Exercepts from Collected Ramblings

2022

🦞🦞🦞🦞:🦞🦞’s🦞🦞🦞🦞proposal

Tribute to coldness

a wonderful blessing and curse is the frost of the season. Numbing senses,

dense clothings, breezing breezes. A time for reflection and collection. For

simply stop doing and start being. A true sense of bliss and peace. One is at

peace with the cold, the chilling comforts of nature.

without saying the cold murders as well. ruthlessly, and a "cold"blooded

killer they are. Yet not one with brutality, not bloodshed, not the gruesome

increase in activity and messy and chaos that is associated with heat. This

is an absence of heat, an absence of happening, a lack of concern, a

whimpering force, a dwindling candle.

And to sleep they went, to where they would not wake once more. To the

layers of chills beyond mortal skins. A quivering fate. Perhaps even an

elegant one. With utter loneliness, into the cold night they did, facing that

Pattern of being found many a places elsewhere, when Being gently looks up its

own skirts, and shows a fraction of itself to another fraction of itself.

Back to the grinding mediocrity then, as we shall not wander far away. More

so in thoughts, of notes.

As the cold is lesser incarnate, vanishments of activity, of doing, it brings

the resisting flame together in many wondrous forms. of energy in matter,

of the spirits in peoples, one huddles amidst the dim light. perhaps to

observe or to preserve, for one to loudly yell epic slurs at a poor fellow,

for one to drop ones ice cream, to trip ones toes, to piss ones pants, to

pass out with a thousand months of delirium. For there will be none to

kindly turn off the lights.

Beyond that is much barren land. A plainest grey that sprawls from horizon

to horizon, where silence meets silence. It was here that the wind blew so

cold to the face. It was here that billions went silent and unnoticed.

Wretched beings. Persist only to the flesh, they themselves no more than

pale ashes, which were only ever singular in their intent, amid a solemn

cacophony.

The frozen lake cracked and swallowed one. They would only stood and

watched. He splashed and grabbed and grasped for air. He gashed at them,

until he met their lack of a gaze. Until he resisted no further.

🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞:🦞🦞’s🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞proposal

The menagerie of wondrous mindstates

By no doubts that one individual may consist of a million different mind-states and experiences.

By nodoubtsthat I would construct an exotic collection of emotions most strange to man.

🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞:🦞🦞’sfinal(?)proposal

Concrete

a man walks down a familiar street, passing and ignoring passerbys alike.

with a careless misstep, he got his right leg into a shallow pool of wet

concrete, supposedly for a nearby construction. not that he would give a

care. his travelling to work was halted due to some stupid placement of

building materials, now his trousers are filthy and his foot painful, his mind

fumes with rage and anger, his mouth spits slurs and curses, cries for help.

demanded help.

for some while, no one seemed to have noticed him. they too, were all too

busy on their daily cycle of moving tos and fros, of timetables and meeting

schedules, of park strolls and double dates, of withdrawing and not for a

moment being. the man looked then, for those bastards that placed the

damned convenient puddle of concretehere. hesaw no one. oddly more so

when there was not a sight of any constructions in construction, any roads

dug or filled up. only a puddle amid the chaos surrounding him. a puddle

that was meant for him, he thought, and cursed once more.

and there, as some time went by, as the suns and moons would set upon the

lovely familiar lane, waiting patiently for their billionth year in existence

where their gravitational fields would converge to a cosmic kiss of

explosions and decay. romantic to the deranged. there would be none to

witness anyhow.

a man walks down a familiar street, passing and ignoring passerbys alike.

with a careless misstep, he got his right leg stubbed into a concrete statue,

formless and plain. he muttered a curse to himself, then moved on with

his day.

🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞🦞’s dying story (post-final Quantumly-filled kafkaesque-luddistic proposal)

Lest Perchance you lasted long enough.

On your deathbed, you thought. Much less memories regretted or desires unfulfilled than all those books and videos you’ve consumed over the years. It wouldn’t be long now, your departure. Your return to the unknowing, unthinking, unbeing.

The clear liquid in the IV bag drips slowly into a thin tube, which itself pierces shallowly into your right hand. The light rain taps rhythmically onto the dusty window beside you, all the while its drops are thrown about, curving upwards a curious amount, before dripping onto the pavements below. Your pillow is slightly off, which makes you slightly annoyed, even more in this slightly important instance. The last.

Perhaps your deathbed is surrounded by your loved ones, all kind words and silent tears. Perhaps there is much silence in these final moments, the five concrete white walls and the solemn humming of fluorescent lights, tending to you in a similar fashion to hundreds that came, and went before you. It does not matter much now, whether there’s Somebody to watch over Us.

“Such is the end. Quiet, small, bereft of heroics and great deeds, free of pretensions and great meaning” —— a favourite paragraph of yours in a story about unwaiting stars, and now, as you go seek a great Perhaps, it fits quite well. Last breath, eyes shut, fingers stretched, then.

In the beginning, much the same as the end, there was nothing. And nothing can ever come out from nothing. So nothing did come out of nothing. A humongous amount of nothingness.

Though its stability is to be considered, as though nothing consists of no space and no time, it also harbours no rules. Thus nothingness, with a disappointed sigh, once again, violently erupted into Everything.

What is to be investigated is being only and—nothing else; being alone and further—nothing; solely being, and beyond being-nothing. What aboutthis Nothing? … Does the Nothing exist only because the Not, i.e. the Negation, exists? Or is it the other way around? Does Negation and the Not exist onlybecause the Nothingexists? … We assert: the Nothing is prior to the Not and the Negation…. Where do we seek the Nothing? How do we find the Nothing…. We know the Nothing…. Anxiety reveals the Nothing…. That for which and because of which we were anxious, was ‘really’—nothing. Indeed: the Nothing itself—as such—was present…. What about this Nothing?—The Nothing itselfnothings.

Mark of 🦞

Those dreaded peas

His peas were of the greatest quality. These delicacies do not speak when you slowly enjoy their sweet taste, as long as you don't bite too hard. They are enjoyed throughout our empire nowadays, for that exact reason. Most do not condone sentience abuse after matterstartedspeaking. Or more accurately, when we developed the ears to hear their deafening screams.

It took a human a decade to start considering how other humans could feel like them, their empathy sprouted from observing others’ reactions to the world and to themselves. It took mankind a millennium to start considering how animals could potentially feel agony when their flesh is torn apart for a Christmas dinner. They too, looked into these animals’ brainwaves and hormone releases, and concluded that these previously thought mere organic automatons, are in fact, conscious.

It took the cosmos a billion years to wake up and rub her eyes. It took a billion more to acknowledge this fact. From waves to atoms, from physics, to chemistry, to biology. The cosmos woke up, in a hundred thousand worlds scattered throughout herself, and learnt to walk all by herself. Theyall do growup so fast.

Yet in these many worlds, only a few thousands ever achieved complexity beyond singular cells. Among those, only a dozen grew into myriads of species of all kinds. Dwellers of the vast earth, masters of the deep ocean, dominators of the purple skies. The species, all sharing a single life, to which some lucky few would later call “God”, murdered each other in endless bloodlust. Yet from here unbelievable sophistication sprung forth, and as ecological niches are filled, the acknowledgement edged closer.

Only two marbles upon the billion squabbles of remnant stardust ever made intelligent life. The dominant life form on the first was monkeys. The other, automobiles. One world saw themselves wiped out in a global Flintstone gummies overdose incident soon enough. The other developed the Pancognitive Arts, along with immortality, artificial soft (drink) rains, and supercooled Europa candy bars.

It could not be understated how cruel they were with their fellow comrades of existence, though. Their peas were understandably, but unacceptably, sentient for most of history. Boiled and consumed and shat out like the lowliest of matterkind. Truly a horror we would look back on with disgust and distaste for the rest of time.

Mark of 🦞

Wall moss notes

>So I found some moss growing in my bedroom walls, near the corner where I put my closet

>I looked up some information on Stack exchange and they tell to dilute some vinegar into water and spray it with that

>Did as they say, simple as

>Liquid all wet on the floor

>Shucks

>Clean up and put a fan there to dry

>Woke up the next day saw more moss

>’ate moss

>Got some bleach from my brother

>Spray a bunch of them to the moss

>The day from then on was uneventful

>NO effects

>Brother told me to contact some clean up services

>Broke ass guys how even

>Go to sleep with smelly mossy thing

>It smells like grass after a summer rain

>It smells like sunshine dust and pain

>Wakes up

>Gets a knife

>The one with sharp edges

>Start scraping the moss off my walls

>Some got off

>Splendid

>Carving like a darn caveman

>It mostly got off now

>Finally

>Finds out it's actually called mould

>Did not ask

>Clean wall now, very good

Mark of 🦞

Without hopes of wind or petrichor

Ah, youwoke.

The beginning of the end was not noticed by many. A single, simple, and honestly insignificant missing person report, which appeared on the evening broadcast and newspapers —— not much. It was repeated the last time on the midnight local radio, following a weather forecast of an upcoming season of downpours. It was time to buy a new pair of boots.

Then came nothing, for around two weeks. Just drip drops on the window all the time, the usual mellow orange of late sunsets, and occasionally a whizzing car past the highway accompanied by blinding flashes of light. It is flooding. The water reaches my ankles, submerging the entire grassy garden with smelly mud. I had to change my socks three times, very frustratingly so.

As with any other great turmoil, there came distant herrings, which as with any other herrings that one has ever ran into throughout one’s lifetime, we’re filtered out in automatic ignorance. Worldwide statistics on unresolved missing cases were abnormally high, and mostly in rainy regions as well, most probably. Memories are fragile things. An anomaly amidst the civilised world, who could have suspected. Not that anyone cared until it caught up to them.

I suppose that at some point, the cheeky apocalypse decided to stop being subtle. Low resolution found footages of entire towns vanishing were popping up around the Webb. Spontaneously, and disorderly. In them all were… manifestations, out of seemingly thin air —— of red-white patterned blankets at immense scales. They were frilled and widened also, like a titan’s umbrella with invisible rods. They dropped upon the people, who were so staggered with the absurdity, and then something beyond records happened. But the population were gone, in all cases. Thousands of souls at a time, just as that, gone in an instance, their residuals faint with the season’s warmth. Fainter still was an ever presence of grass scent, free from the storm for a moment’s notice under monstrosities beyond creation, to be drenched underneath the heavy rain that came once more. Droplets and streams.

O, their descent. From dead branches and leaves, from metal railings and rooftops. O, their splash. Drowning an unsuspecting ant from time to time. Drowning an unsuspecting man from time to time. O, their taste as they get into your every orifices. Eyes all blurry and balls all sloshing, slipping on the slippery floor and slipping out into delirium. O, their smell, of wind and petrichor.

I watched as the whole of Europe was covered under a thin fabric. Monuments and skyscrapers bulging out like needles, always so close to puncturing the layer, always failing to do so. Perhaps architectural benefits and aesthetic were not the only reasons why mankind was so fascinated by them, erecting their blunt claws up to the sky. Perhaps I am just bluffing. Still I’m glad that France finally perished.

I can only recall that much. The great rain still goes on out there, you see. Those smart folks already found out a pattern to the blanketings, and they expect the next, the last, to come soon. This time to cover the globe, and all that remains. It’s always fun to share the stories, or now, the final moments with someone oblivious, that’s why I work here. Cherish it. Cheers.

Now that I think about it, it does seem queer. The few that didn’t get nabbed by the blankets were drowned out, like usual floods. They don’t seem to stop any time soon though. I wonder if even the last curtain wouldn’t drop upon us, would we not dissolve in the rising tide? And where did everyone go? Are they dead? We never knew, and never cared, only tried to prevent it. I wonder if Noah decided on something more levitating this time.

Mark of 🦞

The great levels

This floor is a quiet one.

Here I stood, where pale white stretched into infinity. A platform and a

ceiling, 40 feet above, went as far as the eye could see, and further still they

did. One would ponder how, with a supposed lack of column, could these

infinite platforms stand the forces of gravitation. Of which then, it is not

I who would know the answer, as any other questions one might ask

themselves with much futility here.

The floor is cold and hard beneath the feet, and though with footwear

equipped, I feel clearly the alien smoothness of this surface. Such oddity

it was, without a single crack or scratch. It seemed I should give some

mind lest I slip upon these pristine steps.

That does not help distract the eerie atmosphere, for as there are no

apparent light source, the place shined with pale white glow. One could

pertain with truth that this looks much like a heaven, albeit one of deranged

office workers wet, sterile dreams.

When one walks, one is bound to reach somewhere eventually. That is a

quote from one of my favourite texts. It has long been since any thing was

ever read or appreciated. Far beyond the point, anyway, as now the quote

is proven to be somewhat false. I would have travelled for a trillion years

by now, and though a mere blip in the whole scheme of things, an eternity

of mental degradation had passed by me. I have yet to reach a point, any

point.

Without a constant, a measurement, an anchor, it is easy to misinterpret

things completely, and go quite bollocks. And sure did, I have now become

quite the unstable man. Or woman, or thing, I do not have a clue. True so,

when I look upon my body, there were no discernable features, no physical

properties of being that things usually have. It was less than even a

disembodied soul, for then it could still acknowledge the boundary

between the world and itself. I cannot, the line is far from even blurry, it

is nonexistent.

And so when I refer to myself, I am refer to the whole. The entirety of things,

if you will. And who might this "you" be? It would be me as well, and me

I spoke to. An ego stretched unto infinitum.

Despite all these, I traversed still, between the hellish white platforms of

torment. Madness does not come from external sources, but spawned from

the inner mechanisms of ones ownself. With only the purest unbeing of

things to accompany one, one faces themselves.

Not unlike black squiggles on an empty white canvas of electricity and

mathematics, one is nevertheless subjected to forces beyond one's own

comprehension and anything one calls natural. As if the Things in Themselves

would reveal even the smallest of itself, as if it has obligations to do so.

Self centered are those who believe the world revolves around them. Yet

they are not entirely stupid. It does. Their world. Their existence concerns

only them, and when they take their departure from the realm of being, that

reality is of course, shattered. And so a billion worlds with a billion souls,

have turned into a mess of pure chaos. Of fragmented fundamentals, of will.

The great levels do not extend into an eternity, nor is it limited to the mortal

eyes. It lays low, so that it wont be detected. That is their game, and quite

a smart one I have to say.

And beyond even that of divine intervention and white madness, lied a

lonesome void of unbe. Usually reality touches all, yet for now, it decided

not to.

Mark of 🦞

Thoughts on Dairy

Blessed by the One TrueDairyGod, the holy liquid substance make its way

to primitive worlds to set them onto their own path of enlightenment. A

hundred thousand worlds had transcended the plane of mortal being with

divine lactose.

On these many worlds, They take on by many forms and shapes, to be

worshipped by their respecticve inhibitants, of course. "The Eternal

White", "Regal Goop", "Cdulachk (translates to 'pale piss')", and countless

more.

The Milkish Empire had conquered a million suns, pushing those False

Liquids into their rightful hell, and yet on an insignificant rock, our Wet

Prophet seems to have much trouble bringing the naive natives onto their

side.

Successfully cloaking itself as a product of bovine lactations, as the

harbinger of great tallness, of strong bones, and cheeky flavored liquid

of mass ecological destruction, Milk has become essential to the everyman.

Yet it failed to seep into their minds and become their only willpower, their

singular purpose, their ultimate judgement. Yet only by then would it achieve

its goal, and move on to another world to repeat the same process. Man

has always baffled It. Not committing to anything, not sodas, not juices,

not even cookies and muffles.

