Much of this life is tinged with misdirection, mistaken notions, unconscious resentment dressed in justified indignance, as if the validity of civil rage were any better than the ferocious roars of primal urge. We monsters of monstrous insignificance, blips of uncertain near-certainties, existing by the nature of collapsed intention, explosions and collisions of particles gathered in masses of matter, swaying in a coordination of unconscious dance. We sway like blades on the tips of grass, dipping and colliding atop every current of wind, bending in deference to the formation of each morning’s dew as if it were something wondrous, and somehow new.
Ah, to live among the dreams as intentions melt away, those gentle drifts of repeated steps — an elaborate dance with so many steps — it fools the dancers from perceiving each day’s events as anything other than novel and uniquely unseen. You seem to have mistaken the things we do as deliberate acts.
The thesis of existence unfolded many pages ago, so many words repeated either in ignorance or in spite of the cycles of times, and of writers, and of words. Of words do I sing, for without words we have no meaning, no commonality of wretched being. We’ve become so good at finding new and better ways to repeat the things we’ve always been meant to say — those words that are, and have always been, essentially the same.
The first page. This is the way it begins.