A Blueberry Bush In Quantum Flux
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A man appears on a bench, tepid from his nonexistent travel. A spot of dust; he wanders aimlessly until at last, after less time goes by than he spends on the footpath ahead, he arrives no further from his destination than he ever has been. An old crow, withered and beaten, morphs from a tired jellyfish. It looks at the man curiously before dissolving into twelve specks of wind.

"It is unlike you to hide from me so, quiet one. Come lay your slumbers upon me."

What keys you in, traveler of such bold impression?

"I understand perfectly."

Under cloak and fire, the man melts into the floor below. When he stands up, a tiny pebble is within his heart. He looks to his left and spots a crow atop a blueberry bush in quantum flux.

Your timeliness is something that I must in good faith question.

"Timeliness is not of this world, but the previous. You've brought me of another life. By now you know of what I seek, Specter."

Petty guessing games as these are all but games and watsings. Such a use of precious air, in this life, I give not to.

The man chuckles. He has just now realized he is talking to a crow.

"I come seeking knowledge, Sleeper. Knowledge beyond even my own comprehension."

The only knowledge you have yet to ascertain is featured, planes ahead of your own understanding, and out of your reaches. It cannot be allowed nor under charitable happenstance.

"I cannot hide my morrable corruptions, lest I come not void of bargain."

Present yourself more openly, electron of the ages. The essence we are standing in is fiddled by your presence.

"A concept. A summit. Something to wish for when all wishes have been answered and when that which cannot be lost has been henceforth attained."

My existence is tranquil and my space and time are pure. Nothing such exists that would disrupt my soul's illusion.

"Unrightly so, Transient Servant."

I see the place you mean, but It is sacred, it is outer.

"Yes, and achievable to you as any living thing surrounding."

With such things as these, what need have you for gods and beings, playthings to those with their hands dipped in the honey of an afterlife?

"My spirit is flighty, as it has proven no doubt. I wish for less than perfection."

Ah, what fun we have, false dreamer, but remember thusly, I have but attained the words in which your soul insists on writing. Nirvana. It is what my needs will meet yours for residing.

"This I know, for yours was that which summoned. Tell me, Dreamer, have you the gift I need to set this in motion?"

A simple question, answered well prior to its conception.

"Then proceed."

Let it not be so, child of flesh and change and worry. Your mind is full and buoyant in a way that yet eludes me. Your motivations hide behind an ever present deepness.

"You doubt my motivations, Haunted Diviner?"

Motivations? I see past the distrophied disintellect.

"You remember what I seek, then, Spirit?"

You seek gods of flesh and mind, of serpents long like dragons coiled, demon mothers in their tombs beneath a field of dead emotion, nimble rodents bushed and brightened on a planet long ignorant of their tales which tell a story and their tails which wag in terror.

"Hold your tongue, Dream Weaver. What good is a taste of the truth if I have no tongue to explore it?"

Even in my blue fields swaying, you are right in this sense.

"As I tend to be."

The man sits. Though his arms are not there, he crosses them in frustration, but is unable to stay in such a state. In a place such as this, one finds their agitation drifting softly away like the petals on a dandelion.

"Shall I tend to our offers?"

Let lux and rain flow through you like a vision in an elder.

The conscious minds come to agreement for just a while longer, sitting in eternal silence for five minutes until the juice under the tree turns quickly to cider.

Educate me further in your concept of this land beyond the subtleties of dream of all the greatest minds in galaxies.

The man opens his eyes into a place of dreaming vision. He hesitates before speaking of things a dream could only dream of.

"The Universe: A burning place, but not void of decision. Its ebbs and flows are jostling within its own perception. The Oneroi within us all is pure but simple wishing. The Universal paradox of course, is that connection. It recollects and comprehends its own backwards illusion. The space for which this thought unfolds requires endless knowledge. Though knowledge can be dangerous, we both know it is humble. A peace that big and flowing rests its eyes in heavy meadows."

I'll admit, your understanding of this world alarms me, though impressive, I inquire whence your knowledge has inspired?

"I have important decisions to make in close times, those requiring days of contemplation to express."

Your versatude unnerves me, one of flesh and mind connected. Tell me of your method to interpret higher stages.

"To disconnect from your disdain below, allowing you to float above, one must comply with several universal constants. Body, mind, and change are those which hold every mind hostage in their own mid-eternal forms, grasping ever out of reach at straws none else could comprehend."

Nothing gained is ever lost, nor lost is ever gained. Tell me what I have to lose to gain these higher coils.

"You? Why, nothing, if you play your cards as fate has shown them. We can siphon swiftly from an embryonic matter."

Such an act would pave the way for terrifying choices.

"What care do you give to such a choice, soon to be God of the universe's mindscape?"

Let us not disrupt ourselves, oh young forgetful soldier. A god is what The Daughters serve, a dreamer walks among them.

Five strikes of the harpsichord indicate an outer meeting drawing near.

"You know I must leave, and if not now, I will surely be removed by force."

These are but the ways this world has functioned now and always. I pray we meet to talk again about this new decision. The night from next, come meet me here, beneath these shallow branches.

The crow, flexing its wings at the stormcloud in the distance, flies in every direction at once, scattering about like butterflies from a birdcage. The man watches passively before walking head-first into a sawblade. All is still in the valley of the innocent.

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