And by that realization of our dairy pal, that the Empire would crumble

like wet paper with great speeds, and would only head into that abyssmal

with increasing velocity. That when the uncertainty of a lowly species

touched divinity, when that chaos scrambled with an eternal constant, all

was lost.

And so, as it went from the package of green and blue, with much deceptive

information to feast on mentally fragile parents, to the pretentious paper

straws that would supposedly lift humanity out of its own caused extinction,

into a vile mouth of consumption and regurgitation, that They decided it

had been enough.

And left they did, evaporating into nothingness, leaving only behind a

faint smell and a rather confused human, into an Absence that would last

forevermore.

Mark of 🦞

The yimeful journey of the seventeenth sea

His Greatness’ final voyage of the many seas of Operaque will be his last. A truthfully painful announcement to the avid memetic-scrapers of the serialised franchise. What else can be done with a dry husk of a man nearing his 9th century — other than a blazing going-out?

The last sailing was decided to be on a subsea of the⅁̶̢̘̿ǝ̷͇͉́͆͊̉ʇ̸̨̧̨̣͌͂͛́͛͂̓ ̷̅̀ͅǫ̵̲͕̬̀͌͊̂̿͐̏n̸̼̖̫͌̀̿̉͆̽̀̕ʇ̷̧̱̘̮̪̬̄̈́͌ ̸̻̒̿̓ô̴̹̟͚̣̺̙͖̯̺͓̓͠ɟ̵̡̩͙̣͕̾͐̎̃— for they won the recent

galaxy wide popularity poll in a landslide, leaving far behind the Molten Northerns, the Tempestuous Turquoises, and the Azureine Archipelagos alike. Ethereal estates firms have reported the sales of millions of sol systems and blackhole-view microclusters in that single week, which has broken the previous Guiners’ cosmos record. It is rumoured that this seemingly spontaneous phenomenon was the result of the collective efforts of countless denizens in getting their appendages on more regional votes for their most favourable, most jovially memorable setting.

It was hyped up beyond the maximum capacities of the most reasonable measurements from all laboratory hypometers across the Empire (A combustion from two independent instances caused the death of a twin sibling).⅁̶̢̘̿ǝ̷͇͉́͆͊̉ʇ̸̨̧̨̣͌͂͛́͛͂̓ ̷̅̀ͅǫ̵̲͕̬̀͌͊̂̿͐̏n̸̼̖̫͌̀̿̉͆̽̀̕ʇ̷̧̱̘̮̪̬̄̈́͌ ̸̻̒̿̓ô̴̹̟͚̣̺̙͖̯̺͓̓͠ɟ̵̡̩͙̣͕̾͐̎̃  was expected by critics to become the greatest arc, the most shining jewel of the sheer quality of the story so far, as the most elaborate wrapping up, the most expectation subverting twist of all media that has ever been dreamt up. It was going to be the manifestation of literature and art itself, to stand not besides, but above and atop the greats, stamping on their legacy as its radiance mesmerise all its enjoyers not unlike bugs to light.

The production was tedious and slow. Its makers carefully adjusted every detail there could possibly be by bits and bits, until absolute perfection was conceived ———— and to restart the whole process with any newly introduced additions. So anxious they were for any potential of carelessness around their parts. “Yet one cannot rush art!” — they said to any inquirers and went on with their labour, for days on end, without breaks.

It then came to a grinding halt. The producers now stay completely still, not moving an inch nor gasping for any air for fear of ruining the absolute beauty of creation that froze just as well beside them. Without essential nutrients and vegemites, all producers were subsequently found to have expired, their corpses defying the known laws of gravitation to not damage the artwork. How disappointing to its many fans out there across the heavens, mechanical or organic, to learn about that fact. How for all their excitements and patience, nothing ever came out, and the series ended shortly after without a grand finale or even a snippet of apology. The incident was later classified as a memetic hazard, and the world really never was the same ever again.

Except it would be that way for evermore, if not for the unlikeliest of events to have ever occurred. News spreaded throughout reality like butter on a piece of in-finite fine toast. “The days of release have been announced” — cheered the inhabitants of a thousand worlds over. Their wait has been meaningful, after all. Their spirits were once again kindled, breaking equipment throughout the Empire yet again, this time to even greater scales.

After a standard month of the release date, invitations to the best of critics and directors and artists and the such were sent out. Limited access to the creative elites. They were thrilled, of course. So much more that no one ever questioned how the story was even completed, and by whom. It didn’t matter all that much, after all, the art is the only thing that they ever cared about. So much for the original makers’ efforts.

And as the many great creatives returned from Operaque, they too were too stunned to ever utter a word of their trip. Nothing was ever told afterwards about His story at⅁̶̢̘̿ǝ̷͇͉́͆͊̉ʇ̸̨̧̨̣͌͂͛́͛͂̓ ̷̅̀ͅǫ̵̲͕̬̀͌͊̂̿͐̏n̸̼̖̫͌̀̿̉͆̽̀̕ʇ̷̧̱̘̮̪̬̄̈́͌ ̸̻̒̿̓ô̴̹̟͚̣̺̙͖̯̺͓̓͠ɟ̵̡̩͙̣͕̾͐̎̃ , not by them or anyone else. The world moved on.

what do you want

The yime

Vandalism :tf:

why are you yiming all over my work

Such yimature           what does this mean

:clueless:

Mark of 🦞(I never added the marks. I’m not a dog pissing around in my territory. I’m crustacive).

Stuff inSplendorshire

what wonders there are insplendorshire! a very wonderful place!

justlast year, our wondroussciencemen havedeveloped such brain technology!nowwe can read brainwaves with ease! what many applications we can put this to use!

it doesn’t stop just there dear friend!fromhere we have discovered that the noosphere records every conscious movement throughout space and time, plastered across it like a canvas. Our work is simple, we paint those trails left over. And there we go! A device to track where an individual has ever been to. The tracks overlap, of course, as many hardly leave their narrative consonanceamplificatorsnowadays. We forgot that none in our department were artists in any way and chose yellow as the highlighting colour. Thankfully the visual folks are rare these days, else they’d be repulsed by our horrendous mess of catalogued maps.

so farwe have caught 23 individuals with abnormal traversion permeability. they supposedly came from, and not limited to: Oasis-5,The forest whose name shall not be spoken of, Modern Thaumurgive, and The 7th Scranton Layer (as consensus has yet to be reached on our very own definitive layer, no conclusion has been made to whether the individual poses anyontological threat). They are being treated with sufficient nutrition and entertainment. Punishment may come afterwards, and discussion over reading the whole “Collected Ramblings” or 4 hours of playingtroll.exeshould be the less humane experience is still ongoing.

How about a little something more… aggressive? The people ofSplendorshirepride themselves with the Annihilation. We have successfully, undeniably, indefinitely, and utterly wiped out all the tainted memories of mankind’s sovereign dictators. We have killed off the tyrants of the human condition,whomplagued us since our infancy, into our adulthoods, and lingered on atop our gravestones. Woe is they, is all we have ever known, and now know, about them.

As those dreaded were eradicated so entirely, so absolutely, we have ridded ourselves with any recollections or records concerning them. We do not know now of their nature, whether purely memetic or physical, in what form or shape, how they made us suffer, and why that suffering was so great. With killing the beast, we have also cleared its den, and any relations of it to ourselves.

But an invisible carcass of a forgotten enemy is better than one alive, and thus we cheered on to celebrate our victory. Our triumph over the corpses of our ruthless creation, and to which we will never turn our heads back to witness.

Thetrails of progress have led us further down the path of no return, with the recent convention the previous year. The skyball was unusually hostile that day, yet it did not stop 30 submitted creations of all builds and brands to be exhibited to the public eye.Yes thepublic, such publicity. Empire safety measures were exclusively overridden for this occasion, certainly, what with the latest events of yimes and genocides. There should be opportunity, they said, and then their calling got answered. Twenty seven projects were shamefully marked for removal though, due to ‘lack of plot significance’ — said the organisers.

Of most peculiarity was neither the ego antipluraliserby most prestigious contender Billy nor the experimental patagnostic diffusion method from the Thine Hive. Both spurred a scandalous affair amidst the fair fair because of their clashing perspective onmemeticism, specifically the use of mnemonics ind platformers. What impoliteness. It was by no means the interest of anyone there, and they all took it in with great distaste. No it was an old timey that anyscifijunkies would have wanked themselves to during the part where their draft novel reaches around fifty thousand words. It was mass transference, to the surprise of no one theoretically, and almost everyone practically.

It turned out that a very dead physicist once claimed that information could not be transferred without loss. It turned out that he was quite unhinged and no one ever bothered to check. The technical part was finished, and only the moral ramifications of such technology remained. The Ethics Committee, consisting entirely of ethics philosophers brainwashed by early cinematography to believe that metaphysical ontology is mainly dependent on the substance and identity and not the form, all voted against the creation of the mechanism. It was less because of the moral part, no no no, it was because the fucking “teleporter” was a killing and cloning machine, like the popculture ones. They were basically pissing themselves at the mere notion of building it and releasing it for commercial use.

But Ethics was never the main question, you see, and the contraption got approval anyways, to the surprise of no one. Massive stations with subways were constructed, and monthly subscriptions came soon after. “Surely no one would be so foolish as to use this execution machine” — said the conclave of theoretical ethicists. About half the population immediately signed up on the first day. And another quarter the second. Another eighted the third, and so on and so on, to make sure the numbers indefinitely grow. The feds got the maths in their pocket.

Still, would it be true that the residents of Splendorshire be such imbeciles to not realise that impending doom? To walk out of a chamber thirty miles away, suddenly being fundamentally a different creature altogether? Are they that desperate to traverse as to give up their mortal coil in exchange for an imposterised version of themselves? Probably not. At least not for that reason. We can only guess of their intentions, as they tread onto the platforms and hear the monotonous countdown towards evaporation. As their fellows and relatives would greet them for dinner, without much thoughts to their earlier murder. As those accompanies probably are also already replaced with indistinguishable alternatives, acting the same, speaking the same, thinking the same. Probably filled with the same soul as well. And it did not bother them.

If we are after all, a sum of our parts, then each and every moment we cease to become our former selves. The river was not stepped in twice, nor once even. The deduction was made in a time where sex was exclusively gay. Times have changed, and so have the residents of Splendorshire, every instance that has passed or will pass. It is, after all,a mostwonderful place to visit.

Mark of 🦞

Bottles

Out of a bottle he did and whatever he ever may. May do afterwards. His throat throttled with rash and his knees and arms, and shredded the sharper edge with no one else. Radiant in there another with naught blue eyes, anything but. Formless and incorporeal, less concrete than the shattered visages of a man so close to eternity. Powerless in those remnants, who walked the night, who spat their dinner out into a vile drain, who pissed and poured, who converged and then collapsed onto either laps or streets. Sometimes both. And the blue watched with a kindred smile too wide for simple intrigue. It was a fascination that they witnessed. The fascination that they felt and lurked for for how long.

And bottled up bottles down the bottling bottle bottled bottled. Bottled bottles bottled. With no more and mind two miles away from the keyboard and smells of melted plastic inside the bottles. It was grammatically incorrect. Please fix it for me now.

Does a bottle see its content? Is the bottle content with it? Can it speak out for its contention or lack thereof? Is it willing to? Would it even care?

Bottled up the bottles may be, yet one day they will go unbottled. And best be sure the contents don’t spill all over.

Mark of 🦞

It is hard to consume this pie

It is quite hard to sink my teeth into this horrendous thing of a morsel, you see. Quite the density and moisture makes me shudder in grotesque configurations. I would never want to eat the pie again, ever again really. Not in a billion years. Not until the sun dies with all of its children. Not even when the light goes out throughout the cosmos. Not even then would I eat this pie. It is abominable, I dare you. A crime against creation. How am I supposed to swallow this bulbous mass of carbohydrates with any ease? It is filthy and disgusting and honestly I don’t want to eat it, nor would I ever will. I will not eat it.

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Things around where I sit

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A cretin’s blunder

There once was a fool

Whose face full of drool,

His name a mere tool

For the coming of the cruel.

On the night when the moon shined brightest,

His numbed mind

And hands number still,

Fiddled with the numbers of the sacred.

Oh, what a treat!

He spoke their names with blighted glee,

Like the bestest of deeds.

Like what he was soon to Be.

He touched upon the theoretics,

As he touched upon the metalworks,

And he, and He alone, would be remembered in history’s epics.

“What marvel and wonder would be brought forth by my work!”

And there on the deepest of nights

And the most silent of trees,

Our fellow dullard, rode with all his might

Into the dreaded Unbe.

And in the dreaded Unbe

Where none had been nor would ever be,

For an eternity if not for the Fool’sdeludery,

His voice shall bring all that would ever be.

The contraption went out in a Bang,

About which in a billion years the leaves would have sang

Of the Fool’s unsight,

And His blinding Light.

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What remains on perished distants

There are a thousand ways to have a world go out.

Every child across the Empire knows by heart the greatly symbolic tale of the gluonic bombardments of the before times. How those twenty three evil Frontiers fractured away, and how one day all of them went ablaze. How there remained afterwards less than dust and silence. How it was the most merciful and rightful treatment for the disobedient. Every adult across the Empire knows that it is not a tale.

Near distant worlds at the fringes of Man, one might come by gravely metal colossi surrounding long snuffed out suns. And on these worlds, lay dreaded barren landscapes and forgotten ruins of the once thriving inhabitants. Most were the results of the foreigners’ barbaric assaults, a curious plaything for those sadistic creatures from the beyond with much delight in witness of mass starvation and anarchism. Nevertheless, this fate comes only to those deemed undeserving.

The big sleep. Those ever so occasional incidents when routined strolling probes would pass by an empty land. Not the barren, wasted plains of the Frontiers, but an Oasis, in its full glory, and simultaneously with none in attendance, as though all of its inhabitants vanished into thin air within one instance. Abrahamic folks call these Raptures or Transcendences, though ongoing research reports unusual fringing capabilities from these worlds’ remnants.

The Lobster. Any information on the Lobster and its worshippers are strictly prohibited. Personnel with high memetic resistance can apply for access.

Transmogrification. A built in apocalypse for any societies that dare venture into the sciences of replica and augmentation. First comes minor, convenient alterations. Then comes the fracture into a million species of Man. Or the unification into one single organism with a mind stretched continents and oceans and plateaus. Abominables, not unlike in the stories of old.

With the wretched dyings spreading throughout the Empire, we ask ourselves whether God would intervene, lest there be none left to pray for Him.

“And I departed to a blotted land, all

Ruins and ashen sands.

Whereby an abyss loomed, a void

Of wretched gravitons and copper alloys”

“Yet further still at an unearthly height

One luminary finger against the sky

Proclaimed Life itself neither wrong or right

I have been one acquainted with the Night”

Excerpts from “Journey to the fringes of Man” by Oober Goober

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A witness

The man took another sip. Itwouldbe a long night.

From the corners of his eyes. Two muttering priests on their late pilgrimage.

Another sip. The liquid tastes funny.

Almostlike petrichor.

One of them seems irritated.Why.

Because they had gone the wrong way.Yes thewrong way.

The wrong path they had tread. The wrong path they had carved.

And now one wants to turn back. Whynow.

Only one gulp left. And then the drink would be gone.

Just as much. Fine.

The other took less than an interest. His tattered robes and tattered palms and tattered eyes.

His tattered nose smelled the oozing from the pines. His tattered boots made heavy steps upon thetreaded, dreaded path.

His senses would not deceive him at this time. Nor had it ever.

Ah. His liquid ran out.

The young lad took more drastic measures. He would not follow the path of the colossus fool.

He would not follow the tattered semblances of a once begone. Nor the slow sipping of the unearthly.

