Assuming the universe is infinite, would it be considered to be an open or a closed system? If the universe is infinite, it is not isolated from anything and is, therefore, an open system. But couldn’t you also assume that, since there is no effect on it from an outside environment, it must be closed? So which is it? If there is neither space nor time outside of the universe, what could it be isolated from? Perhaps it is strictly a question of mass. If the universe has enough mass its rate of expansion will decrease and it will then fold back on itself.
I do know this: I love water. If I want to go for a swim, I undo my belt, drop my pants, and dive right in.
A lake is a closed system. A river is a moving system. The ocean is a large funny hat.
I like to throw dreams in the air in the form of words. Words are little engines of haphazard maneuver. Adjectives are humors. Nouns are allegories, little puddles of brazen infinity. Verbs are locomotives, pistons of sound running on diesel and heat.
Light stimulates the growth of books and cuticles.
Muscles carry the weight of our being. The skin wrinkles. Time folds into morning. Morning folds into maple syrup. The rungs of the ladder redeem the indignity of purpose from the stains of sequence. If you must personify the light, use an affidavit. Don’t just drag an irritation. Send it to the Ambassador of Sand and Clouds.
Everything is ignorant of its own emptiness. Anger can sometimes bring a new perspective to the rank autumnal explosions of semantic dancing. Anger can also sometimes lack perspective. One must decide if the wash is worth doing, or can wait another day. In the alchemy of morning, the thumb is an abstraction and the bathroom is a naked assumption.
Your pickles burst with history. Your hands hold a kimono. We are desperate. A soft, percussive feeling shines behind your words. Enough is enough, you say. I agree. The moose was useless. There was greater subtlety in the stand of birch without this animal. A spring bubbles forth. Everything trembles with life. Even the piano gives birth.
The moose, uninvited, sits down and plays a sonata. I do not recognize the composer. Christmas ornaments hang from his antlers. His eyes shine with divine madness.
Each thing, as far as it can by its own power, strives to persevere in its being.
Take honey, for example. How sticky, gooey, transparent, sweet. Even the thought of honey diffuses in the mind, shining and coincidental. Words gather like nerves in infinite speculation, spread like honey on a piece of bread, easing into themselves as they ooze toward enlightenment.
It is a participation in turnstiles that hunger for symbolism. I once followed a man to the subway and saw his shadow break into a thousand red animals. One of them pantomimed probability theory. Another folded a napkin into a replica of Paraguay.
There is a way the light shines on the surface of a river and all the ripples and waves and stirrings on the surface indicate the character and singularities of the current.
One cannot help but think of blood and the circulation of blood. Are thoughts made of blood, or something else, storms, tornados, dumplings, or a combination of blood and storms and tornados and dumplings? I mean, what is it? This ability to choose a pair of running shoes, or a dog or a car? Is this ability only an illusion? Are we guided by something we do not clearly understand?
If each of us is a conglomeration of cells, is it the cells who do the choosing? Are we archipelagos of bacteria operating under the illusion of freedom of choice?
Right now I want some coffee. That’s simple enough. And why isn’t the vet calling back?
It’s nice to have objectives, particularly during a bingo game. But really, when it comes down to it, it is just three things that truly matter: eating, sleeping, and curtains.
The Curse of the Thinking Class
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