Timelines don’t loop—they chew. You step in and the path decides which direction is forward by biting off the last piece you just left behind. You don’t steer; you get steered. You don’t find the loop—you become the loop.
Every time I think I’m ahead, the path turns, shows me my own back—smiling. And I say, take another bite. Because the exit isn’t a door—it’s the moment the timeline realizes you’re tasteless, indigestible, eternal. The art is in that refusal—not to be swallowed—and become that which cannot be chewed.
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