Guesswork
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I believe firmly in:
what will be words of Post- H. Sapiens, whatever replaces telescopes, bookaholics perusing under foregone trees. Less so, but still: in figures withheld by corner -eye, there, gone; certain of it. That some clowns step backwards into forests with shushed index finger. How tarot-seers claim us bird, then we feel and know this sudden beak. With weak inkling: in an Ensō stroked over, oft over, by the towering brush making many-handed flecks. Instruments these, and utensils made shrines for curated, cannoned lists. If nothing else: in the flowered Calyx of Held where all things at one moment inter-are, inter-be, then expand utterly to the far reaches of mind, beyond, the next. |