AMKent books

I feel like the net is closing, like a cat’s whiskers; I can sense the squeeze. The abstract horror of the whole thing is that I can’t see clearly in my peripheral vision. I guess that is the purpose of them though, preliminary alert systems. Dealing in extremes has always been my forte; my will is a pendulum, and now I am finally static, stranded by this rock. The theory of panpsychism supposes that everything is conscious in its own way, even the stone behind me. The will of a stone must be what we call patience, or maybe it moves so fast and so much that to us it seems permanently still. I can’t relate to the stone, the rock, the boulder, whatever it is. Still like a statue, but I am no statue made of stone, I am human, and it is all slowly wrinkling and shrinking, flaking off me, recursive thoughts committing accidental suicide, entropy the chariot to death. This rock will die too, succumb to time. I wonder if it ever feels the net closing? like a cat’s whiskers. A stone does not weep, not as we do. Am I diminishing its pain? Just because it isn’t the same as mine, it could be even more blinding. What pain would stone feel? The feeling of breaking, maybe, or its comrades being skimmed across a still sea. No, I doubt that is it. The whole Earth is stone, the moon above me that begins to reveal in structure through the expelled fat of the day, stone. Stone is more natural than humanity, maybe that is why it gets to stay here longer. It is the foundation of so much; humans are more a nomad frankensteining anything and everything. Such an asymmetric endurance, him thrashing in decay, the stone so reserved, enduring with the dignity that we humans try and emulate through stoicism. Prometheus was forced to witness such a mismatch between thrashing suffrage and neutral indifference. They both sensed the constraint, like a cat’s whiskers. What was immortal, Prometheus or the stone he was chained to?