way too long awakened in traps of light — too far open in the massive mass of night — too too deep in the shallow fallow womb of language, broke minded, counted down to absolute zero, ticking off in the trees of summer bleeding sappy into a night hairy with suspicion, emptiness is somthingess and somthingness is emptiness — void wasn't universe because something meant to change its ways — a reading of coward on godface, seven digits to infinity and the devil never got a word in edgewise. . . so the moments of divinity are measured in christbreaths and fishsighs alike, cradles are really graves to begin with in the tearful heaven where everything must occur — no matter.
the size of things makes the magnitude considerably less — more fabricated in the zone of moment and position, fragility surprised in the slippery shower of realization, which never resembles awakedness — the Buddha never existed luckily, because he needn't have.
the incident with the human soul at the crossroads of self and not was a manufactured death imposed by the willing witnesses of ego that consumes ego that does not — some symphony this is, eating and being the seeds of god becoming ideal, not-god.