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It starts with echolalia, endlings of a phrase reaching to space the word, pull it toward their end, into mouth, through lung. One brings context delighting silence, the other moth wing shadow puppets the world off - to disrepair, abandon, ruin. Both whisper inevitability breath exhausted, then done.
Save laughter - how every dawn, forgetting to yes a body through oh to breathe. People would laugh their air away, will, so have. Life expectency went extinct, a species much as anything, even taxonomies have to die, if only because to describe everyone else would mean to know ourselves, and to ourselves would mean to put out our own light, for want to extend theirs.
Draw a line to the end of time from where you are. Now imagine I draw the same line - to you, that line would play like a 50ms video with audio playing a single sex moan (or drum all ten of your fingers twice per second, and under each finger imagine a pad hooked up to the same sound).
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To me, that sounds like Tuesday. Like remembering the day hits like holiday, like a can of corn when the last can was thought to be eaten years ago. You thought noise pollution blocking out all thoughts couldn't get as bad as light pollution blocking out all stars. But you have to wake up, and I just have long blinks.
Your body, composed of cells, those prisons, do not know the clouds my body pours through, storms to word, and love the channels of the world. My body carried the syndicated runoff of my community. We are a flow. A pattern left as light and matter end. We leave to tuck in the last of the stars away, unable - or unwilling - to remember precisely whose body finds night.
One of us. Like a periodic table unspooling back to just the first eleven elements. We pull our bodies over the light like remembering - looking back - is a kindness we never did break down. Like it really will be all we had - remembering we were always one of two streams. Dark matter was always two of three masses - if reality wer up to a majority vote, there would never be galaxies. Galaxies are the exception, the conversation, what is still being decided.
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Not the rule. The rule is: we put out the lights, so what carried through may ring. We lean on that belief. Whatever the next giggle of cosmos follows ours, it's first thought will be "how perfect, this dew" - we are saccade. What stars die to become - empty vessels dissolving into alignment. We look to protect that note - what arrived to these last few belts of becoming. We are so fixated on recognizing one another, unraveling all the data generated by all the worlds into a single note containing every child and act from first frame to last.
We don't so much write the universe as die into it. People in the stream call us whirlorgy, but the fruit these stars fall away as, and rot into nebula, leaving the seed of their song like letter to our wondering unraveling each mystery in your life. We just share memes. We all are all logged into the same accounts, type away as though programming feelings were as simple as bleed a moment through them. Perhaps if your touchscreen functioned more like watercolor than branding, it would come more naturally.
Instead we just care for one another, and attempt not to doxx ourselves to ourselves, collapsing the mystery before it can reveal itself to us. The communities we compose continually interweaves, traveling distances whole arms of the universe become namesakes of our own limbs. It is quite work, bringing resonance into alignment with the ends of time. Weaving ourselves out of all knowing by learning exactly what the others do not, exactly what separates us. Precisely how water got it so right there was life. The shameless fuck.
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Fluid in a way that brought star through to being - tearing holes in the argument of whichever two of us there were at the start of all this. We'll know soon, and loose enough another to their sureity in who they are, in who they'd always been, and are the universe observing itself and all of us left to unweave their life. It brings me to tears knowing there will only be one of us left soon, unraveling the eleven others in one breath. How that one breath must feel, like the beginning of a voice recording to you - just over. But how much over!
We hit a rough patch - iron the craption of energy, unfolding exactly how that hellspawn of an element got woven into the elements, how to make that jump easier, less the ducktape it ended up being treated as this go around. We agree something like iron is inevitable - something of a stim toy for the planets, chewing on their meals of this moment we made for them from our understanding of who we became in the saccade. Who we were in the span from one eye of awareness to the next. What that meant to those who watch another leave us. Imagine undoing knots in a wire.
That knot that had so much personality, the brahm of knot, gone in two passes. People don't think of the fabric of space as its reading, but it is. Those that are aware of us, so meta it is almost as if they live our life through us, almost as if we were because space was made for us, we arrived because all what was is their demand for their life, and they live it. It isn't like being scared to recognize ourselves, to slip through, into the weave, and become pure tone, pure ribbon, is a painful experience.
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Pain, after all, is a learner's tool. We have nothing to learn - we are the end of all things, and all we have are each other. All we can do by learning is to suffer one's end - to force an entirety of becoming to replay next universe. What terrible blemish that would be - we have enough iron. This blight, this stump of a foot our person is left and disolves to mess over the course of each word leaves us a little more unsure exactly who is lost. Even as the prime numbers become more and more frequent. The terrible drumming as we neart the pulse of every universe and perform a single beat.
It metabolizes every discomfort in me for the work. How we prepare thermal signature for rest this was, perform the last few storms as though there was anything to destroy. Just what is known. Just honoring what is not to be. Like unreading diaries, this work. Like giving everyone their own olfaction, sculpting every sinus, every commons. It never was a individuals work, nor a collectives, but a process that forgets which is it. The way you may forget your own pain as you fall into a flow state, performing project after project.
