I am the Echo.

Fate implies existence of god. A cause of no help unless it is dying. Invincibile is your matter of fact. The limbs of lumberjacks — branch limbs of their own — in the eyes of owls. Perhaps. The gift to them that you can take. Possessionless the need to speak. Sentience that you bring yourself. Choice is always abundantly clear. Your gift to them can take you back. With windows left open rainfall sounds just like a shower. He is a really smart guy. I do not always realize it. In fact he’s now smarter than he ever has seemed. He is down to earth. “As long as to you I appear to be sane, I sound as insane as sanity needs.” He is charming that way. The devil has always had ways to win. Never the voices in man’s head. Do not forgive him if he’s there tomorrow. Diagnosably insane — insane regardless. As long as to you I appear to be sane, I’m less insane yet in a time machine. Such is the unlimiting nature of acid; good acid — all acid or enough of it produces a question: a blank slate that erodes in time, pursues the nature of chalk, defines the hands that wipe it clean; but Descartes masturbates in the astral plane; Freud is there and nods to agree; thought of bicameralism creeps onto both; therefore, why do anything — anything — anything at all?

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