NotebookOne.Fifteen.Untitled by j z provo 7 aug 88 But the Ghost is the tiny thing... Dripping thru the perceptual seive, like images of future lives laughing in spite of _their_ predicament. Dare we jump the chasm of Belief? And run headlong into the land of the Walking Dead; mud-plastered faces mock our Emptyness with their own Witless Eyes. What dummy-like lives! They erupt from the soil -free!- only to burden themSelves with the Useful Odds and Ends. Better to plummet, screaming like a Mad Ape Into the bottomless Abyss of Life-in-life. Soaring ever lower, Our thoughts twist and turn As our perceptions Shatter into the stark blades of Reality. They follow the patterns of our thoughts. The Walking Dead shriek hysterically, for their blades of Perception carve out their reality; Just as We carve them up! Our neverending Battle comess to a close. The Victor? ...the metal of Perception is tempered at a lesser heat than that of Reality...