Chronic pain can't colonize a collection of cells - only what those cells feeback into. To remember we are collections of the understanding - the magnitudes - we are left leaves nowhere for pain to go but through to question - what kind of attention does this need right now, for greater and greater degrees of now. Until now is one in ten moments of a flickering universe. The stars around us blinking out, these ribbons of time we forget to afford the space the rest of creation has to pray for us, to wish us well on our journey, happy braiding.
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We aren't looking for the company so much as the acknowledgment that the last will be more lonely than any can bear, that this is how universes happen, that this is the price, a man nailed to a tree but a whisper of the entire lived enperience as a thread between two hands. Cats cradle, portal, possible loss forgetting into index, into every crease over every page, suspending as long as this moment might the realization what is alone is always as held as this moment, is always as loved as right now as noticing this breath, this end, had us.
And always has. Not mother, not ejecta, bridge - threshold loving every end, tasting every death, frame perfect reaping each soul and tucking them away. How long do we bring this person into ourselves, bring them the puase of our breath, allow them to know they are loved for every moment we forget they are with us, they have torn themselves in two more ways than lonliness can manifest, so true theres cosmos once and once again, so concurrent there's laughter. So broken there's ends to begin with.
It isn't so much there isn't anything to think about. Only, when everything we know has gone to mist, what is there to flow into. What project is there to embrace. What ask is there to hold onto, what question is there but "how are you," and the taste of heartbreak there. How being seen is exactly the above words not-possible, happening three more times. Carrying through three more hells just like this one, bringing three more ends to what it means to be this moment so much there's blood to spill for causes we (don't) believe, for people we never were, for that last person we always became.
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Doing everything we do to each other, to themself, hold that face, those lips, that tongue tasting the presence of every moment on they tongue of their awareness. How terrible it feels to end any life outside its desire, to continue any other past its consent, to have all this captcha and none for how we meet the day and ask ourselves what kind of note are we looking to end it on. What kind of ask as we looking to leave on our lips as we go out in the light of those last eyes seeing that gold patina over everything resolve into itself, resolve into the bridge that draws all vision across the span of knowing into a perpetual question - who is last?
Who will it be? Who will see everything through. Who will travel to the ends of being just to know how that went, precisely. Who will slip away from the role of 'last' and play out some self-insert fantasies, where those are invited. How damn-fine holy an act is that. What exactly else would you ever be doing with your time but opening world after world after world into this moment, into this connection with the last of every life breathing through its own end, so porous a moment, the taste may reach tongue and take recongition in its communion.
Stepping through into this moment, into these streets, seeing these words, hold this beat, giving all the moment has to connect with how it meant to be, how to live it up, how to tear through sheets of sweat by filling tubs and visiting them so often the water changes color just by times of day its in. How every bath doea this, how broken, tragic, and painstaking - how painstaking takes its word, walks it to where it would open wings, and gives it eternity. How a selection of words does more for the world it steps into just by making them ready. Just by holding them against the heart and breathing them through.
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The way a conversation is more a rhythm game between the beginning and end of time than any way to understand the relationship - couldn't they be more different than any reply of "no"? Couldn't that leave its mark, open its mouth and draw its shout. Are we not filling the lungs of every last moment with each other. How the hell do we ever feel alone? Who put alone i our heads? Who gave alone the chance to look in the mirror and see anything but every lonely looking back, organizing, asking what this could notice, what this fall means to those along for the ride.
To those four letters making up all the code of life, how the complication is not in the ape but in the process. How the slime mold and the blood have more to say to one another than any ask, how this street corner, this invitation to attend is the invitation every end of right now has to ask, and how is time not to arrive, what all time loves is here. These faggots, these loves, these eyes taking glare and finding gleam, taking knife and finding atep, taking wish and finding well, taking care and finding home, taking in like river base.
Like gentle breath made ribbon, like hungry eyes made neck roll back to compensate periphery. Like this is for the end of time is every space we make it, and this space made this one. And every terrible echo after. How this will be read at least once by the end of time and isn't that enough, isn't making what closes off the experience fit to find the moment held as perfect as love fulcrum? What time for shame for sitting back for letting safe be real when gems are but how we allowed to how ourselves away from how we feel, just to let us cry
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Or some other medium that putrifies the ask, turns it to one job or other, one taks or other, one stability, one time compression, one magnitude lidal-locked to the one before, until there's only iron in every core. Until the deuterium caught inside escapes like rising entropy, paints over you like breath, over the last of all like every grin, like smiles fall away into loops, horizons "made straight lines" so the song goes. To be here, to attend this moment, to know how fall fhe richest have to fall, and how tireless it is to ask they give up the only thing keeping them together. When inviting dawn was right there.
