Omens don't exist, but timing does.
Who am I to prescribe prescribed notions to this life as if I have an idea to its unfurling?
The message is in the enactment of the uncharted occurrences happening like synapses. Brief, striking, electric and connected. An unfolding, uninhibited expansion and exchange that perpetuates itself. Save for death where does it end? Even death perpetuates.
There are not any riddles nor secrets, only perception of that which is the construction and deconstruction of our thinking. And the world is built from this, as it is, as it was and built again through our manipulation and alteration.
It's being rewritten again for the first time