death. o hamburger.

lend me a length of rope. what mast will go unchecked through the dissolution of the continuum of the rope is not of my concern. i do not skip this boat, so avert your questions.

willing the fulfillment of dreams and of voyages to be had is the place-holder in life. without the bookmark of..., of photos yet to be taken and scrutinized and condensed and proffered to the masses, what life would bother sinking its teeth into the unchewable future?

let that which is the witness of the middle days, the middle nights, be that which is remembered, not the mornings or the evenings. more especially, not the nights.

it is i

whose gift to mankind would only be the existence of the thought of the gift.
this gift would traverse time, time and time again and would fall out of the hands that would rather it disappear.
the annals of humanity would guide its passage, ever suggesting at its one-time presence. where it had just been.

whose son would not rule, but guide, not push, but reveal, not disperse, but diffuse.