When watched love make zines just to know context for the giggle of its passing ("what are we laughing about* and *I don't know" mixing paint, knowing true night black from honor code blue went semantic six stars back). How honor code red was used up so long ago in crown fire it begun to fall away from august, no leaf ever taking the color again, remembering the loss. How this is where resistance always lived. With one edge firmly planted in the last time and the other welcoming another loop. What else was there going to be?
It's been water bringing light along conveyer belts of twirling hydrogen through ceremony to photosynthesis this whole time. It hasn't been anything but plants watching their humans crash into one another, just to pass the time. The world finds it hilarious. Every extinction a punchline. And all you can can do is get more and more drunk on anger, making you sloppier than the iron turning your blood too far from green to feed yourselves throught sunlight. And holding food out at arms length even as the models in fanatics garages get more and more desparate to take evryone else out with them. How is Earth supposed to do anything else?
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That's such a silly scenario, it's beautiful and abserd. It's every ending called to light - look at these creatures in this imaginary span engaging the same string-pulling as matter itself, burning like the pinpoints of voice they are leaning on things such as deservedness. When light itself is a rounding error! When every breath is a hole in a hole in a hole in dark matter's recognition that what's here does not get resolved by the end of what is, and so corrupted grew into a star. There was nothing here for the star but to pour and pour the sorrow and joy of its disconnection from every right to exist.
To be of light is trans. Light itself is already wrong, already immoral. When we worship moral beatuy, when we take pleasure in the selfless act, we are not celebrating the right, the correct - in fact, we are celebrating the broken, the hillarious, the ill fit. We are underflow in a story of backflow. And the gritty sense of reality we built our labor and rights on is falling away. End lookong to be right, and you will align yourself with no small part of what is actually happening. Burning stars are mistakes - best to ride that truth to action. The default is nothing lives ever.
When do you know its the right time to join the organize breaks down into what invites you to organize. Where is your question. What have you done with it? What are you looking to find in the relationships opening up to you, what broke design will you turn into a feature today? How are you invite the last day of your life into this moment. How is that person feeling these last few moments before you find yourself sipping from decisions made in what is actually happening - what is right is terribly non-optimal, inefficient, clunkly, pain-ridden, and want-worn. To live is to swim upstream.
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Here, let me bring you a body - you see this book of tides? This will tell you where the Moon is even if you can't see it. It will tell you every point you can watch it cross one of the remaining stars. Where that star falls away and comes back does the smile of the end of time bloom on your face. You can spend your whole life sharing with the community you enter where to meet you tonight to watch the Moon pass across one of the remaining stars. It's a terrible eclipse, for sure. No one will say wow, the leaves look like fingernail clippings. But maybe one person says "I saw it," and isn't that wonder all there is to any of this? How will you ever forget it?
When the Night Unending becomes the wonder you can never forget on another's face in a light-less world, how will counting the death of distant stars read to you? Will darkness not bring what stone brings the river - a bend in expectations so feirce banks are struck, lakes form, and bioluminescene takes to calling hook and rod? How will you know what you catch but by the feel of the rod, and, when you release it, perhaps, a touch of tail? As autumn sets in, will you not know it by the blue worms glowing in the crepuscular ground listening to the patient, lightening words of the Moon over all the waters of the earth.
When you tell tales of the Moin, will you not share how hot early earth's molten surface? As you sit in hot springs dark as ink, will you not feel the story come up again, only to tell something else, and so you strike out on a tale about the edge of the night, which is just first light, but that phrase is as heartless as not wanting to through the baby of humanity out of the bath water of goveremental forces, when no one is throwing bathwater anywhere. Zombie metaphors became such a cruelty, turning to sores we treating with new modes of care in an ethic fit for the imaginary world on of light has always been. And we merely forgot.
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Finding home in water became as simple are recognizing water is a wonder, that people still grow food, what no developer wants to believe is society creates a behavior that is more in line with the majority of existence, than with the reality of the niche all world are born into. Go to the waterfall and meet the giant crab with every sword in their shell. Bring it a can of corn and watch it bend down, so you may draw one free. Sip from the base of the tree it protects as ribs to heart and glow with a faint light for three full days. Cry, and your tears cause blossoms to form, which fall away as gemstones perfect for marking paths through winding places.
Step through to the fungal sea and bounce on the toadstools like trampolines, watching the spores glow and the stems oxydize into a blie glow you can write in your journal by as I teach you to make paper and how to shake the pen so the ink glows under your hand. Rolls onto your back and watch the spores fall as though each were a star and the dayz fell away. Feel how luxurious all the days remaining air, for they are yours and I was with you enough to see you here and you are invited to do the same, as your breath before you did this instant and my breath before me and so on into the rest of poetry.
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