Puzzle Prose.

Matter matters, time matters, space matters. Put under the microscope this can drive a man mad but what's the matter? Behind the confines and padded walls of safety, white picket fences, and the two and a half kids (unfortunately the youngest had been sawed in half at birth) there are things of importance and grandeur. School matters...of coarse the courses matter, and the courts and laws or lobbies for tests and honors of recognition, the regurgitation of the instructor matters, it shows great importance and legitimacy. When Mr. Reaper knocks lightly on your door, recitation of Shakespeare matters, and will resuscitate your life.

Looking down on another matters, because what is unequal is not square, and for the sake of the obvious, there doesn't need to be an explanation of why one man's fortune gives him more worth than another. Liters of blood and sagging flesh bags of bone in man, are measured by worth, unlike every other pile of slaughtered meat rotting on the shelves of the market. To flatter matters, and the Mad Hatter can make the daintiest daisy blush as the babbling spits from his flushed face, and brushed persona. Some green here, a little red there, and all is explained within itself simply by looking, for men in hat's don't need to explain themselves. Not because of assumptive imported ideas, transgressions to be or debates and haggling for the sake of haggling debate are covered beneath wool, or cotton, or style over everything, and this is not worth explaining, because early on, nobody will listen. 

It's boring, it's repetitive, questions answered with riddles are for children, and directions into labyrinths are moves made by pranksters with no sense or respect for time, and being at a certain place at a certain hour, when you are supposed to. That matters.

When you wake up in the morning and everything is seen behind a grid, you must go back to sleep. Layers of squared stitching, overlapped threads make sheets, and bindings, and paper...but they also make vision, all vision, wormholes and dimensions. The finite, fine and infinite matters, each string brought through the eye of a needles, twisted to some maker's liking and speared through the plain, again and again, until sowing grows into lumps and deformity, all to mend things apart, for no reason but to do. Time matters, and must be filled with something, because if not, it's just a waste, of time, and matter. 

Take something from this, take nothing, it doesn't matter to the wide-eyed traveler, so few things can be brought along upon departure, unfortunately for most, what is carried, held on to, and suspended above high waters doesn't matter, for more than a momentary flicker foolish assumptions, aspirations, to achieve, something, so it may all be spent relinquishing, in nothing.