It is so easy
for us
to lose sight..
of beauty
hidden right
before
our very
eyes.

There’s beauty
in your outermost,
protective shell.
It peels right off
when, lovingly,
you’re being
held.

There’s beauty
of lean body also
in your white..
delicious and
nutritious
to the …

The only thing
that beats
flirting with Death
must be..
flirting with Life.

To hear the rhythm
of her heartbeat..
and still choose
to not yet
strike.

To feel
her impulse
of desire..
let it brew in me,
precipitating
into gentle
lover’s heat.

Much food
still left
for thought …

We’ve got time
and we’ve got
space.. we’ve got
The God Almighty
and The All of His
unknowable ol’ ways.

We’ve got
some money,
yeah, but some
just never seems
to ever cut it
quite enough.

But never mind
what doesn’t matter,
baby doll.. our …

I may observe you,
verily observing me
observing you..
but I may never know
the truth that lies
upon The Other Side.

All I may truly
see in you
is a reflection
of what’s
mine.

Because to me,
you’re you
before me,
but to you,
I am me …

Life is so beautiful.
We do not write
her songs..
we live them.

There is a time
and space allotted
for our melody..
the present
moments of
our being
are the notes
through which
we sing it.

Alas, no instrument
is meant to play
its tune forever.
The All of …

В Жизни,
и есть
правда.
В правде,
и есть
свет.

А правда в том,
что жить
ещё осталось..
много лет.

А коль не лет,
то зим,
где нас,
уже ждёт,
всё, никак,
уж, не,
дождётся,
Смерть.

Она одна,
авось полюбит
за двоих.
‎.הַלְלוּ הַשֵּׁם

We’ve
reached
dead end,
my dearest
friend.

There’s no
way out.
There’s no
point to
pretend.

In company,
we feel alone.
Alone we feel
the dread.
We used
to see the light,
off in the distance.
Now there’s
nothing left.

Just hanging on
to our sweet …

Despite everything,
it is still you. You who?
The One who writes
subliminals upon
The Water..
nothing new.

The All of what
was written
dissipates
eventually
out of being,
good as old.

What narratives
are there still left
for me to write?
Nearly The All
of them already
have been …

If we’re the puppets, who’s The One that pulls the strings? The One unblinking stare that orchestrates reductions of the thoughts we think.

In this continuation of our Penrose & Hameroff saga, sweet Arielle and I put on the togae of The Ones who do the tugging.

Indeed, The …

The Eye Matrix.
Inverse of itself.
Its own identity.

The Ones on
the diagonal.
The Zeros
elsewhere,
verily.

No matter what
it multiplies..
the product
still remains
the same.

It is The Nothing
of The All..
Tabula rasa.
Blankest slate.