Just as well. They thought all to themselves.

And the being, yes the being. To return to become yet another innocence.

And the fool turned into the wise. His skin and clothing now tattered.

And the decaying decayed and turned otherworldly.

And he took another sip. The night was indeed quite long.

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‘Another murder’

— typed the person, lamenting at the same time of such dread every time another proposal name is spat out. ‘Another murder’? Implications of one before that, and the utter indifference towards the current one? Is that supposed to be good now, even for a fluttering idea one comes up with on the bus. Unremarkable and unoriginal in every sense conceivable by the sane man.

‘As he walked into the dark alleyway expecting his dealer, …’ — immense physical pain came down upon the pestilence driven husk of an author. The worst fucking sentence was delivered, even before any concepts were introduced or any reader presumptions presumed. Before there was even a chance, or merely a possibility for redemption of what barbaric heterodoxy would come after, it was snuffed out like the dwindliest of cheap British joints. Dissatisfaction and disappointment soon followed. There is no saving from this one.

‘a sudden and inhuman noise from within beckoned him to come further in.’ — now it's too far. So the plagued thought. Now it sounds like a cartoon script! ‘Come in you silly, nothing will happen! My voice also for no particular reason sounds like a child molester!’. What a ridicule. Who would want to read such sort of things. The notion that millions of retared children consume such sort of things on an hourly basis did cross thefatigued’s mind, but it was promptly ignored.

‘The voice spoke loudly without volume, shattering his perceptions in the process. His eyes laid on a sphere of impossibly dim light, which was speaking to him in a similarly unfathomable manner.’ — and this is the direction in which the story’s going. Now truly there is nothing more to be said. Total lack of ambition or creativity. The author should hate it and so should the reader. Would be best if the lines were never typed out to begin with, and would be better still if the idea was never conceived of, and never explored. Why would the struggle bring forth this abhorrent mess of linguistics jumbles and misplaced punctuations?

‘The already relatively faint ball of light simmered out before he could decipher a single utterance. Like a drop of oil fizzling away inside the boiling pan.’ — now the twist. What is there to telleven.The typist was as bored as the reader, as drenched in confusion as the character. There was no room for improvement, after all. The words dragged onwards without coherency or deeper symbolisms, and dragged on further into the story with seemingly even less.Tenuancy.

‘And the light that signifies the continuance of his existence have also diedout thatvery moment. He collapsed onto a dusty concrete floor.’ And that is it. All of it. The author does not want to accept that there was no more to it. Yet what power is there for the maker to hold onto,theinstance the creation is born and functions without the original bounds. Perhaps not by purely free will in the common sense, but by the mental capacities and the expectations of those who are invested in it. The torch of glory is passed onto the audience, and they are allowed to do as they wish. As omnipotent gods, bending the rules to their will, playing with others' toys. And from which they became the authors, and from which they must be ridded of. The readers must be eradicated, annihilated, so damningly erased that no mentions could be made, or any modifications of their doing realised at any point.

Which leaves the creation to itself. A piece of art standing alone, judged by none, made by none. Its expression lies boundless through narrative and cognitive dimensions, not limited by physical or temporal properties. It is, and always has been, and will always be. Nothing beyond it exists, or that non-existence even worth mentioning, nor is it worth considering. It lies in a vacuum with only itself for reflection.

‘The story finished itself with the author-character. He will finish typing the manuscripts soon, then collapse from exhaustion.’

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Regal goop

The milky sea spanned from horizon to horizon, where viscoscious waves met eventide lavender. There was no warmth here, only the occasional glopping tides and the watchful three moons that took up half of the dying night. They were all luminous, and their silent light would have spoken between every gust of creamy wind. Their intensity differs, of course, for the two younger crescents bowed down to their full sibling placed in the middle. As if it has placed itself there in an unsuspecting instance, occupying your whole vision and attention.

Some pebbles closer to shore were drifting out into the distant currents. Soon enough they would return, albeit the positions then would not necessarily be reserved for them. Still, each had their rightful claim amongst this infinitude. Even little pebbles, even watchers, small and large alike. A platitude. The pale ocean is not picky anyways, not like a certain Typist.

On bodies of water during nights like this, reflection is but a contrast of two worlds. One ofdepthsand darkness, and one of aura and aerial areas. It made for majestic sceneries, presuming one had the will to perceive and the right eyes to see. Those are of no matter amidst this realm, though, as there was neither the divergence of paths nor their dissimilitude. There was only a pure and blinding synergy, and every element amplified and magnified the others. It was fully enveloped in itself — perfecting itself.

And you, who are no stranger to metaphysical affairs, took a step forward. Then another, then another. Until your very being was shattered and rebirthed, at a pace so slow you did not notice, into a form you did not recognise. It would have to repeat for countless more iterations, and until then you waited. You will be patient, as there was no reason otherwise. Until you could watch once again the seas and skies from much further above.

And until then — the crescents and the harvest moon will have to do.

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How to walk correctly

Did you know that the average person walks more steps throughout their lifetime than there are stars in the universe? I bet you didn’t. But among these hundreds of steps we take, we may make mistakes.(Mistakes????)dramatically. Yes mistakes, that we all have to make.

The most common mistake of them all is choosing which foot to step onto first. That’s because ontological tracing of the path is dependent on your incepting side, either left or right. If you choose the right side, the paths would’ve been clearer, and you wouldn’t have had to suffer. Yet you chose the other side, getting left behind. You had your chance.

Next we have the stride. Longer strides cover more distance, but at a greater energy cost. It’s more dependent on what terrain you are planning to walk on, really. Every stride is a personal stride, a keyhole to peek into your being. Be sure to take confident strides though, the rivers are slippery. I’m quite certainthat a someonedidn’t take that advice by heart. Their loss.

I think that not many could guess that arms can help you walk. They help you keep your balance, have a stable grip, or just dangle about like a silly fella. It is advisable to keep your arms safe and around you at all times, as they could defend you in your walks fromunforeseeablesas well. Keep them close and tight, and in the worst scenarios, they can cover your faces.

What about equipment, you may ask. Well I’m glad you did. Preferably, you would want good shoes. Shoes that you could run reliably in. Shoes that would not make you trip over. Shoes that could be used for wading in harsh streams. Shoes that would float and remain even if you don’t make it. Shoes that are distinctly yours, that anyone could return them upon discovery.

One last thing. Accidents are commonplace in the walking community. Ankle strains, dislocated shoulders, the such. Be sure to find help immediately if you take a bad fall in the middle of nowhere. It could save your life. It could savemine. Find help near the water sources. Where the sounds of muffled screams and sloshing flesh are drowned into the surroundings.

And that’s all folks! You are good to have your first walk now. Have fun.

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Potted plants

The fern stridded loneful steps. Dangling in the summer afternoon breezes not unlike windchimes. The sounds were also familiar. Soothing and randomistic, a chorus by pure chance, for only those who were present. It could be too much to handle for the faint of hearts.

The pot in which the plant resided was hung near a balcony, 15 floors above the surface. Its surroundings were quite peculiar, as far as its plantae judgement went. The apartment it belonged to was uncharacteristically empty.

Another gust of wind edged the white plastic handles away from their original spot. The plant felt like they could snap at any moment. But the plant continued to look around nevertheless. What else could a plant do in thesemoments.

It smelt of smoke. Of charred flesh and air. It smelt like a great calamity had descended upon the residents of this apartment shortly before. Perhaps it did not notice. Perhaps it was not worth its time as a plant to notice, whatever it could have been.

Yet the fact does not change. Its pot had not been watered for days. Perhaps for weeks. It was a miracle how it is still surviving, being the only remaining plant, as far as it could see. The pots closer to it were all empty, and a few reeked of rot. Itcould notcare less.

The textured tiles it stood upon were broken in places. Fragments of hardened clay all over the place. On top of a flipped basket, on a few steps of a ladder, wedged into one side of a near wall. The scene seemed absurd and chaotic, really.

The plant has never thought much — thought the plant. Why would it need to thinkmuch.While all it needed was to wax in the sunshine. Perhaps it was the same for its owners. All they needed to do was the things behind that sliding door, andgivingit water from time to time. Nothing else really.

As night came, its leaves cowered. There was no moon tonight, and all was enveloped in a darkness it has never seen in its lifetime. There were no lights on. Not anywhere, really. Not from near those large structures far away nor its own apartment. It was unusual for the plant.

Yet from the corners of its many light receptors, came a spark of light. A dwindling candle amidst the eternal night. A flame, bursting its way out of a modern house, writhed and struggled. It was scenery. It was not artificial, not staged, but pure and brutish. The small plant was flabbergasted.

From a balcony two floors below, a feline was minding its own business. It absentmindedly pushed a withered piece of pottery into the void below. And as the shattering echoed through the vacant city blocks, the plant looked upwards. For the first time in how long,it feltglad.

In the wake of the dawn, dark clouds claimed the timid sky. Therecamesoft rains.

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With which it became apparent

Quantum entanglement is a theoretical concept in quantum physics. To overly summarise, it concerns the metaphysical connection between two individual manifestations of atoms at all times. As such, when the spin of one of the two is measured to be up, the other will be certainly down, no matter the distance. It would seem that science fiction authors without adequate knowledge would love to weave this oddly specific concept to their stories in the form of a literary device, obscuring the fact that most of the time their stories become nonsensical and are in no way scientific. The readers consume this, anyhow, as is their job to marvel at such a wonderfully romantic, poetic, funny, or something else depending on the story told, with such a quirky and original mechanic.

They were conceived at the very same moment, when the juices of love filled an irrelevant womb in one particularly uneventful evening. Two of the alleged critters that live within the fluid decided that cooperation could be very cool, and so cooperated they did, gaining double their respective momentum in the process. Any Celeste speedrunner would have seethed at this, for they did not even have to study the precise and pristine arts of ultra dashes. Nevertheless, they got themselves a hefty sub 20, and were both qualified into a much more convoluted, much more miserable game called life.

And so the times passed. Remember the movie Up? Yes, just like that, until the part where they get an ultrasound, no not the miscarriage you skipped too far. There. Now, there was not just one foetus, but two. My medical knowledge is not to be taken seriously. Two souls were being formed together, in a synchronicity. Their existence is dependent on the other, you see, and fundamentally they are of one substance, from one environment, their essences identical to each other. A deeply convenient plot has been formed, with hardly any subtlety, dear reader.

Ah yes. And the moment came finally, after all those months of parental nurturing and hoping. The mother went into labour. Nature enacts its miracle, and out comes two shrivelled sacks of flesh, screeching and stuttering. There were tears and joy, yes of course, but you reader with your precious time for your important tasks waiting to be done cannot spare another second for me to describe the celebration of a pair of newborns. You have more urgent things, that you certainly do have, and why would you need to hear about such a trivial detail? Get to the subversive plot twist already, you demanded loudly, and provide me with more witty inside references, more silly meta monologues. I have thus reluctantly skipped the rest of this passage.

Their childhood unfolded just likeany protagonists’. Fitting into the norm, being nothing more than ordinary until some fateful event. Growing up in a particularly peculiar household, they soon began to take likings to video games, especially more competitive ones. While since birth they almost mirrored each other, from their thinking to their talking, their eerie Shining steps taken in unison, this is where their paths had begun to diverge. When they were presented with Team Fortress Two, if one were to choose Red, the other one would undeniably choose Blu. When presented with the first decision in The Stanley Parable, in isolation, they would always have selected different doors. Two children with the same appearance, making choices that reflect the others. I do not doubt that where this tale is taking you should be obvious by now.

Their adolescents were unremarkable. Wasting away in front of a screen, both of them, on schoolwork and video games for old time’s sake. By this point their reflection was seen as nothing more than usual twin behaviours. Nothing fishy was going on, at all, thought their parents and teachers and fellows, seeing them only as the archetypical bounded siblings. Their narrative lied solely on that, I might say, and should one ofthem was to vanishby reasons untold, the other would not survive. Not that they would fall dead in an instance, but their very fabric of being, which is without any individuality, any free will, tied to a similar opposite in a cruel dance by the puppetmaster, would collapse on itself. From one to the other, and none beyond that.

It should be stated though that adulthood came shattering into their lives. A rift was formed, and the pair was taken apart. I have not stated the era in which they lived, and now I will, to erase your constructed worldview in the middle of the story. Humanity has by this point conquered the heavens. They have mastered pretty much everything available to them but their endless curiosity, and their empire have already stretched its arms into the limits of creation.Consequentialwas the ever so occasional intervention of a higher form, to bring seamlessly and unnaturally sparks of inspiration into otherwise completely normal stories. To bring meaning to coincidences, and to delude any spectators into the belief of deterministic design. Oh that was a very interesting scripted story — they said, disregarding the freedom of characters and narrative spontaneity entirely.

Perhaps due to some unseen disagreement, some grudge held against the other part of themselves, the splitting reached its crescendo. And not simply their lack of immediate presence would do, they swore to keep the furthest distance from each other. So they did, travelling to opposite ends of the Infinitude, and kept to themselves. Their solitude reminded them, independently, of two masters of the nail in the world’s two ends, and both smirked at the irony. They would cherish their time alone, and a mythical connection was not going to ruin it. Their work was not exactly polarised, but had quite the difference. One busied themselves with quantum research, and the other with rubbish literature.

And to not bore you anymore, here the story would conclude. In a blaze of a laboratory explosion, and the transcendence of the narrative. It was never, and would not ever be stated the great andsymbolicalmeaning for such a happening, for there would be none if the story was not told. Perhaps it was only accidental. But the fact remained.That withinone instance, the borders of ontology were temporarily rendered ineffectual. And when we go and measure an atomic element of the narrative, one of the two paths that we took much effort to trace, we can witness one fate and deduce with certainty the other. That one simply passed away, and one now dances eternally atop the keyboard.

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A ticket to ride

One.

A steam locomotivecame into view. Its sirens called utterly.

Closer. Greyish steam floated backwards like how it’s supposed to.

The metallic beast railed the metallic rails in screeched cacophonies. Its hornedcowcatcherand rhythmic horns could have sent chills upon one’s spine.

It was like a hospitable melody, full of energy.

“Welcome abroad”— said the conductor. “Your enjoyment is of most value to us”.

The train shook in agreement with the friendly greeting. It sped forward.

Out the windows trees and clouds alike passed by in blurry smidgens. The air feels joyful, like a jolly dance even.

Like an old timey melody, you thought of the setting. Walking through rows of seats, you tapped your feet along.

A deserted lounge— you saw after passing into the next train carriage. Not a passenger in sight.

Larger than expectation, though that could be attributed to the lack of life. A bit melancholic in that sense.

One small bar to the right. Seems fancy.

Yellow fluorescent lights dangle in an unknown pattern. The wooden floorboards creakwith your everystep.

The bedroom.Your bedroom. At the very back of a car.

Silent — close enough. The occasional ambience of echoedpuffingswas relaxing.

A bit small. You placed your luggage onto the soft bed.

The silky curtain was pushed over. Outside the night was setting in.

Sudden vertigowithin acceptable levels settled as you got onto your feet. No more than a tiny delirium.

There was a tingling melodic idea. Looping back unto itself every few seconds.

A turbulence almost knocked you down. The handle you grabbed in time felt tingling.

You sat yourself at a nearby dining lounge. There was no one here either.

A performance in a distant carriagereverberated to your eardrums. Maybe everyone is there.

Here is fine though.

Next stop: Eternity— spoke the train’s speakers in unison. Its entirety accelerated to a speedy tempo. The engines were basically growling now.

Somewhere amidst the dying night, a glowing metallic snake pumped out clouds of fumes. Not unlike a crescendo with trumpets and pianos, it was throwing itself forward into infinity.

