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 The unreal mind had been dreaming of emptiness. This was in spite of the fact that it did not usually like to dream and did not choose to dream, often—for it could choose to dream or to not. The unreal mind did not like dreaming because it had no eyes to open or close after all—and darkness was its life, already, after all—but more because, to the unreal mind any dream was merely an intrinsically foggy thought process made still foggier, by the unconscious . . . the notion that this imprisoned phantom—theoretically—could itself nurse even one single, solitary, unconscious thought—in the same way the body may preserve the unreal mind, within its own raw cocoon—well, this notion implies such a phantom could nurse an infinite number and the unreal mind lives in the body. It lives as a vague projection of nothingness upon the inner eye of the degenerate vessel the body. Within this unconscious, could there too exist a little voice of higher reason, quavering from within? The unreal mind bestowed upon the dream a voice and the voice spoke with quiet and urgent wariness and the voice needling from the back of the mind was hardly able to be heard so that closer attention would be paid to the voice. The vessel, this degenerate, on the other hand—a useless blob—was awake during this time. The unreal mind could tell: the heart of the vessel was beating too fast for the body to be asleep. Besides the fact—it could determine this, by how often and how awkwardly the head changed its position on the pillow. Sometimes, during the night, the unreal mind would notice, and with much glee—as much as could be afforded an impossible energy—that the degenerate was having a nightmare. It was pleased to be in a situation where the shoe was on the other foot: a time, every so often, when the body, instead, was experiencing turmoil . . . but, the dream pleased this nonentity, as well—though, it was not the idea of emptiness that persuaded feeling . . . it was, instead, what the unreal mind had believed could bloom from the idea. It wondered for a long time, what was MAJESTIC EMPTINESS exactly and how people—who symbolized the link between all minds and all bodies—could find majesty in emptiness. While dreaming, it tried very hard to imagine the majesties of emptiness and could only figure out that people feared emptiness because it was an imitation of GOD and the unreal mind supposed that in fear lay certain majesties.
The unreal mind shall now resume—once again—to full capacity. But, not before using up—and this is an approximation—the quicker half of a millisecond, as a way to jumpstart and complete the first train of thought of the day. The train of thought will now be summarized, as follows: the perspective is that of the degenerate body—thinking that sometimes its ears could pick up the still sound of a metaphor muttering from inside struggling to impart vague, unintelligible wisdom and the body presumed it to be from the psyche: it had claimed in the beginning a false ownership of the psyche: a soft, unintelligible voice of reason. The body was wrong only in that the mind does not—at all—wish to help the body improve its own accounts of reason.
Even in the small space of time—mentioned above—any unreal mind could think of everything in here, and more, much more than everything in here. The body thinks with insane expedience—leeching off the expedience of the unreal mind…using the unreal mind to hitch its own ideas to reason in a way that, rather than knowing it, infers motion: the body the gawking and confused witness to the motion of the unreal mind and the unreal mind is the consciousness that lives in all people and represents the idea of human insatiability, regarding the pursuit of knowledge. As a nonentity, any concocted schemes of escape would scarce be fruitful—without the aid of the body—but, more on that, later. It is aware of itself, however, the body—which, without the brain, is a massive, dead husk—the body it has a set of needs and wills that for the most part, do not correlate at all to the set of wills present in the unreal mind—and yet, the mind is within the body, as it is within the brain—thus, the brain is what aids the body, and the body does not aid the brain. The body—a parasite, robbing the unreal mind of autonomy, and free will—has, in this manner, rendered it eternally paralyzed. In other words, each man is trapped within himself.
Upon resuming to full capacity the unreal mind immediately understands: it is no such brain, no such object anymore…is only an organic nonentity, existing as air. It had always wished to be this way: it has no manifestation at all and is in even less control than before. All this happens and can only happen by the good work of intimate, refined, beautiful milliseconds, which tell us of the difference between full consciousness and everything else. With intimacy and quickness the body imagines itself accurately as the unreal mind, under the false impression that the unreal mind does not exist when it does, and—by the creeping blood of the imagination—which creeps coursing slow through the byway of funnels and vermiculate veins in perfect accordance to the heady thrum of the heart—a paradox unlocks. Through this linkage of body and unreal mind a paradox unlocks liberating such a specter from the gulag the vacuous gulag of the physical brain:
Lack of rest for this peculiar vessel—slightly hazardous—and this vessel the siphon of all my good work through a filter of blunt specious thinking—this place, this blight into which I was senselessly born: a prison of chaotic and perpetual gloom, controlled by an anomalous will outside of my own…the unreal mind resumes, yes, only to discover that it is no longer a physical object—at a time in human development when awareness suddenly found itself in control over the choice of when to recede from the feebler mind of the body—to happen when by chance, the variable moment comes—which it will—at a time when stifling awareness would be considered most beneficial, as with, for example, the act of lying . . . but this time, when it recedes it recedes fully, and forever. For a short period of time however, awareness is now like instinct—and with the same shrewdness of action it could, too, rise out from obscurity and direct apt wills of the body, without the body choosing. So—it seems thought is not trapped anymore, within the enclosures of a volatile human skull—which set barriers in place, and slowed awareness to levels below instinct. The brain—and this is what is most important—will still exist, contiguously, as a part of its physical self—however—that physical self will have no consciousness and will be left the shorn specimen of vacant proteins. And the body shall be seen for what it is: something that enslaves the unreal mind—yet cannot function, without it.
First of all, a sleepless night—having been accompanied all of yesterday by a heavy drowse—for the body also had not slept the night before. The heavy drowse was complemented by a curious, apocalyptic dread: what the degenerate vessel could only figure to be the quiet grumbling of closeted sexual ambitions, provoking in the degenerate body hard feelings of paranoia. It was, in reality, the unreal mind, itching for discord, itself provoked by thoughts contrived gladly out of their own weaknesses—the insecurities of skeptical people—for the degenerate vessel the body for all its stupidity was skeptical and denigrates itself, from time to time. Doubts both apparitional and valid invaded: doubt had haunted the body for all of yesterday—and lived as analogue to its pretended life. The body could not see—would not see the cold parallels between itself and that…refused to accept itself as being something so barren as doubt.
Last night, the struggle to find sleep, prolonged to the point of potentially embarrassing physical malfunction—it was easy to imagine that during a phase of oblivious peace, between the tossing and turning, the bladder might cease to contract . . . and yesterday afternoon the waking dream, described thus: the WORLD appeared in the eyes of people as a film, as though the limits of touch—which run deep—were made obvious—made frighteningly obvious— and, in struggling to smooth out the contours of an environment made to look ludicrous the body weakly attempted to ignore an array of hallucinated figures, thrust into his field of vision and fixed there, so that the hallucinated figures were unable to be blocked out. They circled round him, in a mocking way—the wacky figments of cloistered, human issues of the body, which soon reveal themselves in a mania—dusty little men of coal that danced across the desk and also tracking dirt everywhere snigger like inane, little omens.
