It was a dark and stormy night, The loud void of nothing filed the empty space of the empty room, which a clutter of emptiness arranged itself in an orderly and solemn manner. but some how, you are there, your in that vary room, a collection of molecules standing right in the middle, wearing nothing but skin. You start to have a thought, a brief spark of vision , this is new to you, you have never done this before, you know nothing but standing – standing in your little room. But you have this sudden realization that this box cant be all, this cant be life, this room, you realize you need to feel it. Night terns to day, you start making and creating, and soon you have a life that you made for yourself, no, not by following the order, following your thoughts, You are for once, comfortable, happy. You find comfort in your hands. but when your nervous, you find that you could do anything: you examine the veins and bones jumping around in your hands, and think about the complicated mess of fibers that exists, allowing you to write or make shadow puppets or play paddy cake with a blown bear dressed up like a slightly less brown bear. you Imagining the complexity of your own body. from there it becomes easy and every thing counting up to the day you die will be slightly better then the last. You decide to put it into words hoping your point will come across, you expect people to look at the little letters you put together and add meaning and add feeling that you put there for them to find. letting people unpack the massage using there own hopes and dreams and its ok. you just hope that in some way they will get something out of your words. This means whatever you think it means.
These are your thoughts in life, I hope you liked my impossible story. But remember, you wrote it, not me.