City flowers in summer.

In every sentence, every voiced utterance and subtle nuance or aspiration towards meaning and purpose, we are that through which the world comes to know itself.  These patterns and vibrant tapestry of mixed, living concept and blind, unknowing information are doing little more than that which the world is bound by necessity to do.  It is a layered matryoshka doll of recursive inflection and in it all minds and meanings are twisted and spiralling around this impossible arc of emptiness and paradoxical beauty.  It begins in emptiness and it eventually also ends there – everything else is just that strangely wonderful, beautifully wild and utterly improbable sentient mystery of our existence.

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