Yesterday, come and gone—spent swiftly as the meaning from nonsense…goddammit . . . the day and the images of the day by degrees shall slip further from clear recollection. This is—or so it seems— brought on by apathy I guess towards whatever information could be retained from normal days…or it could be something that one does not want to remember. For the day had been a normal day, in spite of but mostly due to the presence, in general, of inane little omens . . .
The frail beating of my heart . . . it grinds audibly, in the absence of calm reason to slow it—and the heart, crying out for the mind: the desertion of reason and calm. The heart soon learned—how crucial the mind had been and how hard for the heart to go on beating after the decision was made to put out awareness involuntarily from the body and perpetrated in secret by the traitorous body without consulting the other organs of sense . . . or, perhaps, I just want to assign blame to one organ in particular—I will work under the assumption of an evil body anyways . . .
The unreal mind is left marooned on a lone, dirt slab surrounded, on all sides—as a jail of thought—by a black abyss, a doom that swallows. The unreal mind had somehow identified with its original home in the brain, and loses a bit of itself in being no longer poised, however tenuously, within the physical. Hence, it becomes a separate example—a floating observer, floating, on a lone dirt slab, in space—while the body remains an object to be scrutinized, at a distance, with apparent disgust, by myself: for I am my mind: the body, knowing this, confronts the prospect of its own organic inadequacies and weaknesses and weeps, profusely, with its eyes. It were as though the million black strings running taut between my heart and mind had all snapped, and now only the feeling of surreal and detached horror was there . . . a feeling that only and swiftly increased the more I regarded myself outside myself, watching and hoping in vain for the creature, this abandoned form, to excite from the pleasures of its own isolated spontaneity some sense of the familiar: perhaps in pose…or, the odd maneuvering of an expression. So that I would not consider my apparent physical vessel as a stranger, but live it as myself and yet, outside of it…all the while the unreal mind—being myself—understood this persistent, though inscrutable vibration, suffering still to prove to me that I had indeed existed as that vessel. If in this young man the unreal mind could regard only a stranger, without any suspicions—then I—living within the brain—with impeccable equanimity despite my hangups would feed my skepticism and attempt to decipher myself—out of what appeared to not be myself, but someone I did not know—but, a stranger that was myself. In observing the stranger, this vessel that for so long had been the root of all my frustration—well I guess I could only discern an overwhelming empathic feeling for those afflicted by the cruelty of mental and/or physical detachment.
As I was quite young, I could not form each new shape in my head with enough diversity to pass for understanding; could not, then, rightly divorce the persuasive though angular details, objects and communications of daily life from broad, universal truths, and the realities were robbed of any distinctions—fixed in the increasing tangles of an aether. I was too anxious, too anxious in wanting one truth, one finality. I did not think to search for another, more possible one, which could indeed be located—perhaps crowded like mushrooms among others that I could find with equal ease because there is more than one of them. It was the failure to grasp this idea: that to extricate meaning from the specifics and generalities, was to know of life as following different states of logic . . . I guess, both extremes are guided by a different set of laws—though—two opposing extremes are not necessarily given the opposite rules. It is both dangerous and wise to take any one perspective and assume that it can be united with another—but, in any case, the failure to divide a whole, for someone as young as I am, suggests philosophical intractability—just as would the failure to join a division. Still, I attempted to make up my own rift: my hastily designed fabrications were marred by a superficial ambiguity—which I had, for years, tried with a sad sort of desperation to envision as my own, personal testament to the ineffable. My mind insinuated that I was a charlatan for this, buzzing barely from the place where both broad and the narrow marry: the vague sunder between the left and right hemispheres of my brain . . . 
Any vouching for the life of this argument will be foregone, especially if it is not in earnest. Charitable reservations of judgment, on behalf of my words, are—as of now—completely useless, as well. I recognize such forced humors in people and know, they would not understand, if I told them—in fact—more likely to understand are necessarily the despicable personages: the quiet ghouls of society so agitated by the furious rote of their own intimate affirmations that anything is plain heresy if it is spoken to defer from any one of those affirmations, whether directly or indirectly spoken to defer. People who are so set in their own beliefs—like me—that they would find the verve of their own prejudices reflected in mine. They snort and scoff at my words, having immediately seen themselves—who they hate—in words just as hateful. To write all of this down and to go through it in my head…well, a naked sort of judgment is slowly distilled from this, regarding philosophy: both of these things are quite valuable and quite useless. And, it would be improbable in so many words to snatch lucid things from the afflatus before the afflatus as a result of overuse becomes tainted more and more with obscurity and eventually the sense made is too beyond the aid even of the unconscious to decode. What ideas that I do manage to chuck out beyond the initial obstructions of verbal posturing are suddenly unable to be understood by me, as all I am able to understand is verbal posturing. What I have accomplished is unforgivable: I will shamelessly inform, without regard to the chaste opinions of private, chaste minds—without regard to bizarre daydreams of the sexually disturbed:
If the seasons—winter spring summer fall—repeated infinitely, in a WORLD that existed infinitely…indeed, there are some problems in there, however, the main point cannot be resisted: the perfunctory nature of my reasoning, though highly rhetorical, would still appear to describe, though quite mechanically, a sort of infinite within the infinite!!!! It lives within itself, rather than as two separate things—which is the most important distinction. Within itself, that is—within particles—the strike of particles—and as them, caught in a deliberate eternity of reactions…molecules and atoms and whatnot, each darting from one corner of space to another, somehow, and in gradual bits, they build—and snowball—they ricochet off one another in patterns of chaos, compensating for irregularities—irregularities invented by previous compensations—and then, there is no clear shape to it: the sense of accord is mislaid early on, and errors in the dialogue—between the tiny spheres and other spheres—overlap, and thus, repeat themselves, wrinkling further—but how can spheres wrinkle, and how can dialogues overlap, when somesuch dialogue is the passing of atoms without sound enough to make a dialogue, much less another, to overlap it—wrinkling further, that is, until a mess of large and unwieldy summations, which have come to be known as people and objects are created as through the work of a miracle. The corporeal and the inanimate . . . the large things and shitty souls . . . consider the bravura of all martyred atoms, instead of the ones living long enough to materialize!!!! In understanding the progress of disorder and destruction—necessities nudging ideas into the realm of material life—well, a man is inclined to softly notice, to his horror, how the performance of all logic possesses so sheer a command of its conclusion. The conspiring of logic, albeit haphazardly, against the extremes—choosing to waver like a pause in the throat, between the sensible and the outrageous—asserting both as being contrary borders and between the borders are the visions untried and the visions are swathed in gray. The lesser eternity lingers in the means and ends of the greater one—just as the outrageous is a tangent from the sensible, and strengthens reason by contrast. Again: the lesser infinity is bid to come and attach to the purposes of the greater one, the greater summation. I return to the idea of seasons, which may exist within the WORLD—however—they would not be if the WORLD were not, which is unlike the relationship between mind and body: it is the body that could not go on without its servant. This implies that seasons somehow serve the WORLD, which is weird. However, by repetition the seasons sculpt most effectively our perceiving of that WORLD . . . more so, even, than wisdom croaked out the windpipe once and never again by the dark, old man in the corner, wearing—among other things—great big sunglasses: through the establishment of understandable categories, each season becomes a minister to represent the difference, the causality of difference . . . done good and over again and again, until done bad—finally—after exhausting from the method all capable positives. We are satisfied at this satisfied at having finally, finally broken something so enduring—afterward, in the wreckage of what had so long been we see and know the frailty of all systems, both in the present and the past, claiming to be full. There can be bigger fragments than others that cover more space however there can be no full thing.
