We marveled at the green trees against the canvas of the storm. How they had shed their original color and become something altogether more vibrant and violent, whipping back and forth in the sky like so many things we could imagine. We realized the many metaphors and metonyms that happened in our minds were crafting the world that we saw, and how in that way we became abstracted even unto ourselves, because our language was imperfect for our perception. We became less entirely certain of our own selves even as we were rooted on the same earth as the vision we beheld.
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I am most recently an absurdist living in a dystopia. Watch for falling objects. View all posts by AuthorMarkMiller