13 Angles, or Unlimited Corners

She took out a pen and paper and wrote:
“To the illiterate, who do not know how to read but read my letter anyway, to Caesar on his deathbed, to the first person to look on the moon, to the tramps, the perverts, and the lost. To those on the sidelines and those behind the fence, and most importantly, to the catastrophe, I write my letter:

It is all a prophecy in a dream. A prophecy without a prophet, a dream without a dreamer, though it seems very real, maybe even too real. Yes, I write with complete confidence as if I was the one who organized it and who was going to end it.”

She let go of the pen filled with mystical knowledge and loosened her body. Looking beyond the sky, she sat down and thought, thought, and thought.

All life is an idea made up of 13 angles and all one can do is sit in the middle and meditate. Meditation on what? It did not matter. The world is wide, I am the world and the world is me. I can be whatever I want. But I chose to be nothing.

Simple equation, when I am nothing, I can be anything and everything— a simple equation.

She grabbed the pen again and completed her letter:
“Who is going to wake us all from our death? Who will get us out of our isolation? Who has the key? I do not want to know an answer dictated by hypocritical politicians, nor do I aspire to the truth—if it exists—or to an answer given to me on a silver platter. I want—it doesn't matter.

The entire history consists of highly specific spontaneous events. History is the awareness of time itself. A boring philosophical definition of history. History is what the victors write.

What about the present? The present is exhausting. The disaster exhausted it and exhausted those who lived it. Is the present a historical event? Most likely, yes. Will the victors write it, too? Will it be distorted? Is that what matters now? Yes and no.

I want some music and a broken lens to see it more clearly.

My message is just unconnected thoughts describing an exceptional world. A world that wants to be extraordinary. To be a pattern. Just a message to the past and the future.
Now, what?”

She left the pen, took the paper, and stood looking at it.
“Is the world a piece of paper?” She thought.

"Probably."