There is no time.
There are only
attention
and probability.
You create probabilities
by paying attention.

You are a single point
in an infinite thought process,
dropped in haphazardly
to any specific instance.

This is the void:
Understanding that you are writing the reality of a runaway thought process.

An ink spill running up the page
from the letters and words
into the author's fingers.

So if,
each moment is both
an eternity
and also
all we have,

We play hot potato
with now,
with ourselves,
with each other.

Each one of us
is both the story
and what has been left
on the cutting room floor.

This is why
attention.
This is why
appreciation.
Golden ratio.
Harmony.

The emptiness writing itself is art.

I think also why
cults, mass suicide, etc.

What we can do,
is by shared agreement
realize,

We
fell
here.

While asking how to be
the soft landing
for each other.