Pencils. I love pencils. I miss pencils. Their woody bodies and graphite cores. I wanted to make straight lines. Maybe that in itself is enough. Straight lines. Old man said, “if you make them lines straight enough you will have played your part.” But they make absurdly straight lines now; nano-scale, molecular level of straightness. Who can compete with cold machines. So, maybe don’t make straight lines, with pencils. I love pencils. I miss them.
I forgot the plans and took the liberty of making the city as it came to me. Now it is a contorted horror show of marginal delight. If I had stuck to the plan I would have already had a huge mansion considering the liberal allowance of resources that were always bestowed upon me without a question. Instead I have a curious poetopolis of zany characters and a sense of integrity that is flimsy and fragile. I wander this alien place lost in something similar to thought.
I see this place. This is where the sky tore apart above the mountains and I saw nothing. The all pervading nothingness. Emptiness of this existence where you become entangled in strings of desire, strings of attachment to the world. You hold the emergent sense to be the truth of existence forgetting that it has all been nothing but an elaborate becoming of a story.
Nothing but the becoming of a story? The nothing game, most densely populated, ever differentiating, ever procreating. Everything but nothing.