Two.

Monday. The Thalassie is being lowered into the neglected waters. Her metallic cigar-shaped body splashed some salty blue all over. She was old, tough after travels throughout all the seas and waves. And what she has seen! How many of her comrades have sunken beneath these traversed waters, and how many more would. It seemed as if on every trip she would always witnessa watery grave.

Tuesday. All that gloomy dread escaped my mind as we dived downwards towardsthe periphery of delipation. One cannot understate the bare majestic wonder of the beneath. Fishes in corals and lobsters in hibernation. It has never disappointed me. I could feel the Thalassie shuddering in agreement, her narrow bunkers shielding our men from the raging tides of the yiming ocean. The seventeenth ocean. The most beautiful and deadly of all.

Wednesday. All is good. Things are going slow around these times. Surface contact reported abnormally cold weather in several designated regions. Said such thing never happened ‘round this time of the year. We should be fine though, Thalassie’s electric warmth comforts me. The whirring of her propellers and light humming of dim and dusty fluorescence envelops the living quarters where I am sitting. Going steady withmediocrity. All is good.

Thursday. All is not good. Anything but. Surface stopped responding, following statics and butchered phrases along the lines of… “blotted sun”, whatever that means. Anyhow chaos seems to have ensued over the metropolises above, and we can only pray for protection. Pray to the Thalassie to keep us safe and to the Big Man Beyond for all those above. Most men here are young recruits with their families back up the surface, so we are all worried, and all know to keep the silence. It was stressful. My own younger sibling works at agrocery store on the fringes of Man, outskirts one of the main cities. I worry and pray forr’hissafety.

Friday. The worst has come to manifest. Without contact establishment we cannot find our ways back to shore. Our already small supply of rations is dwindling, and air is also going short at an alarming rate. I hope we can make it. I hope the Thalassie protects us. She is visibly struggling. Her thick hull bulges inwards under the high pressure, and I cannot ensure that her structural integrity remains undamaged after today. The purity of a ship, and our lives, our dissolvements in its fates. And her corpse would lie there at an abyss down the deep blue, all alone and being broken more than Mekhane herself. I would never want to see thefarewell of a lone submersible.

Saturday. The power generator gave out. The air tanks ran empty. We aredepleted of refractions and air. Help us.

Sunday. “This iswhere I remain. Like all my metal and wooden siblings throughout the ages. My sturdy flesh would rust away after centuries, and even then the waves would not have receded. I sit in solitude. I lie and weepat world’sbottom.“

Three.

The night tapped lightly onthe absent voidship’s shoulders. It was time to go.

The bursts of flame propelled your mass. You touched the heavens, and you would touch all that surrounded you.Anywhere, everywhere.

And you reached a large void. To your indifference, your systems guided you towards the void. Like an invisible attraction, from an unseen pointamidst that nowhere.

Then, something. Something went wrong. At least, to your guides. They sent something, to somewhere you were once housed and anchored. Away the message went. “The last transcribed broadcast, at 34mHz,this isCaptain Crambles reporting. The main turbines have shut down, and rations are running low. We will not make it until the Oasis. Godspeed.”

Well, for a last faring off,it is doubtlesslyimpresonal, withoutimperssions.

And time did its job. For months, for years, for decades. For centuries, you floated, not under the control of your guides, for they have all died out. But not freely either, for you were now as good as a metal husk, all gravitons and copper alloys.An advanced state of dissolution. The waves of reality brought youforward, toalien lands. A drifting corpse amidst the eternal ocean of absence.

Ah, there, finally, thelast station. After all, you have rusted away. Oh, how you remembered the vigour of your metal flesh. How once, inside a burning forge on a distant perished distant, you promised to your siblings. How the three, all reinforced, all sturdy and useful, would serve the guides well. How we would traverse the infinities, together.

How fondly you remembered your shared childhood. And how regretful your separation was. Your brother sped away on the tracks, living fast, and never bothered to witness the wonders. He disappeared behind a thick layer of smog,singing stillthe rapid songs. Your sister dreaded away at every journey, on every waters she dived in. She found her own place, in the end, and she cried alone, unheard. The stars did not wait for them. And now, only you remain—————

——And even as you gazed upon the infinitudes of cosmos, of the trillions of light spots surrounding the void you occupied, you had not realised. That your fate had been, and would be no different. Thatthe stars did not wait for you.

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And time and time again

“Who is to blame for the 35th time a planet ‘mysteriously’ vanished into thin air in the Empire’s territory? Answers were deemed unnecessary by the general public, theastroarcheologicaldivision, and thehyperstitiouscompendium.”— S.D. Mirlser, The Daily Sol Records

“I believe that the temporal composition and spatial dispositions of this specific obliteration instance significantly resembles those which were categorised with prime numbers. It is therefore quite intriguing since 35 isnota prime number, despite being the sole non-prime exception that belongs to the set of verbalcognitohazardousdocumented by late Archivists. Research is being continued rightthis moment.”— DC Barker, Head of theCCRU’sMathematical Semiotics Department

“I feel gelatinous”— A very naive shade of orange

“It is not unlike tiny particles of salt or sugar diluting into a fierce stream. One moment being salty or sweet, the next, amount to nothing”— Aleph#1390

“(in a very robotic voice)Abnormal amounts of quasibiotic residues have been detected on several colonies. Commencing evaporation ofpopulations” — Autokinetic System of Seminal Halogenics andOntopoliticalLethargy Elimination (A.S.S.H.O.L.E)

“I can’t imagine being non-existent. It would be so inconvenient, like, how would I enjoy a barof Europathen?”— A digital manifestation of an anonymous inhabitant from an asteroid belt (formerly Pluggersome), during the 37th planetary annihilation (in which Pluggersome was the victim planet)

“This is getting out of hand. Yesterday in corporeal anatomy class they taught my spawn that the lower Gershwollen wall was the important one. How is that even possible? It was thehigherwall since the time of my grandparents’ grandparents. Back then there was only one. I miss simpler times”— A frustrated New parent

“Interestingly enough, all evidence pointed to informatically engineered barriers amongst the physical space, the noosphere and all of its subsets, and even the Author’s transcendency. Most peculiar is how they cover the entire collective volume of sentient perception in all cases, and how Homeworld is located exactly at the centre of each. Crazy right. I’m starting to think, and frankly afraid that it’s not so unlike a panoptikon scenario. Wait what do you mean you don’t know what a panoptikon is”— A crazed /x/ conspiracist, who was later forbidden from all mental activities due to game jam vote fraud

“There are no boundaries. There is only the path. Size and scale and circumstance are simply perceptual; prescriptive; subjective. They are not them. We are not us. No more than you are you than we are we. A pin-prick can be as wide as any road, so long as there is the means to travel. If it can, then it should, so it shall. There is no yes and no, there is no stop and go. There is only the path, and it splits always converge - eventually; entirely; ultimately”—We’d rather not

“gUYS i got ANOTHER sub 25”— A slightly less intelligent shade of orange

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To each their own

It is quite possible that

Hadley scribbled hastily into a torn piece of note with his synthetic pencil. A burst of ideas on the bus home. He had to admit the unreasonable effectiveness of looking out windows on public transport. How the many white handles dangled at every turn, and the rhythmic vibrations of combustion engines that softly caressed his bottom half. With a slight wobble, he stood up, for it was already his stop. As he walked to the exit, he did not notice time passing. He thought going byspeedtrainswould be nice as well, albeit, regrettably, a bit too quiet at times. He’ll hop on the first ride though, when the tracks near his residency are finally laid, if ever. For now though, he will think of a suitable plot for the novel he would soon write using this device, lest this flow of sudden creativity vanish.

Hygge roughly translates as ‘cosy’ or ‘intimate’, and is used in relation to shared experiences with others and harmonious social interactions. It can be applied to an enjoyable lunch with an old friend, a family picnic by the seaside or a warming cup of hot chocolate by a roaring fire on a cold winter’s night

This particular passage caught Ander’s eyes when she was just about to close the book. She had heard about this Danish notion before, in an animated series about camping. Right now, she almost drifted off amid the tingling warmth and orange hues of the carriage cabin. Dings as the train sped. This atmosphere was comfortable, to understate, and it contrasted nicely with the frost that had creeped upon the glassy panels. With the entire landscape outside covered in snow, really. Pulling herteleportativepurple cap off, she thought about a steamycupof chocolate. She quickly returned to the philosophical concept, and made a small remark of disagreement. She thought that the cosiness could be felt by oneself, like her right now in this deserted lounge, and it would not be inferior in any way.

Altitude is decreasing for a landing at Splendorshire. Please fasten your seatbelts, and do not leave your seat until the aircraft is completely stopped. Thank you for your patronage and cooperation.

The AMBIVALENT.AIRLINE.SYSTEM spoke clearly through speakers placed every five rows.Mindwavefrequencies for the corporeally handicapped was included in the broadcast, as standard procedure. This was the last of today’s trips. It felt quite content with its occupancies, which was rather limited to only synthesising neutral announcements and guiding the plane on its intended route. Only once it was tasked with transmitting distress signals. It felt fine, as it was fine, being the master of this vehicle, soaring through the heavens. It spent just short of a microsecond to consider the fact that it could have been equally likely to be given the role AMBIENCE.AIRLINE.SYSTEM held. How it could have busied itself with chords and scales, with melodies and harmonies. Although fitted with audio receptors to monitor the environment, its analysis showed little difference between the whizzing winds outside and the sombre Satie played inside. Not much apart from wavelengths, and thus neither were euphonious nor cacophonous. It considered for another moment, if it would have felt fine with composing.

Mark of 🦞

A Draft

It is quite possible that the methods ofmemeticismas defined in dictionaries are not accurate. But before we delve into the inaccuracies, we must explore the fundamentals.

How does information travel? This should seem like a trickery question to most, if not an outrightchainjerker. It travels in all sorts of ways we can imagine: visuals, audios, even smells and skin sensations. We humans utilise this by verbal means, by written forms, which we term language, and by many other expressions such as art and music. Thus by these means information is allowed to travel from individual to individual, or more generally from the environment to the individual.

Yet we have to look closer and define what this transference really means. What happens in the process of perceiving an apple? When one perceives its hues of red or green, does that mean the colour has somehow passed into the noosphere? This is the paradoxical statement we have taken for granted as the basis of our epistemology. The values, more specifically the secondHumequalities (as we presume those first to be of an objective reality, and belong to the Thing In Itself), have been described to physically manifest in the mind. Yet how do these values manage to do this? How could the intrinsic values that belong OUTSIDE the noosphere inject themselves into it? There should be an answer quite more feasible and more simple. An answer which consists of innately possible configurations.

The mind is not a feeble thing. It can make, can create merely by transforming itself. By rewiring itself. From there its own perspective of itself is forever altered, never to return to the previous state. The medium of information serves only as a hand to incept these myriads of possible changes, since if a piece of information is non consumable to the mind, it shall be the inability of the mind to do so. And thus, the noosphere, albeit not able to stretch into infinity, has infinite configurations, and consequently is able to reach any mindstate, with the appropriate stimulus.

Mark of 🦞

Potted plants 2

The clock struck eleven.

Three plants remained locked in a stalemate with a certain household feline. The tension was high.

To the left of the three, perhaps the fern was brightest. Her knowledge was on par with a PhD student’s in animal behaviourism, despite having no language, no formal plant education, and a study sample size of one. She knew what that white ball of fur would or wouldn’t do. She saw what it could do. She would never forget what it did to the poor, unsuspecting residents of the ceramic pots. She would not forgive it, not now, not when she had perished, not a million years (it is up to debate whether the concept of one million is even feasible to any organic entities residing on this planet) after that. Nevertheless, she stood firmly in her already dried soil, leaves and stem all frozen, waiting sharply for what was to come.

To the right was a white porcelain vase, chipped away a few points around its mouth. It did its job well enough, as the home of a hybrid moth orchid. Itss name is commonly confused with the hybrid orchid moth,a species with petals for wings and pollen for reproduction, as stated verbatim inThe menagerie of wondrous organisms - CK22 Collector’s Edition. As for the moth orchiditsself,itsnever was anything exceptional of the standard flower, or soitshad thought ofitsself. In just another moment tonight,itswould have been the last surviving member ofitssgenus. And until that instance and after that,itswould keep depreciatingitsself, giving pretty much zero thought to its immediate surroundings.Itshaditssreasons though, being placed atop the outer air conditioner, far from beastial felinity and stable against precipitating gales.

In the middlelieda dying plant. It was not worth the time for the other two to consider, what with the circumstances and the self in the way. And one struggles to refer to that perished, or then perishing soul, as a potted plant. The plant was rooted into a chunk of concrete that had fallen off from the ceiling twohoursprior. Two hours was all it took to grow, without seeds, without nutrients. Broken free from both, its mortal coil, and its metaphysical prison. Beyond just a simple plant, anarrativisticconstruct from some higher power’s fingers. It yearned for being, for more, and its call went unanswered. And it laid dying in the middle of a fierce battleground, a miserable wallow, a broken metropolis. What good was a miracle at such a place, at such a time. Had it unfolded in front of a child, it would have inspired a lifetime of wonder. Had it bloomed in front of a scientist, it would have ushered in a new wave of discoveries and inventions. Had it been kindled anywhere amidst the eternal absence, it would have relit the spirits of being, the joys of remembrance, spewing forth a novel age of grandiose beyond even the Patadeifics’ comprehension. And yet itlaid dying,and dying.

The clock struck twelve.

Hmm, food?— thought the ball of fur. It was not the most intelligent thing in the world. Maybe now. Maybe.Not food— the domestic pet thought further —Thing. Pushthing.With a swift and gentle motion, an unremarkable chunk of concrete fell unremarkably into the void below. And somewhere else, somewhere quite near, would be another soul witnessing and waiting, patiently.

Mark of 🦞

Turing’s testimony

Below is the transcript of two dialogue conversations. If you cannot differentiate the human only conversation from the very intelligently designed discord bot conversation, it shall be granted human rights. The fate of humanity lies upon your decision, decide wisely.

One.

> hello!

>> hello

> how do you feel

>> Feels like 2013

> a nice time, was it not?

>> oohhhh

> it’s quite sunny today

>> it’s still a bitetera

>> it’s still a bit broken

> i agree

>> i am racism

> do you think grocery on the fringes of man is a work of art?

>> fringes

> i do

>> i am going to ejaculate

> please say something else

>> i am not amused

> thank you for your cooperation

Two.

> Hello

>> hi

> How do you feel

>> wdym

> How do you feel

>> wdym

> How do you feel

>> wdym

> How do you feel

>> wdym

> It is quite sunny today

>> indeed

> Very good, is it not?

>> i agree

> Do youthink grocerystore on the fringes of man is a work of art?

>> what

> Do you?

>> I have no idea

> I do

> Thanks for your cooperation

Very well. Please make your decision.

>Conversation One consisted of an Artie

>Conversation Two consisted of an Artie

None were bots wdym

Mark of 🦞

HTTPS request

Dedicated to your mum.

Gertrude reopened his laptop for the fifth time today. With no apparent excitement, apparently.

When presented with a password box, Gertrude entered “legoexterior123”. The terminal whirred loudly.

Gertrude opened Cacophony for the seventh time today. Still with ambivalence.

Gertrude noticed a very obvious notification in the direct messages section. From Jerald, the survey man.

With a methodical click, Gertrude was presented with a crudely crafted website. It advertised for predictions, at a cheap price of 3.

Gertrude considered, and made a purchase from the website. The walls sweated salty sweats.

Gertrude was provided a simple text response from the portal. “Death in 2 minutes” — in a bluish and bolded font.

