Chapter 1 — Moments of new words.

The freedom of the moment, from time and dread and death and the self, becoming unbounded like a blossoming bud.

A good life, really the only kind of life that could matter, be worth it, depends on those moments. The unbound freedom of the self that unburdens itself of its own accord yet still remains a center, a place, that can capture, taste and produce an experience. And I have this life (which isn’t even the word, because it can’t be a word), that I’ll tell you about, but in those moments it almost seems from afar, a pantomime, or a projection of forms that is all based on an energy from somewhere else.