Frankly, predisposing the situation at hand, I fear we have entered a quandary, a juncture if you will which has on its aspect the notes of a garden wall covered with ivy  broken and surrounded with tomb stones lit up by sunlight on the dying embers of the winter afternoon.

Frankly, presupposing a juncture, whereby implicating a puncture on an endless white motorway in Australia where Aboriginals  sit in the bush perfecting their spiral art.

The spiral, of course, being the juncture of all being which endlessly circles always at movement never at rest.

Predisposing the test – the litmus test of the windows overlooking the sea which is grey and violent and crashes against the spiralling seagulls as they yelp and splutter and putter on the wind like pieces of burnt paper

And at the juncture  of my meditative trance I see in a flash that without my consciousness of them the seagulls and the waves would both not exist and, paradoxically,  exist continually in a state of stasis frozen against my grey winter window – ergo –

Suzanne by Leonard Cohen is the reason this universe continues and at this juncture –

the rest may indeed be silence

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