Buzzhawk
The perfect thought ramble
I have read: goshawk.
Goshawk reminded me of the buzzard buzzword, to no avail.
It seems I would have to have started a new page in English.
Every millisecond, the brain tries to actively anticipate what will happen next depending on the knowledge it has of its environment. Let’s say: vast fields of trivialities followed by an enormous cliff of unjustified conclusions.
What happens next has happened before. Who cares whether the following page precedes this one? In the context of entropy, perfect internal disorder is synonymous with equilibrium, which has caused a great deal of confusion and misunderstanding.
I decided that I would make my life my argument. I will be an example, an idea monkey-wrenched out of time.
Our job as writing parents is — like it or not — to put ourselves out of a job. Writing parents should groom their little readers to be rebels who challenge the status quo and break rules constructively, creating positive change in the process.
The resurgence or flickering of original thought: take this fluctuated or punctuated terrain and enjoy it whichever way you happen to cross it or whichever cross-section seems impressive. The previous raw-thought sentence needs rewriting or rewiring. The sentence would end up short and simple, filling just a few lines and using only classic techniques. It would be highly missable and the response would be underwhelming, like a boxer with his gloves high backing up into the corner.
What did I really want to say? Word choice and hence meaning is arbitrary. A sentence starts as straightforward and then frays, diverges, again and again, unlike time, converging in the past as it squeezes through a reverse meat grinder. I happen to prefer minced beef.
Get ready for confusion by precision. Do you see it coming? Can you feel it now? You should be all ready for precision by confusion. Minced beef as a murky potential, evenly distributed fat and muscle. What a texture! The resulting sausage looks like a shit. Anyway, the resulting text resembles the shapeless stuff.
Is it a direct insight into formlessness or into the integration of our pure nature with both form and function, or into the unity of the two, going beyond the conceptual distinction? Nameless and formless, I leave creation and contradiction.
Averaged out, the web of stuff that makes up the universe looks homogeneous. Zooming out has always produced mixtures. Immersed in a smoothie, no sharp points, no edginess; a blob has resurfaced.
What? I’m too indifferent to think. This page will have to have finished itself later. I’m sure it will have come up with something remarkably banal. Off to recreation.
I’m reading a book, something flickers, a bird flaps and bickers and then there is the Ganges, murky and silt-heavy, alluviating my pain.
The standard model best describes particles and their interactions. But it has a pretty embarrassing lapse: it fails to explain our existence. Actually, it’s worse than that: it positively insists we don’t exist. And here I am: an unexpected admixture wondering what fundament the brightest brains are missing.
As far as I’m concerned, the creation could be determined by falling grains of sand.
