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I.

Time is elastic and blurry underneath.

If you open your eyes,

White foam, dimensions of light, of dark,

of sand.

Eyelids flail open, every particle effecting,

They sting.

But this beauty is elusive:

It was neither my experience, or an

Experience that was experienced by an experiencer.

It was, and it is, contained in what will be,

Perhaps, contained in what was.

Blurred beneath only eternal elasticity remains.

II.

Stories attached to names; James, Judy, or

Stan,

Could never be the essence of “I am.”

For they were born (although not at birth)

And they must die (although maybe, not at death).

“I am” was not born, and “I am” cannot die.

Essences of beingness never birthed.

Fallacies of names

With their stories are remembered,

then replacing.

Beyond the memories though, well beyond

Ideas of both birth and death,

No-thing-ness.

“I am”

III.

“The river is a strong brown god.”

Said Eliot.

Fervid eruption, seperation from the

Sudden fall.

We are our condition.

Though condition only, at the bottom of our fall,

The River again.