a fool am I

An image.. an image you see.. collected from the collective, used as your rock, for just the idea of memory is a nebulous fog. When the night is able to be, but not echo the cerebral canyons of your cortex -- it is merely food for a passing thought. I cannot say, my recollection is rather limited based on this electric network of the space between us. Isomorphic trails computing angelic choirs of astral assembly. A synaptic wave breaks at its peak, a sacrificial slew trails the apogee of balance's brink. Standing on the shoulders of two, through their thoughts this one comes a new. For is it memory then -- if my recollection consummates an original pseudo-divine design. An inter vent by which my images can pass as a tome, but a fool am I that believes my idea is my own.