PERENNIALLY OVERLOADED
I'm here again taking this peculiar form
of dictation from a room that doesn't exist.
Yet as I enter it, the walls expand and I see
it's endless and goes on forever. In. That.
Sense. Of forever as we know it.
-
The voices are on the walls and they roll
down like wet paint, when you put too
much on a roller. I'm sure some will
understand. In. That. Sense.
-
I find that I can expand this room, just
by moving about, sort of the 'concept'
proclaiming itself first. The idea is one
of growth. Everything is possible. And
I therefore listen to the voices I hear.
All things are multi-level, and there is
nothing here that exists by itself; though
they are not related and still operate
independently. In. That. Sense.
-
From the top of my head there extends,
upward, a great pyramidical or triangular,
cone. A sort of cone, but with a shape
its own. It goes all the way up, or out,
or whatever that is, to what seems an
infinite openness. The voices seem to
start from there, as something akin
to noise. Or a buzz, or a hum. In. That.
Sense. They come down and cling to
walls? From where I get them?
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