Tweezered and plucked for brillance.

How do I greatgrandfatherclause our mutual puniness to the human illusion of order? I like to think about leaves, and winds on hire for hair blowing, streaking lawlessly though sylvian streets on a motorcycle; but the pay is lousy, in fact, it’s reverse pay, as it costs you dearly ($$) to escape the everything we’ve reacted against i.e. created. Scatter is sacred. It’s the seeking of non-scatter, which is cyclically vice-versa.
Well, that’s pretty straightforward.
You’re doing too many things.
Duh. Life reeks of brevity.
It’s better to do a few things, and suffer less for them.

Where (and why) do our brains latch on to life rings like this? Sometimes, to be certain, success is measured by an absence, or preponderance of suffering, other times, who really cares? Why carry a bottle of water fording some treacherous river, if you know the river’s pristine to drink? I aspire to find the middle ground, where either is natural, and this fellow is not inclined to; his resultant blade bleeding me. Sometimes, a person is scattered. Occasionally they’re are fixed there. States are insistent upon their opposites to exist, and flower proudly.

I’ll take that into consideration; but I have another approach to life, which you amass to failed attempts which elicit nothing. Nothing is the end result of all endeavor. Your successes will soon dim, and your advances will obfuscate them. The petered notoriety in the legacy of your inventions, will soon fill the minds of computers crushed by bulldozers, in slag heaps. Your order will scatter, as surely as ashes will, when the urns are upended to winds of our choosing. I see spotlights sending snow-blind wayfarers to a tunnel shining their same, and I must enforce my own paradigm by sending you there, to appreciate the dangers of seeking light, rather than appreciating exposed feet stumbling through self-imposed darkness.

Well said, I think.

Everyone sees flaws in transparencies right away. Project images on a screen, and their depth dies, sequestering them to lesser scrutiny. It endemic; you can’t compete with information we choose to validate from one less dimension. Being open, you are open to attack, as ‘proponents’ devise better ways to destroy that which threatens those secure in their castled selves. Order is tantamount with defense, while chaos favors infamy and invasion. The security of your existent routine demean the mores which threaten it, for mind severs reason from risk, hiding the long-ago tryst; an unholy alliance between them is a silence broken occasionally and covered quickly again.

Is it really so dramatic?

Attend a native American Peyote ceremony as a participant, to gain perspective, to assimilate fully, rather than push away... your visions as anomalies, as flickering glitches in trustworthy, highly-proven systems... It is developmentally paralyzing to the level of paradigm playing pieces ... in two dimensions ... One must be higher. One must be lower. There can not be unity in our world; tension keeps us stuck in ...
What?
Good question.
The correction fluid spills on the table, leaving a snow drift permanently affixed to the well-fondled wood. I considered what a disaster it could be if you’d purchased this toxic solvent to get high, if you loved the table, the paper, or needed to fix mistakes for a vital report. A combination of all this and more, intrigues me. What frame of mind precludes the label: disaster? The happy coincidence of art mentality? The damned if you do or don’t resignation state? The quantum foam perception of matter serves dividends, when objects alter their forms. Just nothing vibrating, don’t be so plussed! We now eavesdrop, as there’s no other choice. "Apparently he had a crush on me, but all he could talk about was guns." I love that line, following a diabolical spin designed for a man at the game, tabled next to me—about hairy legs, and how this poor redneck sod knew nothing about women. The vexing complexity overwhelmed us; as potent mates veered and out; I saw she’d be fat not far from thirty, she somehow knew it, wrought her craft perfectly, weeding mavericks and dimwits out. Correction fluid is amazing stuff. It bonds with molecular tenacity when upended in direct relationship to where it should not be. The girl walks out with a bank clerk, or a well-heeled slave of the hallowed appearance of money minus the power to wield it for pleasure, and I unkindly watch her shirt hike, to see the stretch marks of diet maintenance food binging. With sadistic told you so, the years accelerate a film of her decline, dredging has-beens from sad-wish condom clubs, feeling powerless, like the other sods ineptly floundering with subjects such as guns, when they’d like to be in her shoes, desired by half the half of anyplace she goes. That girl’s a bitch, the feisty tablemate declares. Or, your pent-up side is jealous of the enactment of your dreams,

I (almost) decline to say.