One day, today, a present in which I don't know how to live there are not enough twigs in the nest of my razor's edge of time, that shaves the expectation from the memory and brings up the question: who is god and what is the(ism) but a method to madness so called by the fearful-(powerful) and yet the myth of how things are is a con written by one's self copied off the blackboard at a school that trained up so that you'll go down into the mines with a smile and a beer, dreaming of a glass of wine on a sunnier day intoxicated with the dulled tip of the blunt instrument that you play to make the most of the vaguest sense that now is a myth too and your insistence on obsession is a walk into a basement under a house that never was home until it burned down because ashes are what's for dinner on a table that that someone set as an asset class in liability management credit to the victors historians called it a war while the individual involved called it the sunset last night before the final day where the end made friends with the beginning and deliberation gave way to intuition which didn't require language but somehow it got used to it contrasting a comparatively relative adjacent notion with the silence that precedes a meal.