On Improvising Your Architecture

He says he is best friends with the void. I say I am as thick as the abyss. 

"How Shakespearean," he says. I know this is a tragedy. 

Two negations unmeasurable forever: the void and the abyss. Are they synonyms or complements? 

I say we will play both parts, and when we are revealed, we will each be found out as nothing. In the void or the abyss, that would mean being all.

"Delightful," he says. I smile. With blush. I know this is a tragedy and I have seen this one before.

He says it is dreadful. 

He says it is dreadful to live. 

How dreadful it is to live in memory.

How memory is built into our imaginations.

Is the root of imagination the same as in imbecile?

This is a tragedy and I don't know all my lines.

If memory morphs and dissolves and reconstructs itself with every recall we subject ourselves to, who is to say a memory ever is (present) or was (past)? How is it that we can "remember" a dream in which nothing has a witness, no proof or consequence, no evident effect, result, or product? To recall a dream, is that different from dreaming of recall? It does not matter if it is based on something you tell yourself had happened, it does not matter if it makes you feel the same way, as you think it does. A dream, a memory, they are just what remind us of things past, regardless of how true to the original we tell ourselves we are being. How honest can you be with no standardization? Remind, as in to mind again; regardless, as in without seeing.

If dreams and memories bloom in the same field, then memory does not differ from the seeds of imagination save for the context of where it takes root in the mind. Is the root of imagination the same as in impotent?