The cter and cuter I think I get, the more and more what would otherwise be a decoder ring to the hidden secrets of Creation begins to sound like gibberish. The keys to the gates of Asgard lie in the exposition of the intersection of a map that we have without doubt written with our own hands in the kind of way that some artists might throw paint against a wall and marvel at the magically beautiful designs that sometimes appear as an act of nothing but a hand and force majure. I suppose I am not being kind or thankful enough to the arm that moved the hand, and the shoulder and elwow that certainly worked in concert to lay the paint against the canvass. I hope not to belittle it either, but there was really no action or effort involved in sitting still and allowing the paint to stick to it--at least, that's the microcosmic metaphor of what it is that I see in our history and art--a beautiful and intricate design that has appeared from the synchronized loves of the world as a whole, the active efforts of fewer, and at the very top of that symbolic stage is the director behind the Eye, the hand, the elwow, and the shoulders.
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Of course that doesn't mean that we "shouldn't become immortal" and a significant amount of my writing revolves around the ideas that sickness, aging and death are easily overcommable maladies--especially in the context of "virtual reality."
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