the point after that penultimate thing

[artolmaeus]

the oroborus is not hungry for its tail, there is no head, no mouth

nothing is being gained or lost, yes, it is energy

you cannot see yourself in the picture, unless you escape the frame

what does the end of the world look like, everyone knows it

when they leave it, but no one comes back to tell,

but so many have, and they all come off as kooks

at least the ones wanting propriety for the information

Calvin was wrong, but not completely, yet every prewritten page

in the book of your life has several drafts, which one gets done

well, it is a matter of effort, oh, yes, some do find a magic pen in their hand

but writing cannot be read while you are in the book

there is only one way it opens for reading, and first it must be closed

so then, is the universe a library filling its expanse unseen

because the eyes with which we see it, can only see the empty spaces

and all eyes we seem to know are perishable marbles

in a game we cannot roll, but the universe shifts to make it look so

as most matter is empty space, but how thick nothing can be

because the definition of nothing is misleading us all

to make meaning for the need of something meaningful

something from something leaves something

and something and nothing are the same thing, just words

and words are not experience, they are literally the proof we feel

as to why the jello jiggles, the dead rotting things stink

and how darkness and light are only a matter of illusion

as everything in your hand is not held, but proposed on some screen

and all the extras as senses go are just the trimmings to make the whole baked bread rise

when the west is no more east than south is to north

and nobody is selling peuce colored paint

the final draft is impossible, possibly the writing ends

when the self is somehow satisfied, but for now,

trapped in some chapter in some incomplete sentence

only time is the ink that stains the pages indelibly

somewhere at the knoll outside the forest of madness

is the fence of acceptance and only broken minds can hear those trees

telling you where you are is the actual madness

and when you hear it, if you hear it, then, there is no forest

there are no trees speaking and all the echoes within yourself

are the words some god spent volumes to explain

how both beginning and end are impossible

as somehow the experience of age is a matter of acceptance or denial

as if that was the matter at all like busyness is not created

most people are bowling hoping for strikes without any balls