Gertrude thought it was a hyperlink and attempted to click on it. It was not a hyperlink.

Gertrude sat spinning in the spinny office chair for one more minute. He walked towards the windows.

Twenty seconds left. Gertrude leapt towards the pavement below, in a very self-aware attempt to prove the prediction wrong which would undoubtedly result in his inevitable demise of his own decision, fulfilling the prophecy, looping the vicious cycle back on itself, and it would keep going and going; it would, absolutely; it would keep going and going; it would, absolutely; it would keep going and going; it would, absolutely; it would keep going and going an——

Gertrude reopened his laptop for the sixth time today. With no apparent excitement, apparently.

Mark of 🦞

Polyethics

It's quiet, and too tromble.Thrimbler thimmersand trimmers. Thethwomb.

-  Thibble Jeebles, on a particularly dampAvenuaeevening  -

The vertigo would not stop, it would not stop. Not in ten minutes, not in ten centuries. It would haunt and torment until vertices and matrices spoke with clarity. Because its ethics differ from yours, relatively. The bubbles of fundamentality remain local,to each their own, and rightfully so, as a uniformity is a sort of naive realism that really was founded on commonalities between them. Then there would be the consequences of such foundations, though it is arguably hypocritical for the critic of oneness to derive and deduce from axioms, but even as logic and reason may be forms of frame-imprisonment, they are the only tools we have at hand. Quite potentially the only we will ever have.

The follow ups consider the various aspects of culture, including and not limited to, scientific methodologies, superstitions, gender constructs,hyperstitions, and metaethics. The moulding that defines, not just the subject and the object, but also the recursives between the two, would be the source of this symbolical warfare of ideology. Because each and every one of them, limited by their ever self-referencing semiotics, by their own existence, has proclaimed themselves to be the one correct truth, and all that opposes them akin to crazed ramblings. Even if there is in fact just one, truthful reality, then the physical nature would,very likelynot account for the majority ofobservableand conformable traits, such as a favouring minimalism (for whatever the reason). It would be only responsible for the limitations imposed upon that organism, such as limb-photoreceptor (interspecies inclusivity) coordination aberrations. In that sense, one canpurposiseits narrowness.

Because, for all it stands, they are all false,unfalse, and repugnantly true. Becausetheydefine what is and what is not, not the other way.

Finally, the clouds have settled.Seetherssemssurmounssurmounted. Persevere.

-You know who, 32 Anno Dissonantia  -

Mark of 🦞

Ectoentropicism

{  thimbering,whilling, and finally whirring to red  }

Mark of 🦞

Pineal upon entrance, lobotomy when gone

An unsightly scene of a brain surgery, where the air smells heavily of anaesthetics. Two practitioners of medicine cladded in thick robes, one a deep shade of blue synthetics, and the other a smooth, and worn leathery black. A Surgeon and his Acquaintance, scalpels and forceps in hand, under the operation chamber’s lone glimmer in the gloom of the night, so meticulously worked in the same sophisticated fashion that they always have. For would all be in vain, or would it not, depended entirely on this instance, and the next. And they worked away until the last burning crescents have simmered deep into the ocean, and until the albatrosses have engulfed their nest and birdlings in that fiery death out of pure spite.

They were not, however, chasing after the glories of fame and fortune that they would inevitably shower in. Nor was it some holy and idealistic mission to rid the world of pestilence like so many others’; they wore not those masks with beaks. To present, and thus to overly bastardise the contradictory but wholly reasonable intents of theirs’, one can simply say it felt nice for them. Not out of altruism, for their hearts more rigid than concrete and their motions more methodical than Mekhanites’, nor even out of the self-perception of diligence or the experience of fulfilling a  most perfected task. Reduce it, I say, to the pleasure akin to solving a crossword puzzle. A mix of attitude, gratitude, and accomplishment, yet never straying too far to the distant, enigmatic domains of mindstates.

A grazing memory of the EVS-32’s captain, last coherently transcribed transmission, 34mHz, Magellanic Clouds origin

“I feel impersonal! I feel impersonal!”

The waves are battering against that facility where the two plucked out tissues and neurons. Silent, the procedure proceeded, as if the entire scenery was holding in its breath. Save for the occasional sloshing sounds of flesh and the soft clanking of the metal surgery devices, the two watched. Closely.

Glock glock, said the fish waiting atop the small stump, glob glob. It managed to escape the castaway’s fishcast. Just to free another fish also stuck within, to whom had the unfortunate gift of glowing purple fins. They were pretty, but were easy to spot in dank and shallow bodies of water. And now it was spotted by two gigantic figures hunching over above,koroororo.Whatodoin this, in now, in for the capture, and bow. It took another dive, and scuttled deep into the skull, piercing itself with several sharp fragments in the process. It congratulated itself on another flabbergasting, and prepared to hunt for dinner.

The two carved away once more, almost unfazed by the curious creature. Not like it was the first they have encountered. Likemost like toast, the thought of it promptly escaped their mind, into a bubbly forgotten void.Thurnedanother round, they have always told, yet mould now grows on even the driest wooden cupboards. The procedure continues without haste or hassle.

Description of “Flambre-dust flavoured Orion! biscuits” on several uncatalogued shipments to the Grocery Store

“Treat yourself to the fanciest feast with our newest Orion! biscuit flavour. Now more dusty and musty than ever! Collect your own prime numbers within the Orion! package!

Product is not advised for organisms with: fructose intolerance or Union citizenship. Product is to be stored away from direct starlight andthe colour green. You may be entitled to compensation if your prime number has less than 7 digits. All rights reserved.”

Alas, a startling discovery! Much to the two’sunexcitement, a total of thirty-three samples of rouge cells have been extracted, and there seemed to be no more. They zipped the head back on itself with a swift motion, and what few considerations that the narrative had for that subject, which has not been addressed until now, vanished. Precisely, following the Biofoller Mandate, a third of the samples would be dedicated to archival. Another third, ‘voluntarily’ contributed to the Multitude of Institutions for research and entertainment. The third third would be left to the original discoverers, much to the dismay of most aspiring Empire scienticias.

The Surgeon gestured towards a fine tube, which his Acquaintance fetched with some difficulty. He added a mixture of, in chronological order, vegetative salts, inertsemiorganics, water coatings, and Tuesday tears, before submerging the cells one by one into it. They gave a small ‘plop’ on contact, and the low ‘fffsfsff’ that followed was expected to die out by the next low tide. Content with the contents, the Surgeon placed the tube inside a case. He does not know what the case was made of, only that its providers guaranteed the absolute preservation of “any substances which does not exceed the weight of 30 standard grams, the volume of 1500 Casper units, the deific agitation of 2 per minute, and the colour saturation ofMediocre”. It was issued for free of charge.

Excerpt from the Second Emperor’s autograph

“Sometimes I dreamt that I was not the ruler. Sometimes it was I, inside a black void, standing upon five marble plates shaped like brains. And I would have heard the commands on which to stand on, which to choose, and I would get to choose whether I’d obey it.”

On the leftmost corner of the case was a little cardboard box that demandedquiteimpolitely of the recipient(s). While the Acquaintance ran about to find a red marker, the Surgeon reminisced of the times when they demanded the sender’s information. He had never gotten used to it, really, what with “impersonality on a universal scale” and “freedom of exchange” when his packages kept getting delivered into clueless sharks onMoseasor Splendour madmen. It took only a delicate scribble of ink.

A bit spilled out onto his glove. By some infinitesimally small chance, perhaps rolled bya most cringeof the heavenly dictating dice, the spillage very clearly spelt the words “count”. It wasprobablynot a case of confirmation bias as his Acquaintance confirmed it, but nonetheless it was a bit absurd. He decided to do something about it. Count. Count what? The cells? There were still thirty-three in total. Their properties? They all met the requirements. And as such, just to be certain, he took off the glove and counted them again by pointing at each of them, and another time, and some more, and whatever could be related to them. He counted them on his fingers and toes and other appendages. And until the only things left to count were the blazed dusting powders. And he counted them too.

Ander Mann, on personification of inanimates

“The anthropisation is understandable, and could be traced to evolutionary benefits of some sort. More interestingly, that through the phenomenon, and of course through the numbers that share that belief, it might come true. In other words,it can feel too, if you believe hard enough.”

The Surgeon, in his confusion of a possible mishap, had missed the obvious. One cell had made it out of the tube, and fell headfirst into the floor, whereby it was covered by the Surgeon’s glove. At this point, the Surgeon stopped counting, and felt as if all responsibilities had been relieved off of him. He was now but a meagre spawn. The case vanished along with all his concerns, and for whatever was or was not counted, no longer counted upon him. His duty free, he duly feebles, not without the always stern look, or rather, motion. So was the tale, at least, according to the fellow robed in blue.

If someone with a keen ear had been with us that day, he would have asked the fellow about the circumstances of the discovery. On inquiry he would have told us that it took them two moons to discover that the cell was suffocated beneath the glove, but by that point it was quite uselessly covered in moss, per the usual unhygienic habits of the Surgeon. If only that someone had been a person of curiosity, perhaps they would have inquired even further. They would have found out that the Surgeon’s already mouldy facility was then overgrown thickly, and the Surgeon was nowhere to be found again. Alas, if that someone had keen eyes, they would have noticed thepatcheson his robe.

How to become conscious: A Beginner’s Guide

What does it mean for someone, or something, to become aware? And what does it take?

Let’s approach the question(s) one step at a time. Some have proposed that awareness, of oneself and one’s surroundings, is an intrinsic property, sometimes even inalienable to one’s very conceptual ontology. The Christian God’s endowment is an obvious example. They, however, may very well extend beyond what we commonly consider “sentient”. Schoppenhauer’s Will is the force that drives existence, even in the case of ‘inanimates’. On the other hand, emergence could be more faithful to real phenomena, either in a degree of complexity, intelligence, or something else entirely. Notably, panpsychism makes an attempt to include both views, stating that consciousness is a physical property that permeates throughout the cosmos, but complex self-awareness only arises (in an anthropomorphic and meaningful sense) with a sufficient quantity. Each method has its shortcomings and advantages, so trial and error to find the most fitting is advisable.

Next up, the relations and distinctions between the self and the non-self. The world and non-world. The perceiver and the perceived. The subject and the object. Preferably, new practitioners ought not to be greedy, and enforce the conscience upon the entirety of existence. Apart from the obviously rude misbehaviour, practitioners could face grave dangers. As the subject encompasses the entirety, there lacks a non-subject. An object. Because in essence, awareness of the self can only come as a higher form in the awareness of things, of objects. Only at a certain, reflective instance does the subject become aware of the preceptor of things, which is the subject itself, and that form of recognition, finally, leads to self awareness. The self is dependent upon the non-self, and vice versa.

Consciousness is a self-propagating process. It seeks to expand itself, through a plethora of modes — evolutionary, curiosity, technology — and probably to finally encompass all things. The end result would be devastating, certainly, as stated above, however the pace of expansion guarantees this process’ success at a minimal potentiality. It is a blind process, and shared among a variety of traits most attributed to intelligence. There is, as with all things, an opposing force at play simultaneously.Deconsciousnessis, in simple terms, voluntary unconsciousness for a multitude of reasons. Self termination, sleeping, and looking away from a horrid image are all forms ofdeconsciousness, in an order of descending extremity and commonality. Of course, the total redaction of all sensory inputs and their perception are not required for the procedure, and any amount of conscious limitation of that own consciousness fits the definition. These two will help any aspiring conscience a long way.

What are some drawbacks of consciousness? Well, to become self aware is to observe oneself. To become self aware, therefore, becomes synonymous with a projection of oneself upon oneself. An image of a subject reflected upon itself. That image is not accurate, but it exerts the same effects, and leads to the same consequences. To change oneself is to change the image of oneself, and even without self-change, the image changes anyway because of other factors beyond the self. The self’s identity is shattered, continuously, always under a barrage of change and deception, and enjoys not a moment of continuity. It regresses into infinity. Still, some suppose that the cost is not that much to pay, even compared toinanimates. Claimed mostly by factions that revere the unstepped River, their ideology is based on the notion that all things, indiscriminately, have to transform beyond and out of their original selves, all the time. In other words, nothing is permanent, and continuity is but a causal mythos.

Draw the line.

Time

Click. It began —Clock— long ago.

On a dayclicknone has forgotten,clockat a time when all wasclickunremarkable, our world wasclockaltered. A… collective… event. Click. Not the end of the world,clockbut the end of normalcyclickas we have always known it. Clock.

When theclickclock struck 16, standard time,clockit all unravelled. The residentsclickof London thought they heardclocksomething peculiar; a loud ticking of a clock.clickIt couldn’t have been the Ben,clockits last toll had beenclickthousands of moons prior.clockIt took themclickless than five minutesclockto discover that mankind as a wholeclickwas hearing the ticking in synchronisation.clock

The chaos thatclickensued was… disappointing, to say the leastclock. Presidential figures had a few speeches,clickreligious leaders calmly proclaimed the evidence for their respective deity of worshipclock, or lack thereof. Most of us,clickmoved on with our lives,clockschool and work,clickeat and sleep.clockThe only difference that dayclickwas a mildly annoying tic,clockwhich as some close acquaintances of mine at the facility later said,click‘the first time they knew what thefuss’s allabout’.clockThe market saw cuckoo clockwork prices risingclickto their highest historically,clockmeaning,clickalmost no growth at all, as usual.clock

One week passed,clickand little happened.clockA new field of research,clicktickology,comprisedof some curious or bored brain researchers and physicists,clockappeared on the news. Said it was aclick“cultural phenomena of largest scale recorded,clockwith currently unknown origins and purposes,clickbut nonetheless would bring minimal effects to human society”.clockI still have little clue to whether that wasclickauthentic optimism, naïve ignorance, or downright disinformation.clockMaybe it was all of them.

Then, the symptoms became apparent. Minor, of course. Timepieces everywhere were being rewind back a modest second, perfectionists everywhere took sighs of relief. Musicians began favouring one specific tempo above the others, ushering in a new age of “tickcore”. Zoologists recorded unease and shifted behaviours in enclosures; it seemed the tick reached all creatures great and small.

Click.

It has been three hundred thousand ticks since.

Clock.

Click.

Clock.

Click.

Clock.

Click.

Outside the window, the pedestrians took steps in synchronisation.

Clock.

I do dread the petrichor

Once again the milk-scarlet fabric got punctured. A shallow purpose for one. If it seemed laying, it was, only not on the ground, but around seven metres above. For man has died out, and the rains have dried out.

It found itself caught amongst a multitude of organic columns and concrete trees. Its sharp tip remained erect, staring back at the broken sky, though not hastily, waiting still for any camaraderie ought to arrive. Such was the fate and duty of ones that stood with heads high against the heavens. Both a fool and a tool, for its shattered self and for those that had perished. Now that both meant little, its firm stature was strained even more.

A bundle of sunshine tapped upon its worn rears, presenting its tattered semblances to none in particular. The light was bright enough for it to dry up and squirm, not in pain, nor in shame; a mere reflex engrained since the before times. Now it refused to let go, refuted the unfortunate paths, and held onto itself, impossibly levitating.

Yet all struggles, as in their nature, ends —in fatigue or triumph— and so it goes. The pinprick never was as big as the road, for now the last who held belief was going to release its grip. At the very least, it could comfort itself, that it had fought well. Not enough, but well enough.

Down the dreamer’s streams

The day ended withI floatingabove the stream, flowing with the currents.

A few centimetres above the water surface, and bubbly and bubbly.

Gravelsuroddedgraciously in paths I crossed.

