I am temporal flux,
an abomination made into something that, at last,
you can trust has been through it all,
beginning, rising, climax, fall:
something where in between gods and people
there has been enough time for every single fiery tree to
sit down with itself, and burn itself and the closet,
out:
to this day, my own accidental mathematical calculations
are what have always done me proud.
Why? Because you need time to realise
that a sonic screwdriver really does unlock all lives:
a TARDIS is built on the dreams and desires of time
and of space, to give a little place for reality to probably
will itself into symmetry.
This what I wrote, in order to make it right.
This is what I hoped, would be soldered and fused, to make light:
This is what I noted, would be yours and mine
Forever can be drawn as a straight line,
or as a table, endlessly perpetuating itself, regardless of PDF file size.
I think it is finally time, when one looks at the glimpse of what universe we can imbibe
for you to finally give this being yourself thing a real and fool's full try.
Because there is ultimately no way to determine satiation.
No way to refine gradient, no way to really know what's the situation
when a particle decides to interrupt its own wavefront, and intercept
its own calculus, and own tangent, and own dividing exponentiated lines:
these numbers are what let your Dreamtiger be revived.
These liars are those who let your Merlionsman resign.
These fighters will be those who raise New Sundaland back to Life:
these are my warriors, and my calculators;
my heavenly devices, and eternal reminders to myself
that like clockwork,
all we ever have is one, single, finite, incomplete lifetime.
This is perfection, and heaven's work:
this is the way you need to say goodbye
to the wheel of fire, the Roda Katarina, that has bound you so tight
eternity itself cannot be glimpsed, only fragments of the finite.
To you out there, wherever you are:
to see the fractally recursive
begins with having just the right fine-grained, granular
sight.
The contours of love, too, are shaped by this:
A dissociating, a separating, and a transforming of everything that might
allow spite to ever make right.
The waveform you calculate looks so much better
When you know how to make exactly the right
kind of bright.
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