Why do people find themselves sovereign?
It is too difficult to think nobly, when one thinks only in order to live. In order to be able and to venture to utter great truths, one must not be dependent upon success. "CONFESSIONS," JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU
99 tiles shatter on the floor. To be careful is to be bound, a senseless, self-inflicted harm upon the body is to be hypervigilant of the self relative to others. Are you determined to fight against your ego developing? Are you afraid of getting wet?
The 32nd tile says that it does not shine, it does not curl. The depiction of a thorny rose wrapped in chains; your anger is not inexcusable, nor non-existent, because you bind it in steel. You are only ever what you are, regardless of your avarice, ambition, or disgusting sense of self-importance. You are not important because you cry out to your God. You are important because you can imagine. A sense of self-importance means nothing, should it only ever be tied to your achievements. What is your anger past the diamond? What is your anger past the ice rink? Is it only justified when the other team is winning? You think yourself a martyr, I see a loser.
Anger is a funny feeling. To conceal it is to lie, to let it run free is reckless. What do you do with the source of anger? A dog may find you worse than its rabid friends. What do you do when the anger only causes the house to collapse? What happens when the porcelain shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters shatters
The 33rd tile says that it does not like to be seen. Shameful as it is, this tile knows it has no way to evoke sympathy. Pitiful as it is, this tile is responsible for bills passed and the rights of many discarded. Blessed be its whorish ceramic, trustworthiness only in its varnishing. Something so disgusting is only beautiful on the outer core, something so polite is only courteous in words. There is an ultra-thin, permeable membrane that coats the one who prays with both hands behind their back. When you only let atoms pass through, how much do you lose? Is deceit as old as Jupiter? Is science as scolded as Pluto? There is no becoming, only the 'is,' the 'am,' the first-person singular.
The 34th tile says: You are more than loud enough.
The fetal position undera bundle of blankets. A knapsack filled with things for all my friends. my mind is full of visual timers and i see the time go and go and go and go and go and go. Your eyes glaze over me because I am ordinary, but the mortar beneath me pains my body. it hurts it hurts i'm full of agony! But I am not in that way that others are, you are not in the way They are,I am justified! Virtuous! I am righteous for expressing myself the correct way. My victimhood is not gross, or muddy, or disgusting. I am elegantly bleeding out, I am beautifully crying, I am respectably articulating my own emotions. i am not filthy i am in beautiful pain
The bubble will pop and you'll see that all that you were was nothing at all. In a way, that makes you everything. It's because you're nothing that you can be whatever you want. or that all that you were was nothing at all. or that all that you were was nothing at all. or that all that you were was nothing at all. or that all that you were was nothing at all. or that all that you were was nothing at all. or that all that you were was nothing at all. or that all that you were was nothing at all. or that all that you were was nothing at all. or that all that you were was nothing at all. or that all that you were was nothing at all. or that all that you were was nothing at all. or that all that you were was nothing at all. or that all that you were was nothing at all.
The 35th tile says that it is only what it is made of. It cannot grow and it cannot see. It was not given the ability to do either. They placed that tile down. It is only what it was meant to be. It cannot change, it does not know that maybe the position it is in only exists consistently because it persists in it. It reassures itself to stay within its own circle of agony. It chants, "I cannot, I will not, I am nothing." And thus, it is, for this tile is responsible for the circumstances it wrought upon itself. It is unclean, bruised, gritty. Its mortar was made with the ashes of men who did not deserve to have speech, memories, the colour red. The room is dusty, worn, slightly moulding. Why does the metal smell damp? Why does the metal smell rotten? "Look at your hand! It's right here!"
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