At some ill-defined distance from you, there is a person broken, waiting.  At some distance, mind you, not, like, right next to you.  Or you.  Or are you?  The world can slide by pretty fucking quick, you give it half a chance.  We're obsessed with that measurement where I am from, the planet Earth.  We mark and measure and fear the Terror of History, that growing weight that tells us the amount of Time that done slid by.  Time, that immortal bell ringing.  Time, the clock ticking by.

At some great huge fucking distance from You, time doesn't exist.

I don't know if you can understand that.  I'm not sure anyone can understand that if they are reading this.  Reading this requires a sense of time, see, and having a sense of time is to be enveloped by it.  Sequence is king is king is sequence is king in this.  Fact without timing falls apart to the insanity and point is being truthful rhythm none

Whoa whoa whoa.  See what happens?

World falls apart, it don't spin no more, because if it's spinning, see, then there's a pattern and a sequence, because it's a cycle that has a frequency and that frequency makes the rhythm of our life, right?  We live and die by it, right?  And there it is, see, you cannot divorce the life from the time, not you.  Not anyone reading this and where it sends us as it beats us into it's rhythm.

Right?

So at some huge great distance (a measure of time, really) from You (at that point in space) there is a person (trust me on this) who has no concept whatsoever of time.

His name used to be Scott, but he can't know that right now.

He can't know that.

He doesn't know.

The desert hit the front of his car some point back there.  He doesn't know when or where or anything like that.  He is in the desert and his mind is an open thing, an organ, it has no more importance than his hands.  His brain has no more importance than his feet.  His brain is processing nothing.  He is not using his human.  His brain in the quiet of no work and no thinking and no culture and no being subjected to the traps of logic is doing nothing is open.  The desert crashed into the front of his car and he started shedding the dandruff, the detritus of culture and time and science and man, his watch gone his phone gone his wallet gone his money his lighter his belt his clothing gone gone gone replaced by requirements for survival.  Without these languages and rules and traps and illusions, his brain is just another organ, re-purposed as a radiator and regulator of blood temperature, his body using the surface area in the brain far above the desert floor to cool the body better.  His voice is an occasional barking noise.  His senses are senses, sensitized, no longer sanded by the rough surfaces of modern city suburban cataloged life.  His eyesight is no longer comprehensible; he sees things that he can't see.  He sees the moons of Jupiter.  He sees the edge of the horizon, trucks on a hiway fifty miles away.  He sees chains of vultures and raptors in the sky, the huge dome sky, they communicate with sheer distance.  He sees without removal; he is part of what he sees, his peripheral surrounds him and he knows what surrounds him and he feels it as much as he sees it.  His sense of smell tied to taste directly he gets close to a hiway and has to stare at the sky or the ground hard or plug his nose with sage or anything to cover the horrible vinyl diesel rubber asphalt smell of man.

He is part, now, of the Now, now.  The big Now.  The one long now.  The same long now that animals know, that same huge long now that has existed since before language.  He is sub-lingual.  He has become undone, and the weight of the world is no longer on him.  The world stopped spinning and turning, and the world co-exists now.  The world Is as he Is as everything around him Is.  In this sensory explosion, this nerve-ending-brushed world, when he does encounter a roadway the speed at which things move is alarming.  A blur.  A motion too fast to react to, he almost gets hit by one car that has to swerve and curse and yell and try to hit him.

He is still standing there when the night falls, and he walks to the desert away from the road, smiling like he has been smiling, his teeth slightly bared, his eyes glinting pupils opened wide to take in the night which he sees and feels as well as day and he is moving, slowly, toward the edge of the world, toward you.  He knows this.

He can feel it.