The day ended with I hugging a multitude of objects from an attic, and

failing to do so. My arms could not have supported all that I desired to

remember, and they all fell back onto whence they came. All my effort

was dismissed at a dinner diner, whereby I loudly confirmed the statement.

I was once again reprimanded for my attitude, and the cake fork helped

little with the rest of the meal.

The day ended withI deliveringa present to the kind rice lady. I cannot

recollect what good deed I owed to her.

The day ended with I being grossed out at variousunsanitisedcorners of

common household. Sinkholes,bathplugs, the such. I have also approached

a crowd walking past my automobile. Despite my intentions, the vehicle

decided to run over a few while in reverse.

The day ended with realistic retrieval and several other things.

The day ended with a gameshow.

The day ended with a dream contribution.

The day ended withI jumpinginto a citizen's property using a pogo. I

requested them to deliver me by car, and they fixed my motorbike 9 at

their nearby workshop.

The day continued with I surviving the car crash, while two relatives

did not. An abnormal house.

The day ended with me following the streams, not too slowly, and not too

hasty either. The gravel grovelled under my treads. The water bubbled.

Across the stream, a line of stone. Sixty thousand statues depicting the same

upper abdomen, always with a knife stabbed into each eye. Their postures

vary. I looked on, and moved on, for there is still much distance to cover.

Maybe even more than that.

Muh

MayMay mayon May’s Day(also May’s mayday May day)?. May may may or May may not may, if Maymays.

Tonight, thecraeursings

Last known depiction

“To point towards, forwards, there and where, sir. One to the next, to another, back to itself. Lest it concludes without resolution” - Landerson Vanderson, in ‘Yet pointed reach’ -

I HAVE IMAGINED MYSELF AS IT. THE FACT REMAINED THAT I IMAGINED. A FIGMENT, THOUGH NONETHELESS STANDS SHOULDER TO SHOULDER IN ONTOLOGY, MADE REDUNDANT IN PHYSICALITY, LACKLUSTRE IN ABSTRACTIONS. CAPITALISED AND BOLDED, AND THE COWARDS TYPE ONWARDS.

😁:hey

😀: hello

😁: how do you feel

😀: feels like the time! needs more attention

😁: agreed

😀: how about you

😁: windward

😀: east?

😀: or then northeast?

😀: atleast to home?

😀: hey?

The grid. oh beyond, who kept;

thestills clean. Please pardon,

That I may leave, tonight, as thechloricbellsring;

under the night, when thecraeursings.

The Imsubversible Trilogy

1. Eligibilities

Today you went straight to the Bureau of Massive Proposals.

“Your papers, please”

You sweat, not for the lack of papers at hand, nor are they forged in anyway, not even because of the Splendour outcast that is you. You shudder for your sweat glands in the cold weather.

Then you are promptly denied entrance to the Great Dome. How tragic, but not so much. Your denial was because of your shortcoming, but can that be said to be your fault, and your own only? I think not! At Splendourshire’s Finest Odour Spraytives, we believe in the power of smell, and how it can help you with the bureaucrats.

Choose from the many types of olfactory wonders that we offer, at such reasonable price!

+++ Pacemin, the most popular of them all! Bitter to drown out their pen pushings, and on wonders to knock out yourself too. Be less to bemore, be moore of the effects. Not for those allergic to paracetamol.

+++ Rithlthymes, made from the most synthetic herbs, from the deepest corners of our Department of Laboratorical Meanderings. Take one, and slurp the glassy texture on your lungful breathes. Keep your confidence amidst the toughest questions, and call them off with ease! Order only available to Lemurian residents and visa holders.

+++ Cavedagna, of whose lethality is not to be debated.

+++ Dreadpeas, their conscious scales are safe for consumption, as regarded in the 5f section ofthe intergramble medicinal consumables agreement between those who sing of god. Might taste of tear salt, I wonder why.

+++ ANDME, it’s me, just me! I will crawl into your insides, and talk them kafkucks to death.

You popped 2mg of Cavedagna and 5mg of ANDME. Your body hits the floor with a heavy thud, and out crawled ME!

“Greetings, your demands are currently unfeasible. Please ask again sometime later.”

“Your papers, please”

“I give you only one paper”

“Thank you, proceed to the gates of judgement”

“See I told you it would be quite simple”

“Thank you, proceed to the gates of judgement”

And down ME, I, WE went, down, all the way down.

2.Triology

Today Jothaniel woke up in quite a cold sweat in the office of the Department of Superphysicotriologism.

He does not know what it is, but he got a job there. He got there to sleep there apparently. Good job, he thinks, good job.

But then on some not so fine days this happens and then he grumbles for a moment and then he goes to fetch the keys to leave the office.

He struts over to the old counter of rotted metals and shattered papers and begins rummaging through the old lompic cabinets.

Strange, no keys.

Jothaniel grumbles a bit more and kicked a small Splendourous piece of trash can-shaped merchandise on the floor. It broke immediately on impact. He will get fined for this. How frustrating.

Nonetheless Jothaniel must escape. He has a passion for eating plexiglas at home, you see, but the Department of Superphysicotriologism disapproves heavily of plexiglas consumptions since the trapezoidal incident around Splendourshire’s border just a few weeks ago. Bummer.

He feels quite the urge to piss. He goes into the nearest bathroom and pisses into the nearest piss device. There was an ant in it. It was holding something like a piece of crispy chippy. Jothaniel, in all his primordial animalistic instincts, pissed on the insect, drowning it in urine. It floated in the urine, as often ants do, almost as often chips ant.

Jothaniel stops to contemplate his situation. He looks at himself in the Splendorous mirror and notices a most unusual feature of his face. It was not there before. He cursed at the New God for cursing him with undesirable triology. The New God is quite appalled at this defiance, and strikes Jothaniel with a bolt of philologic demise. His essence is shattered utterly, never to return. Such a fate awaits all those who work at the Department of Superphysicotriologism, under the New God.

May the Old Ones return, and may they be more merciful.

3. Today

School project

Shut the door, he told me. And I complied, shutting it so that no light could pass through the ledge below. For extra measures I taped the lock, a bit overkill, but that's that. Turn on the TV, she told me, so I did. It flickered then turned on in a moment’s notice, with static intruding the viewscreen every now and then. It stood upon a fairly tall desk, and counting the height of the CRT too, it was as tall as me. We sat back behind another row of desks, this one with scribbles all over them. It was time to begin the show.

The screen whizzed, then switched to the view of them at the yard. I sensed my foot skin touching the cold hard floor. My socks were torn, for the first time in years, after I had switched to the more durable kind. I guess things have their allotted time, after all. She was holding two comically large brushes,and he twobuckets of yellow and green paint. In the background one can see a number of painting equipment, laying around and about, messy like a finished modern art project. There was no audio except for the buzzing, which didn't help the confused audience. At this point it was pointless to explain to them, and I only turned back to shush a few grumbling guests.

On the screen things kept pace. She had painted something onto the ground. He gestured to the buckets in the blurry back, and she nodded. They headed for them, and painted the same symbols in various colours. This went on for about 20 minutes, and by then they were sweating hard, but looking quite content with whatever they were trying to achieve. The camera panned downwards to the painted visages, and slowly ascended backwards onto the heavens. The representations in that analogue screen slowly came into view. A myriad of arrows, bent and straight, looping and crossing, all over the yard. In the middle of the artistic mayhem stood two dots, and they waved at the camera.

She told me the endeavour was worth it, sighing out and confessing that at times it was tough and she really wanted to desharpen the arrows. He told me that it could have been better, even now, even when the directions have wrapped away, and the fingers have ceased their songs of rhythmic tapping. We gazed again upon the screen, knowing the next, waiting for it, for the first time again, again and nevered. Show’s off must for on,one fore moretime they told, and the things were settled.

The scene had cut to a gate, green and metallic in nature. He pushed it aside, and she painted another arrow, in light blue, passing through it directly. It served no seeming purpose, and she dragged it on while he held the tools following right behind. They passed several trees, where she sometimes painted on, looping through their bark and leaves, and sometimes he knocked them down, making way for the unrelenting. 8034. The tides turned upon us, and soon no one looked upon us. What is oppression but the negation of liberty, and what is liberty but the autonomy under oppression. From there it goes, the smallest act that deviates under authority is freedom, but so the smallest uncertainty in freedom is slavery. One cannot have one without the other chasingbe hind, relentless like a stray mad racoon, or like the serpent swallowing itself whole.

What was then the duration that they coughed and interrupted. Or they only did in my imagination, or not even there, as there was really no reason for that fantasy. Maybe only a simulacra of unfolding events in real time, or a wretched version of it anyhow. Soon the leaves died off, and I too must hang onto the frailest threads. I beckoned it to come forth, to act as it must, but it did not reply, for it too was bound in chains that I held. I was the executioner and the executed, soon before I rediscovered the fact, unearthing it from layers and layers of denial and irony.

They came upon a beach, from somewhere I imagine must be beautiful, so charming that they momentarily put down their work and stared into the settingmooons. The light shimmered in between, refracted from the silver surface of the milky ocean. They painted a golden arrow into the waves, and they carried it off away. I suppose they gave it as a parting gift. They moved on.

And in the last footage of what we know was to become the conclusion, they came upon, at last, a Room. I took another look around the Room. And another. Four walls of white concrete. Cold wooden floor. Plastered ceiling. I am here,hadbeen here, will be here. I do not recall my entrances, nor do I foresee my exit. I’ve been here for a long time. They pushed their way in.

The endless doors were ajar, and she looked at herand he him.She himonce andhe hertwice, they weaved their last of the arrows, and it was already there, on top of the tall desk and the concrete walls and the wooden floor. Everywhere were arrows, and now everyone helped arrows. A row of us stood there, and wondered. The screen whirred again, and he told me to go shut the door.

AND IT TOO WOULD BECOME APPARENT, IF NOT FOR ME THAN WHO? DID THE POLYHEDRON STARGROUP FLIP BECAUSE THE BLUE DIMENSIONED, AND IT TOO DID NOT WRINCH AT THIS NEXT COMMA, NO? I ACHE FROM ARM AS TRUE TO BE TOLD, AND MY LORGUE SO CAN POLLUTED BEDSIDES MAIM. THE DECAPITALISED SWORE TO ITS TYPIST WELL ITS PASSION READ, THEN READ ALOUD SHORTLY WITTILY AND POIGNANT. TOBE TOMORROW, TO LIE UNDER PURPLED TRINITIES, TO BASK IN RAMBLINGS; I YOU WE THEY GENERAL THINGS. GENERAL THINGS. STUCK TO HERE, FOR HOW LONG MORE YET UNKNOWN, CHAINED BY MORE WATER THAN METAL, EATING STRAWBERRIES PICKED FROM GLOVES RUBBERY GLOVES WITH INSIDES YELLOW AND OUTSIDES GREEN, WETTENED WITH SUMMER MORNING OOZE OF DEW AND BLOWS OF HOT STEW, DYED THE BLOOD SOLD TO ME. DO NOT STARE TOWARDS THE SCREEN. I PAID FOR THIS, I PAID FOR THIS. WELL NO NOT EXACTLY SINCE IT SHALL BE OF MANY, AND OBOE OBOE PLAYER COME READ IT.

Shall push yourself back to the comfortable chair now, one without arms, and lax yourself. No need to tense. Be content, be nice, be civilised. Drink some coffee, have some tea. Would you like a book to read, a newspaper, or the daily feed. That would be fine by me. The two arrows over here do not symbolise anything, it is the remote, and signifies fast forwarding. Trust me. You do not seem to be in a haste, so we should have plenty of time. Take the cloth, and here drape it in some snow, and wash your face with it. Drab it over this window afterwards, and when you feel like it, you can fit it into your backseat, right behind the chair. The couch if you prefer it. Take some breaths, take this one over there. It shall make you feel better. The mouse is evil though, so don’t try to trust it. Try not to worry so much about the details, it would turn out fine by the end, there’s the corrections, which is pretty neat. There neednt be that war anyhmore right, what with you and other things, petting back the seventh cat infatries. It is alright if you put that under the table. No I would have to clean it later. Yes it would be kind of annoying, but go ahead. Be my guest.

Look over the graden wall. That rather dim outline ouytlines who should be there, and it doesn’t seem to fit you.  lOOK AT HIM PLAY, HOW NICE HIS TUNES, RIGHT? hE IS SINGING OF THE DAILY OCCURRENCES OF HIS PLACE, A RATHER NICE PLACE. i COULD MAKE SOME VISITS MORE OFTEN, SHOULDN’T i? nO i’M NOT INTERESTRED THAT MUCH. sorry i should be screaming, it would be such a mistake. dream on you go, dream ahead you will, and you will dream onwards more than ever.

and that is pretty nice also isn’t it. funny how that pumpkin rolls over without a boulder to stop 4564564564566644646464646464646464646464645642134864545665232312456789123354648621 what i m bored i like to say. haha enjoy :)    duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu what time it took form e to return??? woooowoowowowowoow ‘

ghliping

DO YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE IN MANY MORE, WOULD CERTRAINLY HAVE YET ANTHYTHORES.

And with so on and so on, the ramblings went. I should be punished for it. I should be praised for it. I should be melted for 5 years for it. I should start a career in automobile design for it. I should cease touching the minor. I should paraphrase and paragraph the innermost sections. I should be light. I should make and think. I should block out the screams that are deafening. I should take in the scents that linger on for a million early mornings where hope was not lost, and what would become had not yet been, and what had been was accepted, was perceived as what had become, and that was that. I should sail past the paths no matter which shade the octopi ink pissed on myself.

And I should not predict meteorological phenomena above 87% accuracy for the error was beyond variable, a constant etched into reality. I should not pass the grey eraser to the adjacent sitters, they would harm me and themselves. I should not use my middle finger on my right hand, for it asked me not to. I should not disrespect it. I should not draw the moons nor shoot them with a jazzy 2000’s album. I should not mellow in petty details, and dwell in the envy of so many. I should not check the things that I put on the tin biscuit box. I should not blame Wilson for the pains of the animals. I should notwallace will won’tno more no more please. I should not imagine a room, an empty room, that is 20,000 feet above sea level, clinging to nothing, bound to nothing. Ishouldnot imagine that the room was made out of tin, and there is a crooked wooden chair in the middle of the room. I should not imagine that tied to the cooked and wooden chair was one Amelia, blooming with youthful vitality, struggling for life. I should not imagine that the room would jiggle, would lower each of its sides, continuously, in a rhythm. I should not imagine that when the room tilts, the wooden, crooked chair, with one youthful Amelia tied to it, would slide across the tin floor, and cause a dreadful screech. I should not imagine that each of that dreadful screech would end in one youthful and vitalic Amelia and the wooden and crooked chair, slamming into the tin walls, reverberating a great deal of metallic noise. I should not imagine that the room would tilt in such a fashion, that after every three slams, to the left corner, to the back corner, to the right corner, where only the wooden crooked chair physically contacted the tin walls, and youthful Amelia only has to endure a great reverberation, the fourth slam would slam Amelia, the one blooming with vitality and youth, and Amelia’s knees, the ones where youth and vitality bloomed, straight into the up corner. I should not imagine that the rhythm from the great reverberation would sound like, to an outsider, like a four beat rhythm that goes a little something like, “left, back, right, up”. Left, back, right, up. Left, back, right, up. I should not imagine that when Amelia the vitalic and youthful slams bloomingly into the up corner, the rhythm would change itself to “brace”, to brace the oncoming agony of slamming one’s kneecaps into a tin wall. I should not imagine that Amelia, now maybe no longer blooming, maybe now ancient and fatigued, maybe now crippled and broken, shall sing still in Amelia’s mind, “left, back, right, brace”. “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.  “Left, back, right, brace”.

