History defined in linear sequence relishes the abstract, securing human events as mere content for documentation, recommending the progress suggests a beginning, middle and end.
Empires burn, ashes procure beds for insects, butterfly wings titillate future gales, carrying flames to burn down the next Rome. If events are distinguished by how it impacts humanity, where do infant galaxies belong within our timeline? Breaking this down to scale: each person is taught by delusions and they conceive consequences by how they’re impacted by them.
An ouroboros eats its own shit too.
Reality disfigures ordinary gumption, revealing instead a bottle-episode. A Stage mounted among neuronal pathways, lines ad libbed and recited with disjointed absolution, bringing forth a scene, ready-made for Television.
A clean-slate still harbors these methods of Time. Scraps are recycled for future events. Perhaps made human. Perhaps occurring without record.
Life is best left on a cereal box, fashioned with rainbows, built for consumption.
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