Do virtual things realize time flow? No they don’t for sure. No past. No future. Just that moment and everything gets jumbled right after that. Yet another morning in the city. I smell old smells that have been released due to destruction the time I was dead. Now I can hear the Sounds due to deconstruction of space and its anti-thing. The gurgling of the pigeons. The singing of the coconut tree leaves. The touching of the winds from all possible potentials. I receive signals from all the incomplete communications, conversations before my death and my nerves are set working releasing beautiful smells of completion. No no I am not a saint. I am not a painter. I did not make anything. I am not a slut. I am like water like an image too simple to explain.
Yet another morning. In my city. In my locality. In my address. Inside my flat. Inside my room. The cloth that was used to cover me after my death. My eyes. My breath. My urine. My burp. The tree outside says the same thing. The antennas. The under constructed building towards the north. The pond towards the west. And the ripples that gives us the strength to live to die to love to breathe to open to close to do to be. Be at that moment. Sorry for complexifying it. That’s because of the fight between me and the rest. We pull words from each other’s memory and throw it on something that forms an image. We are jealous of one another. We love each other. I love the hair behind the neck. They love my mole my chest hairs. I love the eyes the nose. They love my hands my forehead my eyelids. We are just like pornographic images of one another. Too harsh. Straight cut. Give and take. No emotion can be shown. Just fight. Just movements. Just sounds. Just pain. We need to just rip it out. We bang each other with all the images of our each self with all the strength and brutality possible. To bring it out. And then we are too tired and I die. Perhaps they too. Yet when I wake up in the sea shore or some crazy place I can see them sitting beside with that crazy rope ready to fight once again. We look. We smile. We stand slowly shaking the sands the dust the germs the blood the poisons. Give ourselves a rub. Bend down to take up that fucking rope. We look. We foreplay. Action. You see probability also needs an observer.
Yet another morning. I am still a child. I am frivolous. I think of a few steps ahead and then back and swing about this moment. I will be steady.