It's so thin that barely a wisp remains to effortlessly evaporate into the ether like smoke trails losing form to a diffuse vapour. The guitar plinks with that familiar regularity, but it is missing all emotion and warmth, marching with an apathetic dullness.Īlthough occupying only an instant, this moment extends to be drawn out in a dimension perpendicular to time. To cut loose from this regularity is unnatural, and so at the edge of life it can only be heard as a delicate echo. A recursive tumble through space as day and night wrap around to cycle over one another. One pump of the heart beats into the next as one breath breathes into another. Life is a repeated increment carried forward by regularity. But what is found at the interface of the presence/absence of consciousness? Does death occupy a slice of time or is it just an infinitesimally thin divide between the before and after? Whatever that moment is, it's long enough for a quick one before the eternal worm arrives. There was life and then there will be no life.
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