Found in chaos. Listening to guffaw. It’s in his mind—no
one cares—he sees what’s in perception. More credible evidence for historical
facts, soundness tested, teased, one person becomes an adventure – maybe, more
in his mind, more in his stride, no one cares; much crisis in determining
meaning, whatness, nowness, thatness; on par with some conspiracy, as if it
doesn’t occur, so many on Christology. Cameras for safety. Phones with
tracking. Souls appear, so normal, he sees his perception; so wise, so smart,
still battling obvious currents. Settling on devices, erasing his mind, looking
without gazing, to see it, to wonder what it becomes, so boldly, so coldly,
many more mirrors to exhale. Some path to liberation, fast asleep, up for
months—those that can, even in absence, he sees his perception. Clear, distinct
knowledge, this is war, despite, what he sees, what he knows, what he feels—even
science can’t be trusted, so empirical, such solace, nay, nothing is of
authenticity. He can’t trust senses. He can’t depend of analyses. He must exist
separated, closely to mind, measure, makeshifts.
