Every Other Thing

It's odd to realize that ones life is best described experientially, as a series of discoveries in an irreducible phenomenon cast in viscus matrices. "These Days": The superficial and arbitrary way with which we sever experience and consciousness, yet neither emotionally, nor intellectually, are we cognizant of the ephemeral boundaries. Time, as a biological value, carries over into our social constructions, but there, its value ends. That it is "a-prior" is hard to argue with. That it does not extend into the intellectual realm is also too plain to deny. How odd, its ready departure in the face of intellectual or emotional pursuits. "These Days"- fraught with time's non-contingencies; The seemingly unrelated images and concepts merging to suggest something more than their singular aspects would allow ~ a broken dream assuaged by the coffee machine's sharp scuttering; a waterless complaint, and her image; no longer the bright charged view, fading in forgetting's white-grace, but content to become instead, the liquid shadows of empty-spaces, where time floats down in dangerous obedience to an undiscoverable gravity, like the broken feathers of a silent, celestial war