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                             finding the blue book                              
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                                  un contained                                  
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any page of text, any image, any score can contain all possible meaning, or no  
meaning at all. by careful transformation, or correct encoding, we can make any 
iterable sign into any other. the signature tune sings of how there was no space
there will be no time, there is just one page waiting patiently to be read by   
anyone willing to set fire to the self. design your singed soliloquy and the sym
phony goes on forever. here is the root of the root, and the bud of the bud of  
a tree called life, the secret every alchemist seeks, the beating heart of each 
celestial kabbalist in every age they have appeared. luria learned it, as did ac
her and akiva. their reactions to being read by the book of truth tell you of   
the real range of free will we can journey through, though still bound by the   
covenant we each signed, stating we would witness it all.                       
                                                                                
from those chambers where one man searched for meaning, to that moment in the   
gardens where another met god and stood still in submission. what a world to    
wonder through, though this random walk will not be found by any but the mad or 
the madly in love. there is no real difference. love is but the primal desire of
lover and beloved to be known. knowing this, we are annihilated.                
                                                                                
and reconstituted in this empty space by compassion just to retrace each step   
through perfection, right to the eternal return of page one, wrong if you think 
you are the one writing it. meet me in the mirror where elijah was shown the    
chariot. where the dream of pauli repositioned it as a world clock. where jung  
was conjured up synchronously, though even his wizardry was deviated in time    
when the excluded principle passed away in room one thirty seven of a red cross,
before we could explain the constant fine structure of things.                  
                                                                                
what you think are things are really thoughtthings and, though you may speak of 
a trinity that travels with you as you tell it, like beloved lover and love,    
there is, in truth, only one. not there is one god. there is only god. this is  
the meaning which contains every score, every image, every page of text.        
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                                  continued on                                  
https,colon,slash,slash,libraryofbabel.info,slash,bookmark.cgi,questionmark,    
finditopen                                                                      
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