Text is all, all is text. That marks my incarceration, my impotencey. We created fables together, constructed textual realities and illusions, delusions. I don't care if I existed only in that simulation or your delirium, and that library of babel and fabel existed in three dimensions or i made believe it did. I imagine nothing, yet assume something, what if I could see -as if i cant know- Infinity. Or where did the collage of body parts and and fantasy lead us both too? That collage was a text, the scared gospel of OUrtext; I wonder when did that text transformed into the simulation of a simulation? Why didn't I see that all?Textual beings we are; and funny as text-I may be assuming again- inherently remains. Past is a remembrance only, and future doesn't exist, and yet I thought if only i could turn back the time. And will i be turing it back or forth? I guess I can never know; I am not God still.
A laughter that reminds of a pyschopath I saw somewhere in some movie, is missing. What is left of you and me is text.But can I, or Can't i, buy my way out of the theory? What would be the penalty? What would be the price? Or is that just what you gave me ? I couldn't ever thank you enough for ever. Maybe i can't now.
I am not God still.