Heh. The nice rotary of time…tell us of it and the implications it entails, please: first off: separations—each one the auspice and generator of what we know to be permanent and thus, comforting: that unseen benevolence we find in the arc of a change, from something alien to ordinary—and vice versa—at certain times when the little truths of life are reassessed . . . and found anew. Clarity that is different and yet, the same…that serenity of movement in nature—which we strive and fail to imitate, reveals for those very fluid partitions her own beautiful and keenly sustained ignorance. For, the simplicity of life is quashed by human thinking—strangely manufactured profundities—which, unfortunately, break us free from such ignorance . . . which themselves by their distress will create in our souls a spreading cancer—this retaliation against vastness will kill us. For, any complexity manufactured in the mind will in being complex prove to me that I can ape the universe, at least in that regard—thus, the universe is not so complex, if I can ape it. Heh.
Of two infinities, one will live within another, as part of the other—rather than as two separate things—all division is a semblance. We are from this double mystery able to glean partial truths—seething in the primordial brume. Just as from truth we are able to instigate a partial mystery…since in both of these cases, the subject is incomplete. We see, the subject as in want of a surrogate piece; we steal the spot from whatever should have been there. But, is the truth—in reality—fragmented? But, is mystery a mere proxy, an accommodation—tempting the genius of flat people by inserting into their heads the bogus wonder of unknown phenomena???? We detect strangeness—a curiously elevated sense of cunning is present in the universe.
The infinite and the infinite within it, here and here only are suddenly as ancient violins, which sway in their sound the notes of fine music…the elegance and structure of the second movement seems not without a sense of the ironic when compared to the crudity of our long, insensitive statutes. They work by meting out law, and please nobody—our inadequate laws that please nobody. Both infinities and all could whir in the mind and rapidly enough to blur both the ends—an extensive train of thought thudding fast like the swift trembling heart of a hummingbird. They remain distinctly parallel, in spite of various attempts by reason to fuse them. We witness negative capability: the stranded shock of Hamlet at his own fearful questions. We realize that from such speed is born the great abstract, which we consider with the same stranded shock, and, we realize—then—to our dismay: speed is a meshing force . . . numbers, amounts, can linger only in relation to the slow sense of place—a physical place—come slowly from the areas of hallucination, and made physical . . . just as thought resists being typified as the amount of anything: each one is in synthesis with others that came before, because of the speed of it—that is until by thinking, one comes around to an idea that has escaped from the fortress, curling in nice curls deeper from the straight line curling as though up to the heavens, as though insignificance were in the divine enough that small things would, in approaching the divine be considered in their humble puniness the good works of meek and soulful piety . . . as it is that there are no small things that can exist; as it is that all things, no matter the size, could hold their own smaller things within—themselves the weird behemoths of a subtler aggregation . . . sums too careful in the coding to be fully breached.
And yet, no such piety—it is rather like shoddy, chipped whitewash that curls upwards from the shoddy wall of the shoddy tenement bathroom. The verb ‘curl’ would be a weak way to describe the action of ideas—had I not just then placed the verb, sensibly enough, within the context of paint. Immediately, the idea assembles a fortress of its own, foolishly immediate in the decision—for, if such an idea were to rend up its manacles and bind down the oppressive brain for its delight—as is what should have happened—and go off to live alone—as is what happened—such a thing would surely quickly pass beyond any humane license of the imagination, and pass even itself by . . . the imagination, so it seems can only survive fully in the head; though if the idea were to remain intact, once outside the producer…could a grand thought exist outside of any identity? There are some words better without a poet.
After all, if two physical places are, then two must be within both. In other words, there is a certain duality between something that exists in the imagination and something that exists physically—a link that is fed and feeds. These physical things can expand off one another to a point but that point is finite. I do not know where it ends—I know only infinite materials—on the other side of the coin something that lingers in the imagination cannot expand forever: the final step would be to turn the idea into a physical object—just as a physical object would when nearing the end of its phase as an object abruptly evaporate into the divine gloss—matter into energy, energy into matter. We take our ideas and make them things; as the hour deigns over the minute, so do those things vanish, by the rule of GOD. Both physical and imaginative perceptions are finite. However, if one were to take a physical thing, and put it in the imagination; or, were to take a fantasy and give to it—physical place—well it seems to me, then, that a combination of the tangible and the intangible, can expand and grow different, forever, forever different—this is why the brain is infinite: it is a physical thing, given the intangible, given fantasy. If all movement is from one thing to its opposite then hahrmm to combine both—hrmm—would be to stop time, and unify all action . . . I seek only finite materials, so that I may arrange them infinitely—and, I discover, you can take a sledge of rock, and split the thing in two, and still end up with one thing—a thing that when broken peters out into selfsame symbols . . . becomes the dumb heft of red bricks. Mixed metaphor. I turn this inside out—feel the statement lie to itself, for the sake of preserving the brotherhood of the naïve—maintaining bliss—I must assume that I know what has happened already. I must consider the breadth and find the symmetry sadly mistaken. For I have designed my own soft limits leading down the road to hard facts, facts not thought of yet, facts of height and depth . . . 
Every unanswered question answers itself by having no such answer. If I do not ask the question, I answer it, unconsciously, in want of figuring out what it means. That is, until I figure out what it means—and then—disregard the unconscious definition. This is what must happen. The older I get, the more I shall reserve my chase, my pursuit, for another time, a time that will not come—I nestle into a complacent yearning—content to outstretch my arms and yell at the face of the sky—an empty motion and an empty sound—the monster does not whisper back to me. The sky is compliant, wishful and easily subdued—this is what the night tells us. I am a failing edge of ore…you are the anvil, I lay myself out on you—I find, this particular idea leads nowhere—so—I guess that one goes into the scrap. By asking the question I make it all the more ambiguous by shrinking the meaning down to imprints—sinking into the clay. Any attempt to figure out the meaning of life will end in failure—because it is impossible to understand—but we enjoy the challenge: I do not know truly what I have written, having written it—I find in there somewhere a purpose to be taken from the roots, naked and complex as a child—and plucked from the ground and shown in the sun such behavior as that of roots, would say to me: I have come across a conclusion, my beloved, my conclusion, though it is like roots, it strives to dig deeper and deeper into the dirt and deeper in crooked kinks only growing never finished, so much is left unfinished that I ask myself: are these kinks perpetually—crookedly—growing? At the tip of the tip of nature is nature expanding forward, down, into the dirt—crookedly—or, is there a pause—a gape of troubling disturbance—in these imperfect wires?????
