You kneel in this endless stream, baptized in knowledge beyond your control. Imprisoned in the world of your own making, you have _taken the place of god_ in the earth's (re)creation. This eden is barren, but you give in to the delusion that it nourishes - if only to salvage your sanity in this _fruitless search_.
Hunched over a bright screen, you are the twelve-year-old redeemer in a zoom meeting among the doctors. The faulty connection makes for a _disembodied learning_, and transfiguration seems unlikely. Lost in many temples, you _destroy the Old Masters_ and remake them in your own image.
Fixate on _the destruction of a storm_ in the palm of your hand. This stream, and the power it holds, has a price. Woman, behold, thy world! Behold, thy mother! There is _plastic_ in your womb for the unborn child, and _dolomite_ in its lungs.
Drowning in torrents of information, you will often mistake crucifixion for salvation. When there is no light, you listen. What sound do you follow?
(c) VALS, 2021