funny little word, a bite full of dust, shouldering the burden of centuries, but salvageable. needs a living tongue to carry its tune, like star embryos which also hum, but only hot, but only if we pay attention to them growing with accumulated matter, occupying spacetime the same way proust's combray church does. we can try to draw a picture with a pencil of the before this time and the after this time but good luck with that—it never works. four dimensions are beyond us. focus on a roundish piece of fruit instead—for example, a black pretty lady. before you puncture the flesh, chew the skin and swallow the juice, explore the circumference with your mouth—a quick method of circumnavigating hawking—the hypothesis of finite extent, nonexistent boundaries, nothing holding you back, nothing preventing your travel. begin here and end here or keep going. today the baby intentionally scatters wooden blocks across the floor, a spider struggles to scale the bathroom sink and rent-a-chicken incorporated doesn't have a problem with you returning a loud-mouth hen that's upsetting the neighbors. make note of the fact that time slows at higher speeds. but don't let that stop you. come aboard. follow the horizon. sail in the direction of the already collapsing boundary. tomorrow try to capture that ruin of blue.
