The ticking of the clock isn't so noticeable anymore...
It has become a fixture of expectation filtered out of active consciousness...
I inspect the microfiche line by line, page after page...
The entirety of the manuscript exists,
Beginning to end,
But I behave as if I have free will...
This illusion of change is a comfort sometimes,
The apparent incompleteness,
But the whole picture is there...
With the proper training,
The needle can be dropped anywhere on the spiral...
No matter what note you hear,
The entire song has already been written...
The entire symphony...
The entire anthology of symphonies...
A series of photographs at 60 frames per second...
Faster than the perceptive fps of the brain to the eye, 24 to 48...
A torrent of input processed constantly...
Filtered aggressively...
The meditation of mundane things pressing in on all sides...
You can hear all things anywhere and everywhere...
You only choose to remember specific notes along the way...
Perception is a funnel with a wide mouth
And it narrows to a pinhole after a fashion
Dropping experience in metered amounts...
The pressure that builds compresses you into physical matter,
This fleshy body that can feel the earth beneath its feet...
Cool grass both soft and alternatingly hard sharp feeling on the soles...
Wear heavy boots as you sleep if you want clear lucid dreams...
Sleep on your belly with your feet off of the bed...
There are always noises in the kitchen late in the evening...
Ghostly roommates that I never see when the sun is high...
The rain came this week after an unseasonably hot, dry summer...
People say they remember hotter,
But memory isn't as accurate as thermometers...
We invent a lot of details...
We see things that weren't there,
And see spaces where no spaces existed...
We rewrite history,
The sights, the sounds, what we were feeling at the time...
Every moment exists everywhere eternally,
But only through motion can we feel it...
Unmoving, it may as well be nothing at all...
Everything at once is just a striated blur,
And so we move...
Trace our finger over the words as we read so we don't lose our place,
Or re-read the same lines repeatedly...
Sometimes we still do...
Bouncing over imperfections in the spiraling grooves of the vinyl...
Hiss, pop, snap...
Visual white noise static...
When we let our eyes cross out of focus,
We feel truly alive...
We phase through walls like Montauk...
We see the hidden picture...
The holographic image of ourselves that we have created becomes almost clear...
Real enough to get lost in for a lifetime
Before we snap back to what we are...
Observers of the impossible...
Avatars in a simulation...
Explorers of raw mathematical code expressed in waves...
Some mundane illusion that is comfort food for a troubled consciousness forgetting its own divinity...
Limiting itself in some vain and contradictory attempt to understand itself...
Reading the microfiche line by line
As the record crackles and pops...
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