When identity is recognized
illusory, then models become,
at best, bright and fleeting distractions.
So what are we to do with this
intelligence? How do we play this?
Perhaps a memory will prove luminescent:
The front door was open.
A breeze fled the outside, and, once, the existent electricity became my distant cousin. I had asked, dancing, the past evening for a storm to keep pleasant personalities constrained, but last night, arguments dropped from the tree inside my apartment. Each burst on impact and filled me, and perhaps you, with a lovely fragrance. You said, “Ethics aside, I’d still do it because it’s such a fun game. If I ever get caught, I’ll respect that.” Later, I was told that our party was very Russian.
I’m curious—which is more valuable: the above memory, or when I tell you, now, that my lip is cracked and bleeding?