I/O.DEA

It is a very familiar idea to me that the existence of other people seems almost ridiculous. We are so egocentric, so entirely focused on drawing buckets of thoughts and experiences from the well that reflects one face and one face only. No quietness illuminates as much as this - forget, no (know?!) not forget but never got. Y'know there are entire oceans tumbling still. How can something be when it is not me, when it is not even relevant to me? I am the centre of a world of alien beings of skin. Greenish. Why should I care? Why should it even exist?! What is the 'it'? Do you only come out when you've got the it'ch? Funny thing, you. Perhaps this is the reason for our worldly struggles. Why not contaminate more and more of the infinite with ourselves. Hah. Our; Oh you are... (Not sure/shore.) Problem of the other, or problem is the other. Anyway. The encounter transforms within ink. The character, the actor, the kind of person that is personally personable because s/he is not a person. (Mhmm, smell the dust of consciousness. It was in the attic.) I welcome them inside me because they're residents. I don't mind - joking - they're the ones without a mind. I sought to plant roots and ends but shame, it doesn't grow. The sea shell business has taken off though. Won't you buy a seashell off me/she who sells them?