This, too, is about memory. They replicate themselves, doubling into twins. Exact, but still a replica. You can hear the aura, we all copied that. "Mechanical reproduction" I copy that. Someone is juxta-exposed. Out at the edge of the gleaming.
Done only once, announcing a career. Permission given- it's all a script for a movie. By the time you make it, the movie has caught up up with you by being predicted. The thought is the thing, as Seth said. "You create your own reality." By leaving nothing out, everything is forgiven. This is the strategy of the father- confessor and the automatic writer alike. Standing quiet and waiting for me to announce whether to go left, or right, downstage or upstage? Completes the lexicon of a legion of voices, spacing themselves out geographically to hear themselves thingk. The path of a career, divisions in space-time. No rest for the weary or the unrelenting. The sadness on the spaces between the cracks. Give pleasure a name.
Continuity takes itself in stride.How many voices in the chorus? Again, spread out in light and shade unfurling like a cloud or a flag.
By now, you've followed all my clues and have found out that all this time I've been tracking *you*, dear reader. In your thoughts I'll hear all my echoes before I've even thought them. You're constantly ahead of me, you've already decided before I've begun
I apologize, that was unfair. Can we still be friends? Acquaintannces, anyway? I wasn't really watching you, just listening, as always, for particulars. And then we'll go our own ways.
Camoflage was the word I was looking for.