My blood is humming an ancient tune...

Communication is an incredible process. First there is the non-verbal cues that initiate and exist throughout the conversation. They sometimes act as a conductor would to an orchestra, these non-verbal ques are what the speaker and listener attune to throughout the interaction. The language begins with the mouth movements and noises of one interactee, these mouth noises move across space; in the ether as acoustical pressure waves, they then enter the mind brain system of another person and that person consults a culturally validated dictionary to see if their definitions overlap with the definitions of the person who created the sounds in the first place. if there is sufficient overlapping then we say that communication is taking place, and understanding is occuring. But, it is always a kind of provisional and shaky kind of understanding. As concepts become more complex, the dictionaries become more divergent and eventually two persons from the same cultural background could be discussing some kind of technical jargon and be utterly in need of some interlocutor because the understanding isn't even existent.

In an unforseen development of Einstein's work, we see ourselves converted into enrgy spent upon communication...
And what is being communicated?
Our imagination....

Deacules stands on one leg, stiffened, then the other..Producing a sort of sway. Waver if you will.. His mind is yearning to articulate what his senses suck in unremittingly.. He can't though. So, he just stands there.. Waiting to interject some bland response to remind everyone that he's still there and interested in the conversation that moves, sometimes, in a circle, sometimes diagonally, sometimes on the edge of a blink or the smell of anothers breath.. The laughter turns the subjects into lithe demons that clog coherency and facilitate meaninglessness.. Deacules shifts and , midshift, wonders why, still, he stands mute.. Fear, that his puerile perceptions won't be understood..He shifts again.. He asks himself, over and over again it seems, what could I say.. What could I say without trigging that badgering nag of conscious and its blathering incorrigible sidekick Sensitivity.. I know, he thinks, I'll just revel in the observation, the antics I perform while I stand here in my mime charade.. And what I take away is nothing I've given in to.. Ghost crowd my queititude, and without a shreik or even a tear I break back into the single file line that moves back into the machine.. To step outside this droning hive for a glimpse at what it produces only exhibits neurotic nuance and the shedding of worn automated motions that leave synthetic skin for the breeze..

A cross between a moan and a scream.. that is where I politely stand waiting for the nicotine to stain my fingers..

To be part of the Big Bang.. Only a mission to expand.. Extrude.. Exuviate..
and
split
into
the light

The sight of my own reflection increases my burn...

carapace... Too thick for one to realize their lonliness

time to go..

time to fly into a palace of wisdom..