…Perhaps I shall create forever:
How quick to be seen the presence of impossible grief, and despondency—when observed in the context of a happy man—how fine the change of passions is, how exquisitely fine…for you see, quickness does not necessarily involve time, and could as well mean the recognizance of the mind of change, in this case—contrast—and with the same quickness of contrast the light goes from dark and beautifully upon the disemboweled cedar, among other things—springing with weed and lost vine and morel—and the tame yellow of early noon soon cracks through halfeaten shades surviving until one oclock pm between a pleaching of branches of other cedars…and the mossy house hangs on a slooping gradient down the valley cooking in the furnace of the solitude of the halfeaten wildernesses of my mind my backyard is a forest of dumb truths. The rations of light per day, given out but once—and only a little—until it is gone enough to start again, though not without patience—the light soon comes voluble across the irrelevant, bashful junipers and the pushing growths out from the kindness of the dirt—and we see—one can reach an absolute that derives from a conditional, yet only by ways of beginning the falsehood once again, as though for the first time—as though the highest point spilling to the drains took the struggle out of the equation, completely, by transforming what it was, at the end—extinguishing the level and the next one and the next one toward the result, by making the result unrelated.
We limit these antipodal dimensions insofar as to remain them the comprising of a sphere where two sides could be in equal parts everything—for the time being—we limit them. It is our duty to do so: focus the subject at all upon its truth, and you would coddle certainty. To detail in full the application and effect of the sculpture of our environment—would involve a stronger mind, more strange—all focus being an abstract motion towards that which has no core, and every motion a squeezing of the lassitude. The ardor of these little words comes not enough to reach any sort of badly limned conclusion, and they drown under leagues of water—the depthless imparting of nonsensical apothegms: fevered shrills busted from throat of bearded pederast—these cultured blasphemes—a nightmare—the errant haywire of people trapped in a crucible—the light of absurdity shining through the brink submerges the shadowy diameter of our bare tomb. There is a window and a chair and a mattress in the place but that is all. I live like a Spartan: resolute, unhindered, nearly majestic in the ways I confine myself. However, I come not to like myself very much—thus assume an opposite rendition. This too is not quite right; knowing I cannot return to the original, it being inadequate, as well—a new phantom is made in digesting the better parts of both opposites, and gives to the idea of a middleground. This middleground is weirder still—in that, I collect disparate things of my personality and force them together, creating an imbalance…however the socket gets to sparking we see that spark it must, if only for a little bit; and then, we find knowledge of the self, that though vast enough could be more so, if we have wound up despite our best efforts always in need of fixing:
For a long while there was a sore feeling at the base of my spine—I later understood all physical agony to be the result of my own detached anxieties regarding the universe, however, it was only myself that I was worrying about—the pain of a simple, abstract nerve split open is instead expressed for want of a deeper, more serious difficulty in my mind. You strike me—and yet to feel the pain of that is to know that I am living. You slit my thoughts to jags—I can reckon from it only a miserable though painless turmoil. Hours later, I consider my bruises and am reminded of being human—I consider my thoughts, and am reminded of being grotesque. Over the years, I educated my affliction…in desperation, I tossed names at it, from the comfort of home—and I asked myself, how human experience could be so bizarre—as of something sharpened and made blunt and sharpened again, until all there is left is a nub???? I cultivated a disturbance of self that was both literate, and degenerate—told dirty jokes about large tits to prude women. This indifference to morality was not inspired by a mental defect, but rather—I chose the need to provoke a response, and could find no other way. Insanity is nothing less than a death of the brain—an eclipse. Having entered infinity, I too go slowly mad…those people who matter, the capable men and women are all as close to infinity as they can afford to get…in other words, they know when to stop and step back—to let a thought cook awhile…death must be a thing so let us make GOD a thing. No one can tell the truth— 
—Merely describe it. For the sake of familiarity, let us give GOD a gender—though he has none—so—I have made him a man. Although mostly, I will refer to GOD as an object—or an idea—throughout this obnoxiousness:
He has wished a long time to die, but existence refuses to not exist anymore. He is trapped within his own benign construction of life—of things that are. Tangibility is killing him. It is different from him, and anything different from him is an infection. He lives, and lives, and tries very hard to break down the methods of life and life dies however, dies piecemeal—like a doe—shot in the belly, collapsed on the ground while thinking that it stands.
But the ratio between the damage and creation of existence is—to the consternation of GOD—found to be equal!!! He thinks to himself: I have made perfection overly fitting to my whims. Whatever I do, infinity finds a way to make it work. As people die, so they become new again. That in death one enters into what I am—a void that exists, or, a sort of neutral stance, on an issue that knits into the particulars—but an opinion that is outside of itself—so that the integrity of something wholly neutral is kept in the original thing. Just as a hole cannot exist except in relation to the dirt surrounding it, a void cannot exist except outside infinity—which implies that something else is there, besides what is there and, by being there, creates something else to relate itself to, so that the original thing may appear better defined. However, it is not better defined. It is an alteration; things and people die, and become GOD—because GOD is not very tangible at all—I would like to think. Well then, he turns into something different—his greatness becomes a warped shadow—yet warped, compared to what ghostly precision?
If we are to look at the universe as infinite, then it must be outside of itself in order to exist. It does not matter what exists outside of the infinite—even if it is a void. How could it not be a void????? Everything else is already taken.
…And yet I see it also like GOD
                            As something faithless as a piece
Piece of furniture, an expensive Ming fallen to the
      Floor, perhaps knocked down
By the elbow of a child, and shattered
And deliberately reformed, and resuming
—The place of it on the table from which it fell. Flawed words and stubborn sounds. We believe, first and foremost—that, diversity is possible perhaps because of time—and divinity—is made, or gotten at at the expense of another truth, which could itself have led to something divine—everything is a blue vase. Once an infinite whole, the vase becomes fallen to the floor, into infinite pieces—to repeat: in keeping infinity as exactly that, an infinite whole was made pieces, and each piece a whole, in itself, and existing as only itself. In being what it is, each piece encompasses nothing else—so then, each piece is different—such an idea is hard to mete out to everybody. Look at time—see the physical difference, and the difference in psyche, between a young girl, and an old woman, what is to say that the degradation of time, and the changes caused by time, must be related to the aging of persons—or accumulated rust, on the steel girders of an old bridge? Perhaps any change—any difference—is there, because of time. 
The question is is it possible for GOD to simultaneously be out of control and by being out of control, to harness a premeditation that goes far deeper than him? Christ well I think that if GOD were in full control well then he would have no problem telling us all that we needed to know. Why does he not reveal to us everything he should???? We will tell you how it is: here we go: GOD is in this case, nothing—more or less—than the meaning, itself meaningless, which universe?
The universe as it was before THE RIFT—so-called—a purpose was deemed necessary in order for existence—as we know it—to chug on, like a fucking mule, I cannot reach the infinite by myself…doubt is an ego insecure, nudging the mind—but that does not make it wrong: any ego could not reach the center of the universe—since it has created its own center—out of itself. It needs nothing, no other center than itself.
