A line, infinite, steady and straight flows across a plane, three dimensional and soft, with no true horizon. The line,
black as night, moving without moving, collides with itself, or is it another? A mass of squiggles
erupts, chaotic but oddly comforting, and then once again the line bursts forth, or is it another? This line disappears
out of my field of vision, but I’m calm. I see the planes horizon, which is not a
horizon, soft and nearly fuzzy. A sense of tranquility envelopes me, invades me, infects me. In those fleeting
moments I know truth, truth without meaning, without reason. Truth without
truth. Inescapable. But I do not wish to escape, I wish to stay, to wander, to wonder.
This is all, incomprehensible but still so simple, so pure. A world, a plane, a line. Black, white. Then I, the
only color, devoid of color, I see myself while I am myself, watching, seeing,
experiencing, knowing and not knowing, wishing it not to end. But it must, it does, lost in my
void. Such is my dream.