The letters have fallen off the page. The syntax and punctuation fled long ago.
They are now echoing loudly in the distance.
The pages are all unbounded and scattered in the wind. Everything had been numbered.
This might be useful and mean something to someone who knew the counting system.
Now all the imaginary characters in all the unbounded stories can write their own future, as they create their present.
The universe has no copyright laws. Individual fame gets washed away, and all the bits and fragments will recombine somewhere else in someone else’s mind at some other time.
A new thing will be created. It is intelligence transformed.
Memory of the old thing still exists somewhere in the past. The trail is overgrown, most likely lost.
The new future is being written as I write. Time marches on.
movingforwardslowly 