ZempnSazza

and all this time we thought we were free and all this time we had been sure that we ran easily with the power to begin, the power to end, the power to decide where the circles of our lives ran back into themselves with the linear precision commanded only by by the overwhelming (overwrought) weight sitting on our brows as the shaper of mankind, language, aether, nobody telling or even hinting anymore towards any clue of (religious texts don’t have sequels; this fact poses some serious questions on the amount of attention paid to the world by the various deities who all claim to have their fingers on the button) at the purpose of these vast maps of flesh we have slowly spread across the globe, races, naunces, borderlines, broader backs with bigger bones while skinny white flakes wave and prance in their platform shoes stacked high with hundred dollar bills, scattered maps of white, black, yellow, red, maps of chaotic fjords and serene plains, coming together, eruptions, separated or forced apart with the birth of a new land, another blank map waiting to be filled with the uncertainty of a single unwavering direction, providing no clues to any explorer or the land itself in it’s purpose here among all these other blank maps except the one inexorible fact that no piece of our rushed engineering has any more evidence to the nature of that final – missing – piece, that icing for our cake, that punctuation at the end of our historical sentence, that punch line of God’s cosmic joke, that compass that could point each and every map in the right direction, than any other in the multitudes of unfinished images that we call us and them, living circles convinced of our control over the curves, slopes, entrances of our kind yet rolling steadily on, bissfully unaware that time is linear and what you see now doesn’t exist now, the moment has passed, that circles are the product of not knowing where to go, that we chase our tails without ever knowing that our heads should point forward, to the new, unsequeled and