capital fictions

Suspended in a state of almosting, like a fly in amber, he vacillated between minimal accomplishment and destitute poverty. The movements of the world twisted around him, a torpid torrent of false truths in the form of imaginary monetary units that gave precedence to otherwise senseless acts and meanings. The sky free and true, stretched above him, as he is caught in the webwork of illusion, of maya wearing a mask of maya, and his whiles are spun away in a soundless farting deflation of soul. Like a stone subjected to the wiles of a raging river, he is eroded, the shape of his being abraded to smooth featurelessness. Soon he will turn to dust, and join the sky in its true freedom, the shackles of the world clattering to clasp onto the spark of a new bright questing alive soul.


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