The earth rests manifest in its entire surround, on poles in an arc of infinite balance hurling through non in true infinite mystery; Immeasurable, Immensurable, unknowable in vastness, in field and force beyond comprehension; in fire and ice and truest nothing.
Within what? There can be no space that exists, unless it exists within the space that is greater than itself.
With all we seek to see there is no end beyond, that we would recognize just yet. There will always be things we cannot know. Listen to it in your heart… we cannot………. know.
Our history, a flint spark in the face of all we are surrounded by. In precision we drift within a system of the simplest perfection; in subtlety and substance so fine we cannot see the weave, only the tapestry.
A nothing spilling in material pools, into a nothing greater than itself.
The idea that we, Are?
That, more than can, again, be known, the unlikelihood that we are even here. The glimmer of a speck and all the things we cannot know would not be, as it is, but a glimmer of a speck apart. A perfect variation multiplied upon every speck that is.
Upon You and the insect unseen; the birth of stars and a breath.
Heavenly glances glint on eyes that only perceive, that is assumed. Sphere within ellipse in dances with spheres upon a greater, and none. Knot work in essence, machine in precision, terror in power and destruction in simplicity. Damnation in heat, and vacuous in dead cold.
The idea that we… are?