A Body of Knowledge

If my knowledge of my body is contingent on gravity, at what point does it become mine? Who knows the knowing body? The process about the process. What witnesses its loneliness against death? Imageless. 

All miracles are anarchic. Anarchic synchrony, uncaused science without laws. You understood the laws of becoming how they disappear in each other's shadows and you couldn't speak. No abode but the homelessness.
Just enough internal contradiction to keep it in motion. 

Imponderable magnet that conjures weight and scale.  Alive in my life, my life in its life--  just between me and you, whatever you are.

The mechanics of self-consciousness, attempting to subpoena a memory that changes every time you look at it. I watch me stalk myself. It was awkward for everyone. 

I looked squarely upon the dopplegangification,  the very direct way you go about your weird hedonism. An intrapsychic chittering -- a nice eldritch echo across the meshes of the afternoon.