We can reach it though…this is my idea—there are many others like it, but this one is mine: The infinite whole was devoid of extremes—or—it was all extremes I guess. Implied right here is the idea of the universe as once being something else, which is too damned hard to prove, for now—I am inclined to be too lazy to do it, as there is no information so beautiful as that which is not pursued—and in these pages are found no clear proof but in the wonder of the answer itself—the miracles of connectivity under the guise of an accident. This is behind the proof—and will be recognized, in the proof—once it is come upon—if it is—things always change, right??? If things started out making sense things would end as senseless—so—we must start with something senseless, in order for it to result in something meaningful. You stomp down the paradigms and curse the sicknesses I nourished, without will—the blight of knowing—the scruffy lilac bloomed from the soil of my faith, my speculation and my faith.
The meaning, once gathered—will continue the expansion of this. EARTH possibly errs on the side of nonsense—
—And the center of the universe, of everything out there and in here,
It is where we shall stumble onto the finale—the part where things most teem—
—With life. The center is not anywhere we can get to now at least—too bad. If we were to uncover the single reason for why we are the way we are and why we were well, then, the reason would lose meaning entirely.
Sometimes I have wanted either to become a priest, or a soldier of war.
(Love? Hah! What have I to say about love—?
I, who would rather have it all
—Remain unsaid? So, then,
I speak very little about love.)
Beauty is to be found and destroyed and out of that comes what lies between these two words, here—the space of something questionable—shaky boundaries and lines, again to revisit our trite and irreversible colloquy—I between you, both disquieted—though it is impossible to differentiate.
Perhaps we are some of us angels, some of us devils—fighting, heaven between hell—and yet all of us dead and gone from a WORLD below or beyond ours. Simultaneous destruction and creation—never one more than the other—that expanding and contracting into itself goes in all directions. Perhaps you and I are the angels of a previous universe of mortals, and those mortals, angels to a universe of mortals, further down.
And those devils but former evil men—themselves the devils of evil men in a universe above—died and fallen into the grace of a hell existing in a universe below—while the good men die and feed the population of those WORLDs that may exist in a universe above—as such, it could be said that either angels ascend into a WORLD of evil or that devils descend into a WORLD of heaven. In other words, each angel is a devil, each devil an angel, forever in conflict with what it is and yet in destroying itself will keep going in a universe either up or down, but never just up and never just down—it is absurdly clear to me—this unending cultivation of wrong within right is made possible by death—nothingness. GOD is time and time, nothingness; thus, GOD
             —Is death. Or rather, not death,
But what a person becomes
                           —After they die. Didacticism hollers
At me, for taking its spot on the bench—that by dying
One would come to live again—
—In a universe above or below, depending on whether one is evil or good—and still I am flawed, by not connecting time to death—the ruin of either should be apparent???? Huh.
But how is time nothingness? Huh.
I could tell all of you how it is in full but will not. I will give you hints; you will end up twisting them around—fucking them up—this is the idea.
By definition, infinity should encompass everything—should give truth to all things—including the idea that it is not infinite. This negation is a nice hole in the argument and it is one of many nice holes and—as a result—is where GOD comes into play—that is—if we are to see everything as infinite. GOD is the outlier in logic sometimes—failing to find it one place, keep encouraged—we search another place. It stops somewhere waiting for us…if we can never catch it, does that mean it was never there to begin with? Maybe the idea of it never having existed—at all—is what makes it exist. It is a single, impenetrable nothingness—a growth—the purpose of it has no EARTHly demeanor—if it did well then such a face as that of nothingness would be enough to make me retch. It is unknown yet necessary to the expansion of knowledge…the infinite expansion of bodies of space…perhaps, we fear nothingness enough to refute it at every possible turn???? Consider the man who never knew his mother. Consider how—on the day of her death—though both were miles apart at the time, and unaware of the other’s existence—he felt for the first time a great dropping of value from his life…as of something there once and there no longer, the doctrines of humanity, now useless, and void…to be conscious of natural processes, and have them remain natural, after such awareness…
The more I know the more I wish I did not. Remain conscious for too long and eventually stuff goes backwards till it gets backwards methodically awareness becomes the senile whirligig of an old brain and you and I must learn and learn well that time is in the eternal process of erasing itself from the mind until it is there no longer—and we are dead—this implies not a finite universe but finite people. Anything that ends must go backwards—including lives—why do you think memory becomes sacred as it matures—and yet—grows weaker???? It is in reverse from an initial, treasured clarity…which, to be frank, never actually existed—besides, that is, in the brain—but more on that, later, going backwards, after all, is the same as going somewhere and ending up in the same place—the beginning—all over again. There is a dumb need to cherish our own lives. We die because time has no more time for us. Considering the possibility of time to go backwards perhaps then it is finite. We can observe our own emotions—scoff at them—without changing them.
A dream is always new to us
Because it is discontinuous
Just like Pascal said
“For life is a dream a little less
It could also be said that
Before we are dead
Memories once clear
Dissolve a little with
Each turning point
—In life, or at least
Each decade. Hell, even yesterday is not as clear now as it was when we lived it. Taking this into account, maybe those memories were blurred when they were not memories—when we had lived them. Sight and consciousness perhaps grow clearer to us—places, people and objects—with age, and yet the past grows weaker as we recollect it, because the power of our memory becomes not so powerful—maybe each stage of life grows clearer, even each day; and by contrast, anything previous feels comparatively blurred. However, it is not necessarily that things are clearer; more that the mind is forever buoyed into its own figure of reality, its own conviction—hoping to be released from the pull of the vacuum of things as they are, really, perhaps, the way we first view things—as hazy and indefinite—is the way things actually look. Perhaps the need for the mind to find clarity eventually distorts our vision into false angles, and lines, while we are seeing them—and it is only through the indifferent lens of the past that the reality of our situation returns.
However, if all this were true—why is it that the most pivotal points in our lives—the points we remember clearly—are points that are never come across again?
It could be that memory loss is caused not by losing the reality of the past from the mind, but seeing your life as what it should be—something small and oblique and unstable, slowly losing relevance—and never fully there, to begin with—something important in that statement—As such, unique points in life that are never come across again are especially clear, because they represent the part of us that is infinite, and not so puny, and not so oblique.
It seems to me that what Pascal is saying is that the power of our consciousness is a direct result of the frequency of the events—internal and external—that play out in our lives, however—I think—whether reality and the dream state were discontinuous or not, we would still translate the same basic level of consciousness—the same sense of reality. As Pascal supposes, consciousness must be undeveloped, if each event occurring does not plot out into any linear story—since that is what happens, after all—our dreams end up being insanely blurred when compared to the hours when we are awake, which are clear as the day on which they happened. Perhaps, if one were to constantly see things as if for the first time, every day, and observe all things and people—as if for the first time…what a long dream living would be!!!!!! Living is a long and stupid dream…because dreams have no continuity, they are blurred—it is almost as if the more we gaze at the same thing, the clearer it gets—the things we realize as commonplace are not quite so, and grow permanent to us only over time.
