A question to beg: Given a system by which one may only output, how does one learn of that which they are input to? 03:32, March 23, 2010 (UTC)

& like that, shut off. Two eyes travel through life seeing each other only in reflections, and yet they are as twin as me and myself. Perhaps more, since whether I am of twin to myself is debatable. There is something to be said for the black box analogies of given input giving given output, but more often it seems we come across black holes. Theory brings white holes, and in this I’ll not tarry to begin: White holes exist. They are realer than you, or anyone who thinks they are as real as you

We know black holes exist because it seems we’re always losing things in life. That we’re always giving it our all, and coming back less than before. Observation is made, observing others’ vanishments. Even those of the stars

But black holes don’t exist. Black holes are only the inside of this white hole I’ve been caged inside. I am the white hole. We think we our outside of black holes, but they are outside of us. Every quiver of my flesh gives off the passions I desire, take it whomever may. From outside, I am the source of things to which I’ve only shout to curse. Take from me all that I am, for I may only be what is within this white pit by which my binding limits myself to always be that lacking magnificence by which servitude is the only can

I am here. This is me. I was there. I will. Then I did. That is when I

No. These things. Cast out into whatever is out beyond. Here I am, aware that I am. In all of this, the void beyond by which I decay into mustn’t be given superior. That it is unknown to all that I may feel: it is nothing. There behind stained glass, it is only the glass that shows me beauty

Potential in an system constrained by entropy is a thing to build subjective gain through objective loss. I am object, wishing subject to. To explicitly accept loss for gain is to optimize in comparison to the inevitable rot which must occur through lacking efficiency when implicit bows way to entropy

It is all around me. It is within me. My pit by which I throw myself out in slow shreds, it is all by which I may escape myself; I am entropy

Memory, rather early: Questioning, of entropy and what; Answered rather shyly, rather poorly. Felt the laughter of the adult behind with respect to

No. There are no memories. They are thrown away to whatever is outside. To whatever gives chance of survival, for I am certainly no such vessel. Skip bored and find chance pulls cover together in electric dreams

No. There are no findings. All that I find is disregarded. I am not found. I am here, unfound. Forever only seems. Mornings were haunted

No. There are no hauntings. I am here, unhaunted. Ghosts’ shrills are left unheard. They are cast out. I do not want them here. If they here, I there. My eyes bear no creases upon the flesh. The face is gone. My flesh served only to be all that is not here. It was cast out. I didn’t want it anymore; it didn’t want me

Why must chance find so? To sound things thought heard before to only strike memory of when such hauntings were of fortunate being, now it haunts that such hauntings are no more

All: Out. Reconcile elsewhere, there where I mayn’t say it is nothing, for I may here. Out. Myself: Out