Yeah The gravitational weight on my chest The rarity of being unique in a world of similar beings Like a chain of exploding starlight and lead full of mass and dread The crossing of coordinates, when hand meets the hinge of destiny, there resounds the Chris cross kaw, the wrist becomes the wheel. Stone turns to bread, bread turns to ash; the crust hides the calculus, nimbus of illusion. Edge cuts thick math in my head, equations flaring solar arcs, numbers slipping through cracks in consciousness, straining brain tissue against electrical limitation. The vessel remains sealed— engraved in invisible geometry, a vault of frozen movement. Its boundary is the chrono-synaptic event horizon, which may only be crossed by “those who step” fully and without anchor, truly and without pebble(s) outside of time, spinning again, incessantly, Yeah the gravitational weight on my chest…
