What’s going on in there, or out there, for that matter? I endlessly ponder the place I find myself, between a dull gray lump and an infinite realm of energy. The vibrations come in and something happens that ends up making me think there is substance and meaning, until I think about it for a few minutes, or seconds, or hours, or for a life. The things I construct are both mundane and fantastic, though it’s foolish to give credit to a being that anyone owns, let alone the author of this writing. It’s just a process without a director. Instead it’s more like a game of ping pong or tennis, except no one is really keeping score, and there aren’t any rules, or championship trophies. It’s even a good question if there are any spectators, let alone fans of the author. Each has a moronic game of their own – there’s that errant sense of an owner again – to occupy themselves. But somehow we make a mission out of it all. We have to believe there is a purpose and a reality to the nonsense. If not we’d quickly go mad. Perhaps that’s where this leads? But what is madness? It would imply there is a proper format for this process, but who decrees what is proper? There is only the way it is, and the way it might be, and may be some day. We can only wait to find out.
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