Conditional Reality

You blockheads, you make your alphabets from wood and paint, don’t you? And think that is sufficient. Where do you all come from? You see haystacks and apartment buildings, toppled empires and wreckage, all to mark the passing. None of it is your fault but all of it is your doing, spread out on the carpet to trap the unwary. The world up there is a tiny desire, telescoped power hung on ether and raised like a cup. You see the throats vibrating, the lips chattering. You know how it will all turn out. You bide your time and wait.

Labels: Excerpts