Somewhere, there's sunshine.

2023

[1]: what was left inside a glass jug

take a look how a squished mosquito fell. it fell over, fell netherwards, and fell apart. it did not splatter crimson. it had not feed yet. maybe so.

over the rustling leaves there flew no birds, no model airplanes. one less dry leaf from a branch, one more dry leaf besides my window panes. tonight the winds sang of neither crauer nor god, they are fast asleep. maybe so.

listen. a crumpled up rodent crossed a little street on its little paws. a light switched on somewhere, and it burrowed into some garbage. next morning, someone would find its flattened corpse not far away. it looked as if it spent its final moments munching on a piece of offbrand chocolate. maybe so.

the building nearby stenched of burnt barren and old paint. a mellow crowd, smeared in cold paint. they said he passed unremarkably. following, they exchanged a few words, glances, and currency. it should stay there for some more time. maybe so.

[2]: flies

have you noticed that the trees are numbered? have you noticed that those kids right over there, that's right, next to the pillar, are also numbered?

i opened one box from the stack of plenty. out came flies, one by one, one by one. one by one.

and the obscured part of a vending machine is almost completely hollow, save for the payment mechanism. it is usually stocked with more products.

so this tall green man came in and stood in silence. the cashiers did not ask what he wanted because he looked so much like a cardboard cutout. he left about 10 minutes later.

a group of children pointed excitedly at a flattened rodent corpse. it was funny, i suppose, because rodents are not supposed to be flat.

somewhere a tome of cushions was sucking the life out of someone. it is a hardly known fact, but beds are a parasitic species that feed upon human brain activity and eye hydration. they usually have a large meal after noon.

a man in a gray suit was beating up a man in a grey suit. they had both fed their beds brain activity.

and after one sips a glass of juice some of it remains, etched longingly on the its tips. this can usually be cleaned with soap.

it is a hardly known fact, but flies can not be harmed by soap. the unfact itself is hardly ever thought about. but every decade or so when someone thinks of a fly and a bar of soap, they think "huh, one is clean and one is dirty. so they probably cancel out" before moving on with their life, which hardly ever featured flies or bars of soap.

[3]: evening's delight recipe

start by dropping a plate of previous evening's delight to the floor. no use saving it now.

continue with a prolonged wait. if done correctly, sense and want will be thoroughly purged. being hasty often results in evening dread.

build a dough from irony. it is poisonous but gives you a lot of choices for later on.

crack two dozens of eggs into a bowl and beat them well. include butter because it tastes good.

gradually add seasoning to the mixture. the best ratio is one lost to time and memory. settle for 7:2.

cut up fresh fruits into a nice plate. best served in desolate servings.

wrap everything in thick tinfoil sheets. put them into the fridge.

wait for a few. and then some. one of these days.

where will you go?

where the cold wind blows.

[4]: one of these days

what will you do?

i sit on the side of the road, reminiscing about all the times when i was reminiscent about sides of roads.

a missing dog poster, the edges are worn. i hope it had found its way home.

a car whose sole purpose is to not move from that exact place, to be a prop. the door looked like it was going to fall out on contact.

if on a cliffside late at night one should prepare a pretension to test my empathy, maybe prepare for the fact that im not going to reply.

a bike, too small for its handler, rushed down the beaten path. the steel within knocked into the steel without, rung out.

a pair of pants indicated that they may have stepped where i once stepped. some people get excited about other people stepping in the same place they have before.

a twig straddled far away.

i am lost and found.

[5]: crematorium

the row of blue plastic seats stretched on as far as the eye can get. one long row.

on each chair another sat, looking around, looking about, sometimes realising their place amongst the row, looking and acknowledging others.

i sat right in the middle. all the others sat in their own middle too. to my direct left the another is almost an identical, a perfect mirror reflection, but no perspective switched. to my right, the same goes, though the another is a little more elusive.

sterile hallway, always has been.

dim buzzing fluorescent, always has been.

a dreadful mood setting cliche for dreadful moods, no?

somewhere. a ringing echoed down the hallways.

followed up by the swinging open of a door. and wheels rolling. a metal bed glided slowly, passing by, not disturbed by any nor asking to be. it bumped lightly every so often. on it was a porcelain vase.

it faded into the distance. it was heading towards the cemetery. it was heading for a reserved spot. so it goes.

then at once, all were standing. by no orders, each took a step to their right, taking the former's place, and sat down.

came the ringing again.