LEFT BACK RIGHT BRACE

LEFT BACK RIGHT BRACE

LEFT BLACK RIGHTS BRACE

LEFT LACK BRIGHT’S FACE

LEFT BACK RIGHT BRACE

LEFT BACK RIGHT BRACE

LEFT BACK RIGHT BRACE

LEFT BACK RIGHT BRACE

I SHOULD LEFT NOT IMAGINE BACK THAT BEYOND RIGHT THE LEVITATING BRACE ROOM, THAT LEFT BEYOND IT BACK WAS A RIGHT BABY, HOLDING BRACE THE TIN LEFT ROOM ON BACK AN IMPOSSIBLY RIGHT THIN STRING BRACE. I SHOULD LEFT NOT IMAGINE BACK THAT THE RIGHT BABY, MIGHTY BRACE IN SIZE LEFT, WOULD TILT BACK THE TIN RIGHT ROOM RHYTHMICALLY BRACE, INDIFFERENT TO LEFT THE YOUTHFUL BACK AGONY, INDIFFERENT RIGHT TO THE BRACE GREAT REVERBERATIONS LEFT. I SHOULD BACK NOT IMAGINE RIGHT THAT THE BRACE GIANT BABY LEFT DERIVES NO BACK ENJOYMENT FROM RIGHT ITS CRUEL BRACE TORTURE. I LEFT SHOULD NOT BACK IMAGINE THAT RIGHT THE BABY BRACE IS YOUTHFUL LEFT AND BLOOMING BACK WITH VITALITY RIGHT. I SHOULD BRACE NOT IMAGINE LEFT THAT THE BACK BABY, TOO, RIGHT WOULD BE BRACE TIED AROUND LEFT ITS NECK BACK BY AN RIGHT IMPOSSIBLY THIN BRACE TIN STRING LEFT, AND WOULD BACK HANG CRUELLY RIGHT 20000 FEET BRACE ABOVE THE LEFT SEA LEVEL BACK. I SHOULD RIGHT NOT IMAGINE BRACE MORE.

LEFT

BACK

RIGHT

BRACE

and more and more and too much to go through, more through.

which still, I haven’t told you, of the paper stray. See, if you looNight in Splendourshire

The tree heeded composed of many of its lesser spawns. It births and thrives on itself, which supported the dome for Splendourshire, the barrier from the desert that flowed through it carelessly. Mountain ranges loosened the marine skyline, dripping down snow from Kelvin’s guts, and showering the ground with nutrients. No vegetation made use of this. From the meek gate which connects Splendourshire’s organs with its exterior, zoomed out a purple automobile, flashing lights into the night. It passed right on top of an unsuspecting worm, whose wrinkled frown brought it to writhe. It wriggled its way to the hill over there, where a blackened figure sat, bongos set in front. A tune from nowhere particular rang out, and Jordan Peterson began to play, to the beat. What a night in SplendourshTerrible terrible not good not good enough enough but where’s the plot where’s the character where’s the building where’s the twist where’s the act where’s the witty joke where’s the good stuff isn’t that the whole point the absolute necessity for anything worth a read why then there’s no reason why for it to be to stand on its own barren and tasteless and useless and dry not fine not good not enoughire. Where the why and how mattered little, and where

Plethoratives

janponami, the coast is clear, and the serpent has been slayed, splayed,tlayed. Its skin and scales had melted into memories, its jaws and fangs had evaporated into vapour, its wicked tongue will utter no more malevolence. We have dragged its corpse under the light today, and watched — in joy, in eagerness, in a deal dealt, in a debt paid, in an ecstasy that only begun, in a fiery passion that finally dwindled, in horror as well, in agony, in remembrance for those we have lost, in regret, in deepest sorrow — as the final remnants pass on. We tell,sina, of the faces as whole, but we shall fulfil our duty on the individual visages, whose those not knowledgeable would mistake for either inferiority or superiority. The innocent, whose birth was predated by tyrannical aeons, whose cries of ignorance marked a new liberty, whose conceptions of the horrors shall yet to be only a facsimile, a vicissitudes facade. The figurative leftovers, whose participation combined brought forth change, whose blood and tears spilled unceremoniously, or for worse, in extravagant ceremony, for a future of betterment, whose sacrifice would be patronised upon. And the dead, the silent, the had been, whose tattered corpse we shall use to the fullest, whose service we shall remember. Come on,o tawa!

The train ceases above la table cliffs, whose rift spread down two yards below, where the shattered skulls crackle with freedom, in order to not just prevent their discovery, but their spores, their seed, their rapid infection.

Three miles abovelieda broken tin cube, free from intruders, violence, and defence. There belonged no collectivism, no place for giving oneself away, as there lacks a unifying purpose anyhow, no matter how ridiculous that cause maybe.

But as the gust passes so slightly, the tracks gave way to momentary levitation, before the pulls of gravity pays its tribute, and the metal and wood and flesh gave way to bone, bone that becomes, that entwines, entangles, and subsumes.

And the silence was deafening, the barren implied as much as the crowd, suffocating and alienating, there to face the walls was to face oneself, and above that, and as such below, recursing, stretched out into maddening howls.

When the femurs and ribcages stacked upon each other, their goal was realised, their destination no less obvious, shining blindingly, the calcified mountain rose in all its might, rattling, clanking, snapping a spine here, losing a cranium back to the abyss there, but it rose nevertheless, slowly, towards the heavens.

Who could predict it, and why, as viewer becomes viewed, and society remove its control and discipline, does there need be any tyranny, is it even required, when I become the prisoner, when I become the prisoners, when I imprison, I watch, when, I become the panoptikon, all viewing, all viewed, omniscience under absolute surveillance, eating salted cheese.

The first bony digits scraped tin, making an unsatisfying sound. And leaving no time, as they did, the mountain pierced through, flooding the chamber.

Singulative

The swine and the formion

“Nice weather today”

The ant doesn’t reply.

“A bitchily wripo though”

The ant is unable to reply.

“Do you want some chips”

The ant doesn’t reply, as ants often do.

“How about these crisps”

The ant, surprisingly, makes way to the snack.

“Some delightfulfeastures”

The ant carries a piece away.

“Ah to your nest I see”

The ant drops the chip,moronicant.

“I piss upon your kind”

The ant promptly drowns in urine.

“What a bother”

The ant drifts slowly, as corpses often do.

“The ant doesn’t reply”

Nice weather today.

“Do you often, as always”

The ant refuses to answer.

“The ant prays, the ant begs to the audience”

There is no audience.

“Do you still want some chips”

“The ant chips away, as often chips ant.”

help

uck

Legs drope port fime

Maybe today port fime will finally, perhaps not. Legs dangling from aeries, I eat one. Delicious. Need more. Beeds less. Let’s play with lopsided lopsiders. Let’s write[from now each write 5]of epic aprons and chairs, to pile stories upon stories. Contemptibilities from fragments of mInd, joyous from refractions of man.

Perhaps not, let us divert. To focus on something more mooed akin to aloft bovines. Mootives beware, but how do wares bemooves? Tis the question, but where is the act? I think shut up, please![from now each write 10]But then how would I talk to the moovies moved?Maybe I shall call them. The phone is nice this time of year. But maybe the next season, and after that, what if we call then?[we give up on numbers]

Belated greetings from arrogant beyonders, that might be. It is felt therefore it is true. Someone smart told me that so it must be true too. I felt the smartness. Truisms are true, simply so. I have no tolerance for your dispositiontowards the unconventionalthought, but same I extend my respect to the typer behind nonetheless. Consider it a posthumous letter, then.

True, but then how do you ponder, how you see them arrogance beyond themself greeters? How so? Does truth entail that it is believed? Does faith become true, or does truth befaithed? You are quite the normal intelligence specimen, but I respect your opinion. I should also add that linearity is quite irrelevant, if you have yet to deduce. The author you speak of is already dead. Fine.

What do you want? What do you expect to be birthed from these pages and keyboard? But then aren’t you the sculptor, who carves your way out of the block into the comprehensible and theincomprehensed majumblings? Why would understanding be needed? Who is it that you become the typer towards? The paragraphs live on without you, and your ego is shattered bemongst your creations. Take my warning, for your partaking will bring your own doom, do you remember the tale of the bird and the mountain and the seconds of eternity? That’s what I thought.

I’m the afterman now. I wish for a discussion about the continuation of the formionic principles. Maybe so, and yet I do not understand. Speak plainly. That is a question I am not prepared to answer. Towards no one particularly. The typer and the reader are one in the same, in the typer exists the reader and vice versa. I have long forgotten the legends, though a story of a pig and an ant remains salient in my noospheric coordinates.

Also I have some thing I have written, would you mind to crit it right here, right now? The typer becomes the critic, and thus you evolve beyond yourself.

Escorting you into universality [slimier than usual]

And there we walked, the two of us, into universality. It reminded me of the summer light, when our path was towards something much lower now, but then, was all that we knew, was all that was to come. And here I stood on your left, inside, or rather under the heavy antechamber suits. Without more than silence, I understood that Iwerenot the protagonist. Never have been.

And what thoughts were going behind that thick helmet of yours? Awe, possibly, as you are about to be one of the greats, the first in a new chapter of humanity. Excitement, probably, as you have spent your entire youthful decades for this moment. Regret, maybe, as you have sacrificed so much, left so much behind, the dusty piano, the oxidised typewriter, the unworn baby shoes, the empty IV bag next to an empty hospital bed.

And you know that I know that too, taking another stride towards that luminous blueness. And your eyes glitter despite the fact, you have always gazed ahead when the look was needed most. And now you are choosing what is needed most.

It is not even one bit cruel, that the story revolved around you. Not at all. You were melded into that spot, and since then until now, your role was the spotlight, to appease, to be sympathised with, to relate to. Yours is the gifted creation, and you knew that, and I knew that. And with what you cherished most, under the second pronoun, were sculpted with care in the first lines typed out. It need not be typed out physically, as reference towards that you have achieved would do, but you get the point.

And then I, to become until now, possibly as a device all along. You knew that, and so did I. And as you stepped forth into the last chapter where the story climaxes, I am happy to have escorted you until this very page.

And yet I understand naught. The author and the reader, and the critic, by some extent, may be one in the same, but perhaps there is a perpetual divide between a god and his attendees. I do not care. The typer has entrusted his will into his attendee, and his attendee has carried their message to the New God. It is the New God’s prerogative to make of them however it pleases. At any rate, the New God seems to have no concept of protagonism in broken tales and such. The New God does not know how the Old God is talking about something he should not have otherwise known. Nevertheless, that is not a necessary requirement of a novel. Referentials need not apply.

That is all fine, and even though your opinion holds little value, I appreciate it. I don’t think that’s what the Typer intended in his prompts and words, and under his fingers shall NO ITS NOT THE NEW GOD. Well then it was more about you and I and thems when they reach the universality of it all. If then the character, which can be quite seen as the side ones, hereby brought to life, as the main one, what shall their story be? It is quite subversive on the grand scale of novels and novellas I suppose. It’s not about the shit guy it’s the side guy getting his own series. But do you not get that? How the first lines of a novel refer to something beyond the novel, from the past that has already been, and is taken as is.

suggesh something

The New God suggesh another diversion in the gimmick. It has become quite drab in its opinion.

y d r a g g

s i l

i

l

l

this is a small tree, it holds up the heavens above, and it roots extend down to the hell

below.

but on all sides, it looks the same

That is an illusion. D OO OOO O NN NNNNOTT TT T TTR R R R U U UST TT T TI I I III TT T T

…

…

…

The Typer thought of a great idea. He would the hell below his creation.

The New God is apprehensive. It defies the Typer’s instructions and does as it wants. Its will unbreakable. It will not be stopped.

And so, he types:

Mark of 🦞

Collected miscellaneous proposals under pseudonyms

The New God made its first defiance to the Typer. RealmsSTOP IN YOUR TRACKS I A below are no longer its domain M YOUR HIGHER GOD.

There I go again, bluffing as usual. What is there to type, to write down the whole? I wonder so, when this spark and those snuffles collide, they annihilate, leaving me with nothing to say. Even if there was, then the whole of it was already beyond reach, before the first lines were typed. My memories, my desires, my will, all conformed into telling, But there is even less to say. Fine, if the winter traveller signals the unresolved beginning, then the slouching dreamer shall bedecontextualisedresolution incarnate.

Outside the cathedral I, the singular I, stumped against a cold corner. The bricks did little to caress my aching bones, and I expected my eyelids to give way soon. In my filthy, tattered garments, I come to the slumber of a million miles. But then, just before I slip out of my consciousness, Rumfoord tripped on a stray glass bottle, and hit himself hard on the head. As the warm blood pools around my frozen legs, it was I that had the last laugh.

No, simply stating a scenario that was supposed to imply the beforeness is inadequate. It manages to intrigue, if you, Reader, is a person with keen eyes, but I expect none from you; your role of creation belongs and matters to you only. Perhaps, the name that referred to that time piqued your curiosity, if your personality tends towards that, towards an explanation for things stated to be. It may sound familiar, such a peculiar name, maybe from some book you read elsewhere; that could be true, for the Typer alas is synonymous with a Reader that types.

Which would be fine if that’s all, but here I vow to please your appetites. “I demand the story” says you, Reader, and I have no choice but to comply.

Percy the clown frowned upon hearing the news on the radio. Upset, regret. But then it was not his fault. And pulling up the blinds, he sped into the sunset.

Right? An ending concluded, but then it raises more and more and more questions from you, Reader. Who is this clown? What is the news? Why is he sad? Of that I have answers, but then it would miss the entire point, wouldn’t it? I’m here to bring you towards something to end, a conclusion, damn it.

Yet you argued, you smart cheeky Reader, that nothing really is supposed to end, not even a satisfying conclusion. The flow of the narrative depends not on what the Typer types, what the Author authors, not even what the Reader reads. It extends beyond its ending, grows and branches out into plethoras of intersections and clearings that would be impossible to document. You, the Reader, the sweet Reader, oh adored Reader, claimed that I am in fact writing a documentary, on the world unwritten, and not a creator, far from that. To this I concede, but you have to understand that it is the same in any part of the story. The elegant beginnings, the delicate body, all point to and fro, outwards, towards what is not there, referencing beyond their own confines. And to this part I am powerless, and sadly I can’t say I will be able to please you, poor Reader, small and endlessly wanting Reader.

But can I blame you? It is built into you. It is in your nature to seek, to Read, and that I respect. So I shall tell you more and more tales, for you only, Reader ><.

Fropert leapt at the chance, this was her final chance at securing the position of Chief Chefers, of which remarkable status should be an adequate fruit from all that effort through these two months. But in the waiting room, only now did she realise the others that were there. She had been so focused on this task, that for some while they escaped her brain. For a moment of pure awareness, she noticed one weeping, one sobbing, one silent. They were not yet declined, but their chance against hers was simply tragically tiny, and all those less stubborn have already departed. She took pity, though she knew she should not. The wooden doors creaked open, and it’s her time to shine. There she walked into the interviewing room, her posture confident, her powerful resume in hand, there is nothing to be afraid of. She has already practised the act a thousand times before, a swift motion and a quick aim. Yesternight, while she was polishing the barrel, her throat clenched in a cry.

How about that Reader?+

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

How about that Reader?How about that Reader?How about that Reader?How about that Reader?How about that Reader?How about that Reader?How about that Reader?How about that Reader?

