praying of leaving or staying another moment or second or minute or hours of night-time’s twinkle or morning wrinkle where once flesh was fresh and spirit smoothed times of ages changes or faded lights start and stop and start again.
‘Tis good this time—‘Tis good this twine-rewind.
And! Beautiful you are…