The miniturization Principle

Inside the glass room size has no bearing. A militarisitc battle from a galaxy far away can be conjured and admired. Its true existence of occurance, unknowable. With the palette of the walls and the paint brush of a finger, gentle strokes, design gentle evolution. The hermit became aware that his moves of selection, focus, were of his own will but not his will alone. Ie. Something above him, with wider focus intently keeping an eye out for grace not force, smooshing down anything that ran afray. The work took the keeper aback. Back to his days as a youth using his building blocks and army soldiers to create elaborate scenes. Scenes that he would take days to set-up, sometimes weeks, before the slow calculated onslaught began. For size, there was the depth of the attic from which he could play. And play there, then, it was. But make believe has a funny way of sometimes coming true. So there, River sat, building civilisations in his glass room. The arc of his play was cradled by the love he had for his own planet, Earth. A place that felt a distant triangle now following his journey. Yet, even still he micronised himself to remind him of his human, selfless love. He set on finding a way to shift his consideration from things as grand as galaxy, interstellar perambulations, to human condition. Kate. He asked and prayed to search for Kate. The glass room went blank, lost in the cosmos, almost floating. For life in this large echo chamber must cease. Free will existing completely. Free-will as a human, miraculous condition. And miracles built as spires.

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Eternal Spirit of the Chainless Mind

Brightest in Dungeons, liberty thou art
For there thy habitation is the heart
The heart for which love of thee alone can bind

And when. Thy sons to fetters are consigned
To fathers, and the damp vaults dayless gloom
Their country conquers with their martyrdom
And freedoms fame finds wings on every wind

Oh Chillion! Thy prision is a holy place
And thy sad floor an alter, for t’was trod
Until his very steps left no trace

Worn as if thy pavement were a sod
By Bonnapart! May none those marks efface
For they appeal from tyranny of crud