I don’t talk about anything anymore. The focus of my efforts has been on developing sublime receptiveness. Pure sensitivity. Complete absorption in sensation. The mind turns to time, to length, to size. To dimension and extension.
The mind returns to time. A sensitivity second to none. Repetition as a rhetorical strategy.
Aware hyper aware of what has come to pass therefore nothing comes to pass, for if it were, we would note its appearance before it had appeared, we would note the signs of an impending appearance. This level of sensitivity is maladaptive.
The mind returns to time. We do not give mantras the credit they are due. Who am I speaking to, only me, really. Who else will return in the flat fuck fullness of time? You alone.
No one needs to read anyone else’s writing. The point is for you to be able to read it yourself at some future date and be somehow elucidated. Writing is the continual extension of the mind into the world. It is minor immorality.