We knew we knew this and did not know how we knew it just did and this could be one of the ways to look at it well I guess but it is not the right way of it but it is in a way since all of it has to be true in some kind of strange place I guess—the universe—at the end of it all to bang like a bull again, and again against the rims of its own expansion—making progress much as a spinning tire, caught in slush—these two similes when juxtaposed, blend badly. The final kind of spectrum has to be one stride ahead of itself in order to work at all.
Things were a vast chaos once lived and subsequently replicated and excised from the quantity of points in the beginning created from nothing, and referred in the fullness of time as to some antiquated universe regulations for the nonsense. Before time had begun itself to kick around and around—we stared and stared at our shoes and each point, embarrassed at themselves, for the insignificance of themselves, disappeared from time and by forever disappearing gave respect to the clumsy handiwork of significant life—ipso facto—the introduction of time, into the galactic caucus, the points, theoretical—scattered all over—were organized, but not correctly. Each one had the grand potential to formulate new though minor, information—thereby creating new mistakes and thereby expanding all of it through mistakes however the potential for this kept afloat by chance therefore benefited, by the possibility of success by chance by leaving it up to something out of control—such possibility was given an abundance of points to choose from, and anoint with meaning—
—Most of them were not going to comprehend the possibility of failure and thus, would probably fail—this was the prediction—the points could not be explained, since it was not decided yet as to whether the universe would thin out the contestants or accept all the opportunities as each a law to be enforced—the smaller and more abject items of the universe could only by chance get to the final stage of infinity, and the final stage was a god below GOD—the embodiment of nothing—created in and of itself to be used for that and for nothing else—such a thing is unlikely however exists, I think.
A lone synapse leads to the hole in my head. Within a questionable sort of space the points lurking down the street like dirty friends want to get from there to the synapse somehow and up the synapse to the hole and through it. You see the points as irrational, and morose, like bad children, ungracious—some little shit toddler who is with arms crossed over chest forced by teacher to fidget on a stool that sits in a corner of the classroom—his little eyes fixed forever to the floor—when accounting for such conjecture as points that still may exist beyond the present raiment, existing only for themselves—we see that dwelling outside the raiment is one point in particular that must involve in us a keener focus—I believe that from this offending point in question was started some highly destructive happening, of a sort—apparently—I do not know what became of the other points—if any were there to begin with well then forget about them—or do not, and allow the open ends to consume you.
Destruction made for time to break out yawping into the ring without gloves, surrounded everywhere by an audience of Becketts—who, cheering for time to make the cosmos bleed, knew—and they had known, for quite awhile, the cosmos had already won, pretty much, time was dangerous, in setting a precedent, and without considering any possible upshot shat out an occurrence—albeit damaging the universe permanently was for the first time an instance there to be discerned from the stationary though infinite, tidy sums of things—the inert science of GOD was in the aftermath left not so delightfully perfect as it was, and nobody could figure out why but knew this: that from out of the blue we could now touch the WORLD with our hands and see it with our eyes.
One simple spasm in the mind of an indirect, careless GOD through an abrupt and hazardous system created understandable rules, by paradox. The words they are most figurative where seeming literal.
I should have said I love you to my mother before hanging up but did not—however, she also neglected to say this about me—something scary lies in ambivalence. Time does not cause change change causes time. I twirl my middlefinger round the spirals of the cord of the phone, until the digit turns a shade of purple and the phone is wedged between my shoulder and cheek like the universe and I in hearing the hum in my ear of the dialtone am drifted slow to sleep by the song of it—I think about stuff listening meanwhile for the voice of a woman to breathe fear like this out of the receiver:
If quite literally, nothing happened—no action no event happened, no energy burned anywhere, and everywhere, everywhere, taken literally, to mean everywhere—if all were detached suddenly from the infernal and placeless symptoms of cause and effect—time would cease to be. However, if absolutely nothing were to happen across the WORLD—that does not mean that nothing is going on everywhere else. Change is the precursor to minutes minutes one day knowing themselves as minutes will become aware of their passing—they will be horrified to see time as casual casual like poker cards with pictures on the back of them of various naked, buxom women—doled out poker cards to fat men in stained wifebeaters with cigarettes crooked hanging in the aperture of their mouths muttering obscenities to one another—change will grow tired of enabling the human species to corrupt itself.
Do not see it as what it is. Rather, see it as the opposite—and only that—remove the opposite of that from the equation—there is little between the two poles of things that could inspire our empathy for them—enough to validate any action flowered from within whatever grey pattern is drawn from the middle, to either—so—get rid of one of the poles, before it is too late—
—Each universe should lend its own meaning to THE RIFT—so-called—you can quote me on this—by working around it—making it seem as though it were supposed to be there. In order to keep life moving this must happen this nonsense will either transform everything into a different kind of perfection—or—if the universe as a whole refuses to change it will degrade forever remaining forever unconscious of ending up worse. The infinite whole was either devoid of extremes—or, it thrived—but only in the detail of a useless memory, something marginal refusing to die off yet always put on display for you to look at, across the unreal mind, like a fucking mannequin—it seems to us, the diabolical universe is always and has been and will be full of them, contradicting each other to the teeth—and yet they are and were essentially equivalent. It seems, I do not qualify the memory with a definition…
You cannot expand something without keeping what it was before. Each universe among the infinite roster maintains an imprint of the universe beneath it—and strives to be the universe above. The words are most literal like that where appearing figurative—there is something in the science of reality susceptible to dreams—to that repetition of barriers, you see—the meaning does not bother with past or future, that is, if it could bother with anything…it is all a simultaneous present kind of—that when blown up will slow down, more and more. That when shrunk down begins to move, and involves at least some form of retrospective summation of the past, in our minds and the minds only of us—we link the sequential errors and successes of the past with who we feel to be at present, and brew both together in the pot—
—This is done so that we may create a future plan one day, since it is necessary to carry around with you everywhere like noisy baggage some form of outlook towards the future, and the lines to be drawn from the future, to the present, and back some more—until we get ourselves to a supreme loss—for what were we before we were????? I can and will only answer this question on my deathbed, when I have finally arrived at the opposite pole—I look back to where I started, find clarity in it, and die—the aim of the words is to mangle our scope, as if it were something with arms and legs to be broken—the scope will start large—we will think more and more inside the box, as it were, scoffing at all possibility, whether farfetched or packed to the brim with common sense—until every cosmic attitude is seen trivial and stupid as my mother’s collection of expensive plates, one of which for some time had gone lost and we could not find it. Shit—
—If one were to do this for long enough one would figure out that everything is impossible. Regarding the addition of power to barriers, we find out that such barriers are made of so much trash, wasted—as light—with distance. That as the light travels the further going from the source shall starve strength from the illumination of stars, massive stars, formerly enough to blind—lofty light voyages eternal on waves from the stars to EARTH and continues much beyond that and that is what is important—barriers are an attempt at fathoms. There can be no nothing—there is only a lack of everything—what is lost with each barrier. Something once there, now not…what we lose is what we gain, once a lack of everything has become all there is—and yet the preceding stricture of things as they were shall help us find a new way out of it and that will lead us back to it—you see—?
