Here I am, at my parole meeting with Dave. I excuse myself to use the powder room. Then, lo: when I open the door, I find that it leads nowhere. The blackness enshrouds me absolutely; it even covers my coiffure. Now I am caught up in the vortex of possibility: I realize that my brain was not faithfully perceiving but rather cherry-picking impressions from the kaleidoscopic world; so I relax into animalistic intuition, and my mind synthesizes with flux. The intellect leaves off separating body from spirit and whisks them into an emulsion. But now an erroneous whore-particle of my fore-mind flies outside of all this and proceeds to harpoon matter’s externality. A prayer for enlightenment reveals that Henri Bergson is “Mister Sandman”: he’s controlling the Nothing, pouring us from a purse of pseudo-sapience mixed with bliss. All the images of numbers that permeate the entirety now desist from being the kelson of suffocating truth; and Heraclitus steps into the river of flames again barefoot.
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