i close my eyes to see the back of stars, the stars i see everywhere, arguing, not that it's new light, and behind the stars i see the distance, i peeked to see if i can spellbind, that these are my thoughts, no one is sure, to me there they are intrinsic, and temperamental, often not my own, never full to grow out like flowers and fires, but there is the other thing that i'm stalling again, oh great is might, i sense where the keys are and i type, or i do, stranger than fiction, and other things, continuity is so remains the principle theme, has the light finished before it shines on travelled shores, does the light travel to empty planets or does it just pass by them with ease, as choice, as reprimand, as trivial detrour, does it chase around the world after a tail, it becomes many past connection withy the target, but itself to parts, we can record these events, creating new data as more information, and there is the light used to transmit the signals are just pulses of electricity, on, and off, we record, no wait, there are two choices this thought, behind the flashlight, or guessingh who holds the flashlight, it because it seems, okay, scores of people recorded like charted scores on shores of waves of tidal infinite information, just like the water, arguing that water is only made of elements, and thereby as such is earth, but slightly lesser unknown still that it is air and earth, fuel for the living to become channelers of the source, conduits, as exception already, even by the time of this writing it is possible, in a working grid of control, a controlled-environment, one of the missing eye, as often enuf, to know every movement, mapping easily enuf by our toys, if we are here, or if even we are there, surely we are anywhere for a time, this is our singularity channeling the controlled light within us, for i'm uncertain to argue, if enuf than too much, iff uncertain than vigilant, and that so many times without irregularity is its way to know all thse orders and operations of our lives, the stories of gods that play with expected outcomes, and people do this too, and of those that weave time to change where we go, but it is a challenge to be a human for many years after our creation, or until after our creation, my parable seems ponderous, rewriting, it suggests that there is no identity, like voices in his head, there must be more, it must be any, ah yes, the whole report of which we are books in a database cell, but what if it recorded how many breathes a person takes, ho9w many heartbeats, i peeked to make sure it's on the level, on the line, correction is not a thing we can make to history, liek continuous development we mustn't deride ourselves our closest allies, other error checkers, will report to that, beneficially, as much a perfect calculation in sentient space driven by completing authentication at the point of finding itself and its beginning, largely assuming that, like a program checking itself until it outputs all that can be, reathing living cell, i love that universes exist within atoms, and just are the truth of this science, but what if i were to say that it would count how many times a heart skipped, just a larger database, in this infiinite amt of space would not there be without explanation that beyond the grasp of creatures standing under the digital sky endless unfoldable space to hide the writing on the walls, i used to write these with my eyes open, inasmuch, otherwise, et al, i peek to see if i'm blind, where it counts many things, how many cells in the body, how many bodies within cells, equally, how many celsl does the body create every second, would it also count and document the manufacture distribution and collapse of every cell in the human body, that would surely be a great artificial intelligence, knowing where are all these things withing the known universe, a beautiful picture of the mathematicians'golden rule of the unknoweable space and time, if the future is unknowable or by heading there is lost the past, naming every cell in the human body, and knowing where every cell is at all time, knowing where every grain of sand is, like a a map maker of stars, those beyond the scope of time to see them, those which we around revolve, now ready to imagine everycell accounted in every possible moment aside from their order of existence, how and how close each is to the other, knowing how far a star light will appear as a supernova by its lenght away from the view, and the worlds undiscovered within a cell, mitochondrial universes like floating stars, tiny cells, or the complex combustian and renewal within the feiry brightness floating in space, and in the absence of matter the radiation chaotic and three four dimensional conduit to the fabric of reality itself, like a pattern in the wave tops of an ocean in a frozen photograph, stacked for a motion slideshow of embryonic echoes across the tiemline, in that irradiated space where stars exlode and new shores define them the corners of the universe where we reside, counting the times against each other that someone did not count them for us, when all we have to do is remember thise things again, where everything is
/rant