Max is NOW!

one’s not half two. It’s two are halves of one:
which halves reintegrating,shall occur
no death and any quantity;but than
all numerable mosts the actual more

minds ignorant of stern miraculous
this every truth-beware of heartless them
(given the scalpel,they dissect a kiss;
or,sold the reason the undream a dream)

one is the song which fiends and angels sing:
all murdering lies by mortals told make two.
Let liars wilt,repaying life they’re loaned;
we(by a gift called dying born)must grow

deep in dark least ourselves remembering
love only rides his year.
All lose,whole find

-ee cummings from “Love and Its Mysteries”

The rain has fallen for a few days. And unlike the temperate pasts, it is not so easy to predict. Is time here to bide slow expectations? In the void we were nothing. Figureless, thoughtless, nothingness. In the void we were one and none. Then the birth of life. The singular moment of tears and laughter and forgetting and remembering. A substance created, not to be created, but to be destroyed. There, in the wee moments of the beginning, it all began like a march to the nearing end. A hiccup, a sneeze, a small little incidental tone within the nothingness, and there was we. Mistakes are not made in nonreality, in nothingness. No movements of fluxes or grand orchestrated errors. A blip, nothing more…but fatal nonetheless. And man came pouring from that minuscule little thought in the void. Was it love or hate or creativity or curiosity?
It was the dusk of nightfall from a brightly shining day. From glaring lightness to complete darkness, the golden hour of existence. But what better way to celebrate the passing of one nothing to another, than the beautiful motions of man. Lit by the passing sun, so we move and twist and turn, fading quickly, finding ourselves once again, losing it all in the end. And so it passes. Too fast, too hurried, too full. The best in every possible way, existence bows to night.

Man is something that must be overcome; and therefore you shall love your virtues, for you will perish of them.
Thus spoke Zarathustra.