I Got The Words Like Yoda
An awareness of time, of where we pinpoint ourselves, this is the river stepped into, the daily scenery of our selves, the constant-same-old, ever-changing-flux.
The scenic route, I have lived. Backdrop, it is not.
Down by the Tamar, the real river adds umph to the metaphysics. It pounds like a muddy headache, thrills by speed, shoulders its boundaries aside.
Ever newer waters, the old philosopher said? Flow on those who step in to their rivers.
Heraclitus, who died of misanthropy, if the tales are true. He survives in fragments.
I observe the river. Recall the rain cycle.
This river, that cloud.
This river, my blood. Your blood.
Our stars, crossed or co-existent.
Impermanent, always.
The universe is us.
The scenic route, I have lived. Backdrop, it is not.
Down by the Tamar, the real river adds umph to the metaphysics. It pounds like a muddy headache, thrills by speed, shoulders its boundaries aside.
Ever newer waters, the old philosopher said? Flow on those who step in to their rivers.
Heraclitus, who died of misanthropy, if the tales are true. He survives in fragments.
I observe the river. Recall the rain cycle.
This river, that cloud.
This river, my blood. Your blood.
Our stars, crossed or co-existent.
Impermanent, always.
The universe is us.
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