The paracosm there since any and every beginning: a tree of immemorial growth, felled or not, it is up to you and your denatured return, your stubborn aspiration to inhabit a cleft center, for after all, this could eventually be unearthed by some version of a media archaeology, as if that is fascinating enough to expand upon now when what pullulates unseen, more ash pool than pacific, that which posits the first axiom as a deep breath but not a sigh, encourages you to record every town and city in which you have spent more than a few days, arranges your tools according to brightness, nags you in the late evening to complete the list of names of all of the people you have ever met, and slyly records every time you avoided falling off your bicycle, that is what locates you under this tree, the one true center of this tempest in which you slump and sag, the one in whose shade you fret over memory and forgetting, over which obstructs and which sustains.


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