after travelling through eros infinite republics for masticating decades im weary and by default i suppose find myself in thanatos kingdoms yet still alive
exploring a life without a future self a way not to find myself but live
empty plurality voids of being i move among selves of myself the way others move among jobs or lovers or cities
a tachyon visits me this morning and speaks of time neither as a river nor a cube but a rolling sphere containing within it all moments deeds things rolling on what i ask
light like time may be less a dimension to measure and more a ground for questioning darkness
what many see as failure i see as creative experiments by tentative and destitute pioneers so in silence i seek records of obscure laboratories and in solitude archives of labyrinthine nights
though the future seems not to be present in memory other than as ephemera of possibility the past may similarly present itself in imagination and if the difference between memory and imagination is thin so also times manifestations
the great and vast pantheons of modern clans skullars and feminists artists and technologists in their play of war cooperate in constructing a certain recognition of time
i hardly overcome the body its routines and spectral desires its fashions and extensions to and perhaps past consciousness but give myself to participating in the spaces between it and my objections to it while i experience fulfillment and objection as equally visceral this between on the margins of experience
this a diary of the days of one who has no future whose past is void for whom the present is an articulation of the absolute absence of time and replete inclusion of all times turning on themselves
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