Chapter III Arch: WHO? WHERE? WHY? WHERE FROM?

Oberek

If you lose money, you can buy it again, but if you waste time in vanity, you can't get it back because God gave us time to learn piety.

John Chrysostom

Times strangely intertwine around ideas. Only it somehow does not fit into the overall oberek because it moves quickly, fills up, and empties at once. Huk has been speaking with Ar in the language of time for a long time, but she did not pay attention, measuring time in generations. It is necessary to grasp that oberek, one must hurry, one must make time. The weightiest, most dangerous thing in the space of time is the escaping water. Just as human thought pours out, we cannot catch it; similarly, water flows beyond human control. And Huk loudly reminds, delights, imposes droplets of time. Time. In it is true "I, Alpha and Omega", in it is the beginning and the end, eternal. And a person must know themselves beyond the limits of reality in order to rise above the conditions of space and time…

This is what is called the distribution of reality, some go left, others go right. Only those who choose spiritual evolution will think before thinking.

Upside down, instead of pain, I go to the trial of the outcast. And streams, flows, and floods of relations, actions flow backwards. I will go to the page of impotence, then… I will stand next to it, I will become higher on the head, deeper into the work. I read without looking, at the "Higher" station stands a snow-white archipelago. Why spaces? I swallow the morning dew. I am a tired ray, I am an eternal burnt-out prophet. On tiptoes, I will come to the chapel, burn the fire of life. I am exhausted, rains of tears, saliva at sunset. I am on the fire of the sweet judgment of your schizo-fries, I am a naked nun in the bed of a happy marriage. Transparent crane, fragile flow — time — I. I silently speak, I wash with Jordan's blood, in rains of revelations.

I am pure water, pressing through the probe for faith, I am the mold of the day, healing the soul and body. With the threads of my hands, I offer to hold the slopes when the floods bring sand. I become a full-fledged influx in warm hands, I am a sunny rod, a primal sound, alone.

I flow down the chord of centuries. I walk the path of righteous corals, hiding weariness. I am gray, rested parts, the ice of honorable volumes. A new sand pit grows from the sands, an old conversation.

I am the quiet joy of weekdays, a closed ray in the thread. I am an enemy of the kings of epochs, I am just a saliva. A liquid mass that flows into the fifth dimension. Tears flow first, salty as long as the Carpathian Mountains breastfeed. I cover myself with the sweat of the old sea, I seal exits with castrated times. I give birth to the Joy of begging for water.

Sin returns to the trial at the transparent bottom. The young Virgin returns to the sea, the gray husband awaits a thunderstorm. On the highest mountain stands dear Legen, the watch hands rush to gaps. Gravity — genius. At the top — small, excessive time. Under the mountain — Einstein conjures — gravity presses — time is moderate. Parallels stop the lyre, erasing the present existence, a super motive texture. Gour was born first, on the last step of measurement, when the spirit touched the power that raises it above times and families.

Time is the only service to life, the one that is given only once and specifically to one person: one on one. Completed archives, dynamics of pepsidres when a large circle staggers to a point, and the dot expands to that same circle that was before. Just like everything, it has been shuffled, knocking on the clock with hands, hammers, swirling through drops of sweat, which is your essence. And it doesn't matter who you are or how much you spend to be in that loop that creates a dot.

The background dimension predicts the path of the sound corridor: stronger, deeper, more systematic. The golden egg in the molecule of time, when the measurement no longer goes downwards but upwards, until it divides into cells. You cannot go out onto the path of creation from the inside if there are strong pressures from the outside. Only by freeing yourself from the burdens of yesterday can sand flow in the direction of growth. Sound… It came out of an egg that held time as a shell. When part of kinetic energy became material plasma, when the mother bird, dancing on the dial, pulled out arcs with tweezers from the core of the circle. Time, space, gravity — became renewed birds. Because what is time when I do not know its measure? When inside the head, the main dimension beats with a pressure chord, and from the outside, the solar circle clamps signs of Ora on the shell. Because time is only a measurement of processes, only a count: was, is, will be. But does it firmly prognosticate: there is none — because it is already on that end of the world where other Stars set.

So I will become a time guide in order to be, to become. But I am not able to speed up the processes for a person, only to stop them, to coexist, to observe, to have time. I can control myself within the limits of time. I become a packed page with Words, I stand in line, and then I weave threads, from the column to the full moon. I am a designated wall that publishes sounds with signs to have time. But can I make it? Will I not fall into the abyss already packed phrases to spiral, for tomorrow, for later?

Everything starts with trivialities… And spring looks, honey cawing of a crow, alluring caresses of winter, blaming river Minor. To nail salt on the feet of summers, to melt dawn in the sun, to crush grasses in juice, to mix colors in tears. And to kiss the silence with seductions, to drink the wounds of Jesus pouring out from viburnum. To weep while singing to the weeping willow, to ask for betrayal in the muddy waters, and to press on the neck of the small elderberry. Who left traces of the family on the cart near the gate. To soak in the rye, to carry dew on the lashes, dipping a finger into the mouth of naive ecstasy. And to stroke hands in the palms, and to rent a crow with all your heart, so as not to know where love is. To pray and drink the potion, and grow hastily into a bunch of sacred bull. To bathe in the azure light.