Oh ill-linear life! Shall you remain to robotize the mind?
All machine parts; habitual havens to the unborn.
What a wormhole.
Poetry of the love deserves to be wrinkled and newly stained…Not folded simply and buried in a duct-taped box.
UNFOLD LIFE THROUGH THE NON-LINEAR:
Echo the empty thought and blister it with the dirt-laden shovel.