There is no such thing as a blank slate
as there is no such thing as a blank
canvas and as there is no such thing
as a truly blank eye unless it is dead.
For, in front of all that patent void
supposed emptiness, and utter
nothingness, and even there
right inside, a spirit stays alive,
and ever some mind is at work
which, like Penelope of old,
either weaves or tears off
its veiling shrouds—setting up
the necessity of those moments
that turn fates and time around.
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