Closed. A Weapon.

A turbin, where all of life is contained. And nothing else is there save the turban, the spiral, each petal of it.

It contains all life, because it contains nothing else but herself. With no space between one petal and the other, raveled. All raveled, together, in the most perfect Spiral of Unspace.

 

Condensed.

But lightly, soft on one another.

 

No violence whatsoever.

 

That is being closed. Really closed.

Weaponly closed.

 

Closed as a meaning.

Meant to be closed.

 

That is to be closed,

That is to be close.

To be near oneself, in the space-less-ness of Un-time. In the Un-space of things.

Just one, with oneself.

Embracing everything with everything.

With each of one's petals: with each of the parts that make oneself.

 

Each part touching each other, wrapping itself. Raveling each other, wrapping themselves.

 

And, in this space of Un-space,

in this object without space,

that occupies space but that has no space inside, no voids,

 

in this place where everything touches everything,

as each petal softly lies on one another,

 

there is time, contained.

Because only time is what will unravel it.

 

The closed flower, the closed petals, already contain time, because their opening, their future openness, is contained in their closing. Is a consequence of it.

 

It is made to be that way.

 

Duality.

Future.

All that in a unity,

 

in this weapon, this turbine.

 

 

Done