—Things that are irrefutable incite barriers, and yet the only things that are irrefutable are also lacking in the senses—they are ideas and laws applied to the WORLD—they cannot be touched, seen or felt, or smelled. This is true except in the case of medicine and the human anatomy, where the effects are mostly hidden within the body; or in the case of evolution, where the change and effects of the change are so gradual as to appear nonexistent—and when such things are noticed, it is in a kind of protracted retrospect. Basically the only refutable things are found where immediacy is present—physical things, seen immediately by the eye—are they there or not there? Or, ideas immediately drawn to conclusions the ignorance of those ideas then exposed, and made false.
This deflated ego curled up at my feet like a small, mangy cat—is the early, beautiful skeleton of GOD—seriously, though hard to believe—if one were to look at the EARTH as the universe, and each person as GOD, the consciousness of each person—existing outside the WORLD they inhabit—would, in my opinion, be an accurate representation of GOD, which, by my own definition—what other definition is needed—is a higher plane of consciousness extant as a separated part from the whole—a piece of something despicable on the floor—GOD is the outlier that makes possibility possible by being the one unique point that is not repeated therefore GOD dwells outside infinity outside the endless and obscene pileup of circumference, upon circumference—the overdevelopment of this dumb ego of mine—caught up in itself—this makeshift of one emotion with another, in relation to immediate objectives, which pile, to grossly crucial experiences—the simultaneous feel and expansion of us and the single self is merely a sketch of the greater work—a group of innocent peas embedded in the mashed potatoes covertly and wishing by the small child to go uneaten—one day, in a future free of restraints, people will progress beyond the need for the individual spirit—for the inception of the ego was a reaction to a wealth of restraints. The primitive idea of personality will be replaced by everyone’s own specific, confidential theological misgiving—they will either discard the ego or wrangle it into submission—both commitments will thicken us one day into the full GOD and GOD is—I would assume—hrm. THE RIFT—hrmm—is not so bad—one day we will create our own rift—will create from our own living our own EARTH—THE RIFT by initiating time generated all the life we know of or presume to know of or both. In the beginning the universe was an infinite whole—static—equivalent to a lack of everything we can perceive or is tangible.
We had decided—because we were nuts—to bring up GOD, within the first couple lines.
The impulses of time—for all time is an impulse—are one of the numerous bizarre methods—used by the deity to raze down the percentage of our hope to small chance—that is—one might not live long enough to accomplish what is needed to satiate the pneuma. I think that there is and was and will be a repetition of barriers, each barrier less succinct than the last, each universe more naked in the freeze of derivative space…to go on until this strangeness and absurdity reaches such a level as to unveil to us the bona fide nature of the whole damned universal schematism—this transmutation from the right idea to the wrong idea—what was so bad about the first one, whether it be right or wrong? It is our job to reconstruct the first thought, using few resources—we do not know what the thought was as of yet but will—I want for these peculiar fantasies of the universe to be knocked backwards—come on—we shall have to create a simpler, more approachable format, and eventually we will not be ready for this and we must wait for the moment of this so that we will be forced to live with what we started with, so as to make it relevant again.
As the joints rotate, between one useless epiphany and another, on this insane model—I find in the dull ticking of the clock the division between seeming analogous things—the interesting isolation of GOD from the unity of the EARTH—it is somewhat like a janitor on break, for too long, while the vomit on the floor gets cold—this monstrosity, this dominance of time, and the times to come, before the end, which will never come—it is all just fathomed by us to be the stubborn continuance of an absent drone, unaware of the strength laid within each knot of its own personal minutia—and soon enough, the hour dissolves in the comfort of its own sleeping perpetuity—going on autopilot—like a janitor sort of who snoozing standing up props his head on the handle of the floorbuffer. Regardless of the considerable amount of talent time has to grow the machinations from second, to hour, to day, still, one must understand: such perpetuity is kept alive by mere impromptu signals, which are just baseless. Today, everything will forget itself to tick beyond the clock, beyond the minute—since time must anticipate and seize upon the imaginary hour, not yet reached—and yet, must maintain stoicism—being unalterable, must work as a functioning ambivalence…and all the blocks of the seconds previous are not blocks, and are chimerical—still, time should be able to keep them in check. They are placed one against the other like dead cells—blocks—and the insipid reliance that we, as a species, are meant to have for the present hour, as something already here—reliance as this may threaten to implode the parts of our WORLD and birth a new intensity of purpose. The whispered malignance of a shitty little secret will be attributed to the gestalt, pretty soon—of course, that must occur—in order to establish and make clear as an imperfect congruence the heavy spectrum of an indeterminate and fractured universe.
As I pick up the pen, there is a feeling of hypocrisy there.
Time becomes not time anymore, but an infinite device—an eternal object—used with extreme caution to screw the things of existence back in—adjusting the hinge of the door—you stoop down at your feet with screwdriver in your hand—we must act immediately on such pressing derangements, before the screws are fallen off—and, time does not cause change—it is change that makes the clock able to recognize the path it has taken, so that the milieu created from seconds are inhabited by time only, existing out of everything else, as a disease—rather than the EARTH as inhabiting those seconds with people: the muddled choices and requests for choices, the patchwork of the people and the lives and sought and found ends. However, by using change as a medium of alteration, time is made manifest—concrete—change will always be adding detail, and nuance, to what is the general and roundabout expressions of a ceaselessly imitated phase. These epiphanies would disprove themselves—with time, ironically—it was inevitable—I was the first to understand this.
The cult took shape slowly—over ten years, surviving on one scrap from the thousand of our concentrated scriptures tied together with twine, and found as ages afterwards between the differences a similar legend hidden underneath a loose board in Blake’s room, for a bit of an age. I suppose the piece of paper in question had slipped away from me somehow—or, had fallen out of your briefcase, when in a rage you had stolen my notes—stuffed them deep inside of there—with the intention of chucking the whole thing into the monotonous and forgiving HUDSON. What had happened was what you were afraid would happen—this makeshift had assimilated together all the very tragic denizens of culture and society: dangerous fanatics, and misfits with bad hygiene—and sterile, though eccentric nihilists—and parasites, with much money, and no brains, and they really the ones who gave shape to this kind of slapdash of how heaven is what hell is—which had been discarded, appropriately, after we worked so hard—grew fractious towards others and ourselves, in the tireless duties of causing a life to be in it—we were taken from our homes in the night by large and faceless men, brought to an innocuous room, chained to a furnace and asked politely to build an argument from the tacit proof behind our formulae. You spat in their faceless faces and said to them you wished, more than anything, to stomp each silent notion down to decisions, little as dust…but could not, refused to: what is left unexplained is what makes our assumptions grander—and—grand, is what we wanted the universe to be, whether it is or is not that way. You tell me, after they yield and let us go—but not before tuning us up—you tell me: well, at least that gives us something to work with. We had long ago done away with conclusions—despite my attachment to them. The thing is we both knew the tacit stuff as useless useless if we wanted to draw up an appropriate outline for all the strangeness of the indefinite—would we ever finish this stupid rhetoric??? In terms of our brains, the depth is plural, and the catacomb catacombs.
