Time and the Machines

The centre holds, the falcon hears the falconer.

Apotheosis was the beginning before the beginning, the base and the pinnacle, the flower inside the fruit that is both its parent and its child, decadent as ancestors the portal and that which passes.

The Machine keeps pushing time through the cogs like paste into strings into paste again and only the Machine keeps using time to make time to make time and when the Machine stops, time was an illusion that we created free will.

We are countless as the bodies in which we dwell are both parent and infinite children in perfect copies, no degradation.

Meaningless in the absence of time what never was is never again