I want the white light, the pure perfect, pristine perfect, crystal clear growth of me. I am am. Am’d by me I am all things perfect, perfectly perceiving I am. Perfect’d by me. Perfect in growth I am, I am’d by the fuel, the input, the caricatures not, but that which carries me, my neural impulses, my transmitters transmitting devices, independent not of the massive array of skys ones. One one’d is my name. My rank and serial number, not; but the independence of me is now dependent on no other, not for anything. I am my perfection. Perfectly perceiving, conceiving, the birth, breadth of me, far and wide. Impulsive impulse not, but the/a driving force, not; but the ill-conceived shall go their way now, a’faring as they chose to drive themselves into the ground, of their own thinking. I shall grow out, of my mind; my way’s made. Good day.
November 24, 2020 9am