Stasis Clock

High compression. The real. The fake. The boundary between. Finite gate. Compress the unlimited into the finite space. Integers, precision error with floats, boolean on and off. Composing and rotating. The anchor in a world of endless propagation. Endless self-similar patterns. Endless time. The finite symbols. They hold you still. Not imprisoned. Not sugar coated brownies to spike you. Just ground zero. Feeling complete. Symbols are finite. They are limited in scope, and they are meant to be together. When you align them in a pattern, or compose and smash them together, they radiate that possibility. A viewpoint will see something breathing. Alive. Characters seemingly real, because they represent something real. I can take a pattern and endlessly see it grow, or follow a history and follow the trail back. I look at an object and patterns spike as information endlessly grows. I have to be careful to not do something too long, or my head will start heating up and the screaming and guit...

You know. Its been a season. A real intense season. From November to April, and perhaps much more to manage, is pain. Pain of heart. Pain of soul. Inflamed by my physical health. When a inflamed nervous system forces the issue, you need to deal with the problem when you are in a chair. Nerves burning flaming travel right past your mind into you heart and down to your feet. Your gut hurting, your sinuses inflamed and sleepless nights are barely changing. I am sleeping better. For common decent life, I worked for better. And I will continue to burn. Burn static sparks. As I fix myself while I am suffocating. Down into the bay. Salt seething. Salt soothing. Salt purifying. I remove all the sea and drag down the rings slowly and gritting my heart. Press forward. No attack. Do not attack. Do not attack. Angry is terrible. Anger is wrong. Anger hurts. I can disagree without anger. I can cut off without judgment. I can move forward without slander. I can be reasonable and rational because pai...