“Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so. Only what nobody denies is so.”
– Walt Whitman
So little is truth.
So much is truth.
So timeless is truth.
It’s something stuck here in this strange now dimension.
But so many argue that it’s weaved across past and future.
So many deceived by elaborate spinnings of dazzling web.
Characters, plots, anticipations, expectations, predictions, non-happenings, the lot of it.
So much error.
So much denial of everything under the chin and above the brow.
And right there out front.
So little is truth.
So much is truth.
And it just keeps on presenting itself for those who are apt to know.
And it flies by in an instant for those distracted, only to re-appear, giving them infinite second chances.
Almost as if the sky and its three-toned clouds were laughing at the blue behind it.
The black behind it!
The ocean below it!
The bottom of a sea.
The contours of a hole filled with salt water.
All those parts together.
Container.
Contained.
Puffy objects.
Edge.
And black beyond punched through by star brights.