So the story of who-i hey.

Once upon a time in a land far far away, it begins. But never did a story real start at distance. No,its Now, in this place, it begins. One self interplays with another while third comments on. All stories are the stories of us, we, i….. who. Oh this tragic proper pronoun this bent lense to which we all are shackled, rose tinted, through green eyed envy, through warped eye and tainted past, clouded judgements, peeled back onions, concealed truths and through glass darkly. I may think i saw this self once, but then it was and is only ever filtered through this list of truths and throw away remarks.

To measure Everest your theodolite must be placed upon solid ground, with readings from other known lengths and heights assessed. To know her snow peaked cloud rimmed life-taken mighty height, input must be put-in. Where is this solid ground and known input to measure self? Coz i tell you this my friend i sure as hell aint found none. Pass my wonky theodolite, i have found some marsh land an indeterminate distance from this heightless hill, it is time to measure her, ‘is that in footimetres or centiinch’ shouts back my fellow survey-er. Cheese i reply. This will take all day i idle-y think to myself, and its getting dark already. Forgot my sarniesl. x

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