There is this glamor, the sheen of this painted-on world. It hides behind our eyes, slices our minds into bite-sized pieces, seasoning each thought with favor and trickery. It is the stricture of the structure, the bindings that the story requires. It is the compression and the frame-rate, the taint of the medium flowing from small to large. This is the ocean of instrument bias, the gospel of user error. The message almost always merely an announcement of our limitations.
The secular want your reason, the spiritual want your faith, with everyone hungry for the heart that tunes every in-between. We adjust and temper the springs and gears of this machine, allotting sparse portions to match our longings and our doubts. The water we carry always longing for the level where we are bound to drown. Magic is always just around the corner. The aching periphery always somehow on the rise.
I am an unreliable narrator. I am the hole where context is lost and birthed again. I am a machine wrought with errors and furies, half delicate flower, half trapped beast. My moods steer me off roads and into walls. Plummeting off of cliffs is about ten percent of my emotional reality. All burned bridges and blown kisses. All manual adjustments in dense digital conversions. An analog of absence and abundance, always somehow off center, always fixed on some distant star. Nothing but and everything yet all at once. The medium becoming the message, the message always unknown.