this morning i dreamt of paradise, before i woke up in purgatory; which i guess trumps dreaming of purgatory prior to waking up in hell, but now i’m forced to consider the reasonable presumption that purgatory’s probably paradise from hell’s perspective. this less than pithy summarization, describes my far from terse existence, separated from fate by a breeze no stronger than a sneeze, a leaf off its tree drifting between ideologies shifting winds; knowing things could always be better, and realizing things could always be worse. she would satisfy her curiousity by claiming things are going to be what they are, and i’d retort “until they aren’t”. i could see she was near sighted from a far, because if that was real we’d all be still. nothing’s what it wasn’t before it was. we defined design to make sense of prints, and it’s been downhill, or uphill, since. so, the only surety we find, is that time’s an illusory climb, or flume, until it’s a flat line, or tomb. that wasn’t supposed to rhyme, but it’s up to you to decide if it’s for better, or worse… now that it is, but once you decide it will still always have been what it was.