To lose oneself in the rigid real, and become the chaorderly rhythmic waving of physical time, harmonic and beyond. Days and numbers, spinning around, going everywhere, going nowhere. Always centered, always moving towards the edges. Always a day at the beach, the park, the mountain, the farm, the site, the barracks, the gazebo, the kitchen, the rooms, and what not. Its competitions of sacrifice. Carts, horses, sticks, and yes, carrots. Insects, or bugs, and avian, aquatic, mammalian, earth, wind, water, fire, think of all the creators have shown us, have tried to tell. Stasis, to weave a basket to store our pleasantries, and we can never stop the seeping, our back is always pat, up, down, up, down, up, down, we are forced to accept the tides, we are forced to accept so much, and therein is the battle of life, history and the world, an argument. A game, a play, everything, and much more, always. And it rides, and we ride, and there are windows and doors, and frames. Think of what we are truly made of. We share a common bond, we are the eternal stuff congealed and awoken. We dwell in our abodes and travel outwards, and seek ever onwards. Nature is always there, our majesties royal backdrop and look at all that has been built of the stage, of the playground, of the barrier built between hell. The unfurling of physical infinity, and we cant get enough. So what is wrong with everyone, why are there any problems, because we all cant have it all and time is always winding, so we claw and scamper, piercing into the belly of the motherboard, pulling the curtains over the clocks and gears, and building a smooth surface to block it all, so that there is no time, and all things seamlessly link. And thus escape, and thus the opposite of escape, and thus work, and thus leisure, and thus all things in their time and place. There are only teams, the world is merely and triumphantly teaming with teams. And its all about the tiers. But the salamander can find solace in the cool crisp damp dawn between grass and leaves on the forrest floor as the woodpecker chips away, to each get their fix and fill, before night falls, and the next crew takes their places.
