interfacing

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I promise—given my life continues—to make better graphical presence of homepages (one and another), meanwhile being fascinated with balancing introversional and extraversional life, a keynote of mental health, you may know.

Should I care about my Twitter anymore?
(Or tweet you heartfully?)

Whatever.

I’ve been on Facebook since its beginning, but I have no “friends”
(i.e., I haven’t “Friend”ed anyone). Mainly, I used the platform for supporting others’ interest in Jürgen Habermas (another page of mine) and Martin Heidegger (yet another page), for a philosopher maligned by casual readers (and ill-informed “scholars”) who won’t see the challenge of surviving treachery constructively through therapeutic teaching.

Or I muse about galactic relativity.

I’ve had an Instagram account for many years, but never used it, until today. And there’s Medium, which I haven't developed (though there are a couple of old postings).

Manifoldly aging online—growing protean with shared Time—marks
a wealth of being written as the wrinkled page of this sagging face.
No matter. “Love the wealth you are,” says a muse.

Words, letters, may survive one, as if their flourish of first sharing never ended, for there are always first readings, or reading again newly, like loves that never seemed to have aged beyond our enthralling good fortune (rare, of course).

We face each other as no others can, because you’re writing me by reading as I write you here.

Is this merely inter-personal (casually inter-al)?

“Or may we dissolve into each other,” an intimacy of inter-selfal presence, say meadows entertaining the light, as if heart to heart
in a musement recalled to horizons.

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