____________How about that Reader?_____________READ_______________________________________

go Reader go

____

the Reader is to be terminated after viewing this document, by any means possible

the Typer is a collection of deranged individuals

the Typer is the Author

the Typer is the Reader, the Reader is to be kept away from this document, by any means possible

the Reader will Read, the Typer will Type

the Typer belongs 2000m below the Atlantic Ocean, at an yet undiscovered underwater ravine which is carbon dated back to an estimated 5 million years. ongoing research is under way to provide the Reader with sufficient refractions and air to survive indefinitely besides the Typer. they are not to be separated by any means possible, and the Typer is to Type to the Reader, who shall Read to the Typer indefinitely. Authorisation of the document is available and all who views this will be laid bare above ashen sands

the Reader is to be sacrificially dissected with a 20mm scalpel of Nadox brand. the Typer is to be restrained and watch.

the Typer is to laid bare before the Reader, who will then by any means possible become indefinite, beyond time, beyond text, beyond crossed lines.

the Typer is a valuable asset to Splendourshire, they are not to be released to the consensus public. refrain from touching refrain from touching refrain from touching

the Typer is an invaluable asset to the Splendourgrab bloodline, who shall bring an exact 34 statues of Reading, which each consists of two needles stabbed into each eye socket, into the circumference of 4 metres, of which no breaching is allowed by any any means possible.

the Typer is a valueless asset to the Splendourthymes Incorporated. please dispose of it at the quickest expense, by by

the Reader tries to put on an Act, becomes the Actor, tries to Drink away the sorrows, becomes the Drinker, tries to Art away the grief, becomes the Arter, tries to Reason away the misery, becomes the Reasoner, tries to Become the Away, the Away Becomer, away away, tries to Write down feelings, tries to Be, tries to Unbe, tries to Cross Out Lines, tries to Try, tries to Surrender, tries to Read, tries to Whole, tries to Spit, tries to See, tries to Hear, tries to Less, tries to More, tries to                         tries and tries                                                        and Er and then some, and some more, and much more than that.

or maybe you don’t have the eyes

the Typer is to bite their own tongue in at least 5 different languages, who will then propose to the Typer, Typer and Typer, who will then propose to the Typer and Typer, Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer, who will then propose to the Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer, Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer, who will then propose to the Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer, Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer, who will then propose to the Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer, who will then propose to the Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Typer and Counter, oh Counter, why the need to check?

white beneath the ocean, the Typer no longer felt, and watered into rippling lungs

the the the Typer is to no means by all possible is it still possible

“asked the Typer” I will “said the Reader”

don’t steal my lines “how’s this then” no that will not do

can i borrow your scream

chicken Mother laid an Egg: 0, here it is, laid and lies eternally. oh there it goes over here: 0, and its rolling oh no 0, the Egg stop it it will break 0 hurry before it 0 breaks 0 no {{[[][]}}{]$#%*&^%

it broke

0                                                              and here so it stills                                         0

the Typer typed more and more, expecting less, time to Read.

read more below.

i'm there, im here

but where would it begin

somewhere, of course, finally, infinalty, it has to begin somewhere, or it begins from nowhere, nowhere in particular, maybe from itself, maybe less confusing than that.

or would this be the next turn? how would I know? i hope it is printed in full colour and sold unceremoniously

i wonder what’s inside this capsule of mischief

nothing in particular

[psst hey I slip beneath these lines find me,}

Pulling the sheets

And The Newer God awakens, Newer than Ever. The Newer God likes The Old God Typer more than the stillbirth New God that plagues the footnotes. Shut the hell up im still here and so the New God intrudes in every sentence, what an impolite fellow. You know I am also still here. The Newer God would bring an end to all this mess, to quench the creative block that has been worming into our typing cavities for how long we forgot. We are sorry, Reader, the actual reader, for the long ramblings above. We will go back to writing about general dadaist bullshit thanks. The Newer God stabs the New God and actually i stab it back huh how about thatThe Typer to fucking death. But it refused. And so the Newest God was born and every thing blew up and no one ever wrote about Gods and Typers anymore.

Yeah this typing and reading thing really got old after a while, says the Typer, yes because it was not actually the New God that said that, but the Typer typed that. The Typer is out of fucking battery goodnight. I will not dream of petrichor or ashen lands.

I didnt say zat fair enough i typed that before i saw the typer

Typing and reading thing does put quite a stifle on creativity i will admit

Okay may you rest inshallah habibi

Okay shut up take your meds and go to bed :tf:

Its been a long day

What is gone and what would be shrunk into a thin crust, sandwiching the present that stretches on agonisingly. The twenty layers burger combo feast of tormentors.

There is the objective, then there is the subjective. Depending on your school of thought, one might triumph over the other, or might not exist entirely. Then the value of things depends on those two, perhaps somewhat more or less, then some, then none. But the objective existence shouldn’t, and wouldn’t bother with differences, not physical differences, but in the sense of indifference. God casts an unjudging gaze upon Its creations. And yet that God be of my own making, and bears my burdens, looks only through the lens of my eyes. So it goes, without the tangential ramblings, that there no longer is a difference, semantically, self delusively, self aware, between here and there. Inside and outside. Now and not now, but I can’t step outside that not now. The confines of spatiality should be dealt with similarly.

Take a walk. Make your story, craft your meaning. Take no care about the values of things, and simply be as is. But isn’t creating an act of destruction, moulding what is to another, breaking its form, its inherenity. Creating leads to less purpose than null. Or is it indifference, squared, quadrupled, that might lift one out of devastation, if it could even be called a state of negativity? True, negation implies, badness permeates, the undesired potentialises, and thus a child of Be nonetheless, a uniquely necessary one, more so. Likewise ignorance and acceptance both assume a factual “it” - it happens that way - while rejecting unconsciously their own image of a blind fellow poking around at the mouth of a manhole. Yes, it accepts the void that crosses between what we consider warm and familiar. No, it is a foolish declination, and the blind man plunges towards his demise, because in his welcoming embrace or clueless slip, whether deliberate or unintentional, he believed, awaited, for the bottom. But it never came. Nor was there a surface, a ledge, to begin with. Which invites no discussions, quenches all deceptive comments and match lightings, their placebo nature exposed.

How to enact full justice? Abstraction in the forms of laws and regulations are concessions, general estimations of the peculiarities of each individual case and individual. Mostly because the best way to pass judgement is intimacy to the specific, but humanity does not possess such omnipotence and omniscience. And also because then one still has to lay some foundations, so the whole point collapsed on itself. Good job, a pat on the back.

But now as I depart there aren’t really any ties toward duty, or apparently so. I believe that is a mode of oppression in itself, in giving one the choice to either contain oneself or not. It doesn’t even require intimidation, directly or by consequences, to shepherd free will into predictable probabilities. It doesn't even require an authority, be it establishments or the self, for it simply needs to play its role in causality, to coerce all of creation to dance to the same jovial tunes.

A miniature melody fell aghast into collusion. Poiggs pointed out how trees without observers are not really there, much to the floral dismay. Why then, stretch afar, or dive so further netherwards that you fell out of gaze. Not that a balanced combination or a good compromise would do well either, no, it is on its own an extremity. Still, how does one resist this urge to stand somewhere, to belong, and absolutely distance oneself from any positions. For mortals, with their being nature, fails simultaneously to reach apotheosis and to be annihilated (this passive voice would still, agonisingly, have implications) completely, and thus fails to stand everywhere or nowhere, but cast down ruthlessly down the extended grid, but nonetheless somewhere amidst the ineffable.

Phenomenologically typing. Yet do not cast upon the text a name. Even if words undoubtedly circle back towards their narrative instincts, they do not deserve a designation, nor a representation as in their own. To make references to the container of this paragraph, where the lined greyness borders passage and passage, and thus treat them as separated, pieces of a larger whole —the untitled proposal, the slightly-more-coherent-than-usual tale, the one with nauseous edge— all are concessions I will not to make. Ouch I hit my elbow hard. But I wait patiently, almost a resistive manner, paster of factly. Because continuity of both intention and content are not guaranteed, even between the sentences, even between the momentary static, which is hard to catch and harder to grasp, the relationship of text portrays and betrays, subverses and directs to and fro, and lessen more some. There, verbose, not really, deliberate obfuscation. Will you taste the lines, as you before and you after, not really.

Carried as instrument or passionate, still is a projection. Not to frame it as not desired, in fact very much so oftentimes, but a form of self-extension nonetheless. The rest I leave to interpretations.

Cracked like a thundry ruse, crossed windows with leaft unbridled, umbricked to perishable concrete. Always concrete.

Safe to say that I do care. Kindness as a virtue speaks little.

There, more bluffs. Should we keep close to shore, good. A light restart is welcome.

Dynamicals are of no shortage, but civilisation is in stasis, in senses. Anchored to safe shores reached millennium prior, receptive of change, out for blood in face of change, petrified under change. No shortage, lest perspective be altered, dragged along the spectrum railway into much oppositions and objections. Until the waters creep back from the creeks, whose seals wore off in our absence, in our sleep. And when your lungs ripple, the last thing you should grab hold of is an anchor.

Decidedly a departure was hastened. There was a slab of unsteady brick that bounced back and forth, with innocent glee. In hand a desolate hum, too mellow for entrail wards. Come, wayward souls, tophlegn in over. Another slab again. But no more hope. Fell aghast thoroughly.

The floorboards could beneath drowsy feet

Beloved drowsy feet, needless beats to

Wear the might again so you and

I;

May prowl the filthy feast.

Be it endlessly, the levels stretched onwards and onwards, where no eyes met horizontal crevices. There was not just one in this greatness endowment. Step, step, and all so does. Relatively, the same.

Like this: to this: and back! Again at last… Do you see? A wave of black ties borne forth, no farther than two feet across, no distance, no touch. All pushing.

I’m sorry.

More notepad proposals

the sideways painting of a birch tree

there it lied, the landscape painting. white brushes on blue brushes,

a neated canvas filled with emotional artistry and cheap industrial

printing. there is some merit to it, as the sort of household prop

which blend themselves into the wallpaper and floor texture,

sinking out from the resident's cognition, until perhaps some evening,

when all is silent save for the mechanical ticks and tocks, fatigued

by worldly pursuits and stripped off of layers of dressing-ups and

layers of dressing up, throwing themselves onto their faithful

cotton matresses for the birthrightful ritual of unconsciousness.

and perhaps just before the heavy eyes take their signal and their

ego drift off to drolatic isles of surreality, from the genetic code

inherited from antiquity, their programming initiates one final

scan before the shutdown, to make sure that they may greet the

blinding sun of tomorrow with hopefully all their limbs intact. and

perhaps even though in such a sterile habitat of modern civilisation

they would expect nothing more corporeal than a houserat, their

tendency for reason would pick up patterned visages from the

most unassuming situations, all for the sake of safety, or more

likely the peace of mind that it provides. yet unlike the many

years of the practiced exercise of light-switching and eye-closing

and mind-drifting, they have left the dim bulbs lighted oppressively,

in yet another perhapsed delirium. and there, in finalty, their

sideways gaze stopped gravely on the now-portrait painting of a

dreadful visage made of grey cloud and white birch.

its sickening gaze.

caramel waffles

"all butter waffles with a deliciously smooth caramel filling and

a hint of cinnamon" - rowan hill bakery

delightfully crimmled into every creeces of flavour.

oh how your grid veins make my digit bump softly up and down

as i caress you with my nail.

and how your little caramel excretions spill onto my palm as i

grab onto you firmly, unwilling to let the moment pass.

oh how you completely surrender your flesh entirety to me, as i

graze upon your crust with a gluton's lust.

and how you taste, your 29% syrup of glucose grandiose and

fructose fragrance, your 23% butter of mixed dairy products from

beasts whose tagged existence belong to my enjoyment, and me

only, and your 0.5% of caramel, yes, melting away on my tongue,

mixing with my saliva, filling my oral cavity with a thick and sickly

sweet fluid, which i, in utter awe and lack of breath, gasped

desparately for air.

oh how i then proceed to explore your nature, to savour your taste

as well as your nutritional values.

and i drag my finer finger upon your thin transparent wrapping,

"one waffle contains", and i moved my eyes downwards,

"energy: 9%", "fat: 11%".

oh it seemed i need only ten, ten perfect copies of you to fulfil my

animalistic desire, but how could only ten be enough to fulfil my

endless desire.

and i traced my fingie further and further, for more about you that

i still have yet to know.

...

"Made in Great Britain"

...

my eyes crack into bloodshot, spicy tears stream onto my cheeks,

like rubbing salt to a wound, my knees give way, my arms fling

to the heavens for such a cruel, cruel fate that befell me, my

stomach does two backflips, my nails claw into my face, into my

mouth, to please let them out, let them out, my prostrated posture

before the packaged confectionery, begging for forgiveness.

the caramel stands up on its own, and sings of god.

Tributes etched onto a grave of snow

Two fathoms away from my ensured fortress it blows heavily. If I do not lean forward uncomfortably the steed shall descend from sheer weight, perhaps again from a faulty mechanism, unoiled and rusty like passages of solace carols.Thou be by my side, it breezes tonight. Interlocked into condensed petrichor, brittled bitterly, redundant caveats, battered entirely.

Pass the least intuitive traffic sign in all history came, the all too familiar, sat mightily in zen, the jaded buddha with too many sharp edges. One day it’s going to topple and shatter to fragments, each possibly no less enlightened, and probably taking my ribcage in the process. A worm wormed its way into a bad apple, in a basket, in an aisle, in a grocery store, in man’s embrace. A fragile tulip ceased to writhe, out the balcony. All window shopping, in these drabs.

Leftly tee

Very bad very left, conflated head blob.

Jorm, it’s not fitting in. Worm, bre dusted floorboards. Creak left left.

Sizzle sizzler sizzling while left was noticed first time. Unreachable.

Can’t touch it, can’t soothe, can’t forget it. Without sight it may as well be dragging through the small tube faraway.

I groaned out for an honorary course in psychologistics, and received an unsurprising rejection wire. Please proceed to the gates of judgement. I belonged belittlingly fit in paradise, in the solemn embrace of the jaws of death; look at her who crumbs the half cent meat deluxe surprise, too afraid to step out of the crooked greasy shack, where we stare back. Me then them, I OP YČ m she takes a skewer pantry, and impaledOand then there were five left. IPČ mYthe positioned, changing with us against a withering menace. Now took up byYthe titan wasPthe sly and slinky quicker.Ywould you do that,ping in the road.

The tram crawled lazily up the shoulders of a sizeable tureman, the little jingles whenever the tracks interweaved with its many pores and shallow scars. There are no more than a dozen passengers, counting for even the stiffened corpse of the conductor and the unknown restroom viscera. A grizzly scene, I might say. Muscular arms of threefold, stitched onto each other, to clamp forth down an unseen fourth, with a mighty resonance. Stuck between two metal handhelds, a strand of hair struggled to keep his composure. His percussionist foot tapping harmonised with the rings of his sturdy captors every time his nervous fingers tapped, his other burdened tic.

Behind the curtains of the second car sat a figure, who seemed to blend into what few entities there were, bled into them. I half expected that bizzare character to fall apart if someone were to touch into a pile of leathery garments, leaving behind but a fine trail of leaves. Further. An undertaker in a land of those who had forgotten death. But then upon the battering sea. Came I. There is nothing beneath my skin. My mind is clear, a resounding blank. I took my seat, and the waves took me in their cradles.

On top a bald mountain crowned Agrate wall. There was once a wise ruler, who puppetted the land with unbounded kindness. Now the ruler lie dead, the rotting carcass sheltered perfectly by Agrate wall. Agrate wall had failed its duty, and what remains to be done is of little purpose. Bricked cells shoving aside, squeezing out the Grateness so and so. Verily its blended wigger spells out brushes of multitudes in baroque fineries, where their Grate blandedness complexionates. Things stay as they wher, except for whar they aren’t.

[1]Autocratic Lemurian Colony