[6]: somewhere

there crawled beneath, shudders from bequeathing. i have been involving, revolving with dreams.

the bus stop is some distance away. the bus stops to pick up people who aren't content with where they are, and drops off people who are content. sometimes i am at a place of discontent, so i take the bus.

the vehicle is a shade of green a child would associate with plants and nature. when they press the gas, the smoke can probably kill off a garden.

sometimes when i tread to, the bus rushes fro behind me, then i would have to make a dash for it. it mostly works.

a respectable elderly arrives at his destination. his friendly call of departure is quite curious. is the busmaster an apprentice of the bus driver?

a moglog is a creature whose definition escaped the books of history. some rumours say the moglog can peer into the future, to which they reacted with neither eagerness nor nihilism, nor apathy for the matter. according to some sources, the moglog learnt to become invisible to the world, and also to blind itself. it effectively stopped.

unlike the moglog, the bus is screaming because a restaurant owner has just thrown some waste water onto it. what vigour. it rushes pass me towards the stop, not stopping for a moment. i did not catch the bus that day.

[7]: to catch a spider in its own web

is not exactly the hardest thing, nor does it require much effort.

in fact

[8]

as such she leaves out, is left out from the majority of things that happen. an canvas unpainted, a path unwalked, a word unsaid. most things are left forever outside of her being. she yearned to have so much more time to do all of this, all that time could allow her to do. and yet, even that was insufficient. she would always miss out on things that she did not experience, at all moments. fine then, she wished to be all humanity, all lives lived and will be lived, for all time. all eyes that saw, all hearts that pumped, all things did and thought and ended. but humans are still but another branch. another everett branch within an evergrowing, everspanning tree of possibilities and permutations. and she wished to be everything, anything. to contain all that could or would be, to be the triumphant supremum of creation, and the she would miss out naught. but then she would no longer be herself, and indeed have long since departed identity with any of the prior hypotheticals, but now in this case, she would just be all, but all is all. and thus all is already everything, and she got her wish.

[9]

the block that is worshipped so, engrained itself into the Code of Splendour. the block stood proudly at the centre of civilisation, a physical entity with narrative bounds only limited by the number of minds worshipping it. for the sake of my recounting, let us consider as if the block acts not, moves not, that it remains idle in all sense conceivable.

and let us then imagine when so many more have bore witness to the block. exponentials of the native race, spreading to galaxies far away and narratives far above; travellers and gods alike crawled out of forgotten corners, descended from planes beyond, wandering noospheric nomads and great emperors of rational domains, all came by to grace the block. or not, as not all can afford to pay the toll towards the block, however may that apply: currency, strength, time, local decoherence, provable axioms, retroactive causality, acausal local norms that many may not be comfortable with, et cetera

the solution? simulacrum. blocks in miniature form, in abstracted form, in negated form, in soon-to-exist form, in all weird and wonderful form, tailored to all creatures great and small throughout. now all could glean the block from their eso-palms. the block is no longer "just" physical, "just" images represented within worshippers. the block no longer precedes its souvenir versions, nor does it survive them. all parties demand a share. an equivalent signatorial exchange. paint this corner green, move this section forwards 20 standard years, preserve that area exactly as it is, replace those bits with plastic, replace these bits with exactly the same materials and at exactly the same spots, make this spot look like my daughter's name — it's her birthday. so on.

and what remains? nothing. but before having that what is currently thought a takeaway as is, do consider whether the block itself needed to exist for my account to make sense. or whether its origin justify or dejustify its transformation.

[10]

"if there is any takeaway, let yourself not be mistaken that the world has been replaced by 'mere imitations', 'illusions' as in the platonic sense, or that there will be a great battle to reclaim the authentic, the 'real' world / self / truth, and so forth. no, there is no 'final real world' outside the matrix, there is no 'true self' within, because all had become referential or self-referential. all are reflections, representations of themselves and others, mirrors of these representations. the search for the detached 'real' is in itself a simulacrum."