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Time stopped, I looked at the clouds through the leaves. They moved; I stayed still breathing the air that moved clouds, the leaves also moved.

There are moments in the continuum that assume perfection. These moments defy time, or logic, or consciousness, or understanding, or all of these. These moments are what art is meant to interpret, imitate, or describe. These moments in continuum (not the art) are so perfect they will never exist again, but through working (art) one can strive to be aware of these moments and reinterpret them though working (art).

The trees that were really people thought they had found a good place to stay. The air was liked; breathed fluently as ice, the point was really good though, they couldn't go forever, grow forever. Some time they had to stop and this place was nice. The stomas opened and closed and opened and closed opened closed air lactating through and beyond from within to out of beginning and ending and continuing and and and and and and and. I knew it even though it couldn't be proved, or tested. It, idea made no sense and understanding was out of reach but I knew it. The trees had began to lose their leaves in this area but the leaves that fell were green, still breathing particles, mites inhabiting the places they should. "My dreams have been very hypocritical lately, I told the trees. At first I disregarded them as not making sense, not from me, but then I see I see that I am making fun of myself, poking and prodding. I think for a while, until I cant remember the dream no matter how hard I try." Can I persuade me that this unreality is real? As I spoke the trees distilled my words fathoming the nervous system, digesting the carbon I excreted. A thank you was presented as a leaf upon the head. The two forms shared water from the stream concreting their connection. As the roots were pulled up by the trees, I took their place. A trade for a trade the two agreed mutual mutuality mutually shared shared time time binding mutual reality reality binding shared time binding time binding reality mutually unbinding tin reality time shared share tin. This is what we become.

 

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The boy woke up, he saw the rocks on the floor.  His father asleep next to them, he got up put the rocks in his pocket and opened the window. There was an emergency ladder there, he liked using this instead of the door. His father allowed this, with love despite the danger. Trust was one thing they knew of each other. "This might be the last time I'm at this place said the boy to himself", a sorrow fell upon his mind and heart, but there was nothing he could do about the situation. He was just a boy anyway.  The memories he held were stronger than all those who told him he could not return, through that he would come back, but maybe this did not need to be known.  His father slept.