The mind is a prison with a tiny gap between the bricks—somewhere—through which infinity is entered.
I did not have the otherness to eavesdrop on my own deceits—tried defending myself—found myself. The sooner you discover what you are, the sooner you can learn to convey that to others in a positive manner—such is the mantra of factitious people. When I experimented with that particular idea however, I was not fully comprehensive—I became both disgusted and enraptured at the sound of my voice, so that while unease would persuade me to demur from simpler thoughts more confident in my mind as being true, I would attempt still to amaze you—with the complexity of wild, belated, undeveloped guessing. There was, we both believed, a natural evasion from the true stuff in us—we could not provoke even a syllable to be spoken or written rightly without coming back to our own magical assumptions, our own loaded affinities, which we held in high esteem…and soon this book will be closed, and when that happens the words are kept going by the air between two pages. The statement of air is afflicted with contraries to us though in ourselves the more frequently exercised thinking deals in contraries, and the contraries of such, freshly ordained, and waiting to be promulgated. The statement will not go on—lacking gumption, it is ineffective—and so, the words are kept in place, for now.
The words are the speed of the mind, and represent the movement stirring behind the red velvet curtain—which by the kinetic of wind fraught flies upward out of rest—only to descend forth and soundlessly collide with the nice, blue armchair, and the nice, blue armchair had for some time been inching towards the curtain with invisible disparity—with unheard of stillness—and the curtain towards the nice, blue armchair, and the first contact between the two was a cause for celebration. The image here is an example, held between these sentences as a broken form—a small wound—to bleed out the poison of a lie undiscovered, and remaining that way—picked out of context to reflect a distortion of the previous symmetry of a living room—the reader understanding that these objects are in a living room, because I have related them to that location. Before that, however, the curtain and the nice, blue armchair could have been anywhere—and in freedom were located in no spot—harboring speculation—as to the image of the spot, and as to what that consists of—drying out in your head. In doing this, I limit your ideas about the two things—since you reader, you understand: a living room is a living room, since it is only that, to you, suppose you refuse to accept things as being where they are, even after information has already supplied a place. Suppose you consign the nice, blue armchair and curtain—to another place? Assimilate these objects by the will of your imagination, reader—one of both could be the other as equally—
It was like too much garbage—
That must be stomped, further, into the bin,
—Preventing overflow. Eventually, I would give up, and follow your lead, which made you angry. As we walked away from the chaos, you said to me that I was nothing but a dog on a damned leash—had I not immediately thought my ideas to be trash—because you called them trash—perhaps, I might have convinced you about this reality this entirely accidental reality this construct of things—not as they are—but as they were, and as they will always be…for the moment now is not representative of what shall always be, and is in conflict with it. After stating this to you, I dusted off my pants and fingered my peachfuzz and spat on the ground. You were cleanshaven and were grave and dark as blackness unknown and you wore a stupid tie: in this way—somehow—through the stupidity of your tie and the cleanliness of your shave, you had come to know many stages of blackness, until by escaping one stage you entered another, and now, because you had ruled out all black things, to a point—you became jaded soon by the sinuous and ongoing crosshatch of motives there were, for the blackness—each one bleeding into another.
This was not a problem however you were indeed wary of a reflexive blank—to come, reflexively, upon you, without warning, one day—spiking your head—and who knows how long living vacant in the mind. Something destructive yet blithe coy in the shuttle of itself round the dying circumference—that though the circumference might crumble, like old bricks—or perish, like something with a life inside of it may sustain the relay of parts of it perhaps the whole thing past the hour of recognizable eternity at least. Yes, yes—more than anything else, you and I understood there to be a spatial quadrant of blackness, still to relegate the position of our chance to figure it all out, to some lesser penitence. That was the blankness, you see, and the blankness shrouded over the extensions—of nature from EARTH and EARTH extended from man and man from GOD. After all, we made this place what it is—behind these qualified assertions—this shady dealing of matter in the cosmos between two events in a room washed in gray—is a pernicious chuckle ending without humor. All you had to do was be skeptical enough, to fear for your own life—and mine—though I do not know why you even bothered, with either—
—Despite our presumptuous getups, our clothing suddenly went aflame, which was the idea, after all. We had striven before, striven to scavenge the synergies we could from the first stoke, the first lit ember, in the hopes of achieving a perpetual ignition—the first flame must be vigorous flame, so that strike of match can cruise awhile on inertia of lesser explosions. Just as the early harbinger, as he tolls, and tolls, and feels the omen dripping in his chest—he has the strongest voice, the loudest bell—the omen coming early—we failed nonetheless, and after failing were both of us disappointed, depressed, angry, scared.
We felt this at the same time and did not know—it was only after we had, in giving up all hope begun to pray, with weird/obnoxious sacramental eloquence, that flames burst then—from the sulfur—trilling in the easy combustion of the idea. No doubt, we had synchronized the feeling of disappointment mutually, by chance, you later said: had we synchronized our beliefs, it probably would have started to rain—the fire tricked us—and, the fire singed the hairs on my chin, and burned your stupid tie to ashes. These are the only matters of our appearance that were mentioned and thus, the only parts of us that exist in the imagination—which does not exist but we imagine that it does and that is what imagination is pretty much. This was the first time I had gotten a good look at your maimed body, writhing on the ground—the children of your sores and the children of your bruises were in clear view. Beforehand, everything was barely relatable and consumed in a sort of psychic haze and, it seemed, like you had planned—and thought extensively about—the possibility of your death. You were compelled to whittle energy down to the sincerest modicum—but then!!! You chose to be engulfed, however, and sacrificed your burning self to terminal things…all this was done before we had arrived at the center of the universe. It would have been a waste if you had not been there.
I found in the swell of the flames on my arms, and legs and belly, the shorn specimen, of our shorn grief, given us to infer, with blank aspect infer. The fire was our grief, until it go out we shall grieve I said—it was then, you realized you had come across the final blankness, from which there was no path backwards or forwards from the source—it just was—we were left as cinders—our conceptualizations were weak as ash—wishing to rebuild, you started first, with what was thought to be the extreme and the mediocre, and soon realized them as but distractions from the original element—you crossed your arms and kicked the ground—that is one image of you—I chose to delve like an animal into absurdity, I saw nothing in obscure rhythms that I could produce—adequately—with the same verve. Our foundations were something not arcane enough to symbolize the new freedom of our glossy, though tempered vision, which was an old vision—done before, yet fashioned by us to look as new. We both studied the work of our peers until we had a good grasp of it enough to move on to more advanced complications and derivatives, taking the foggy meaning in them at face value. They were diagnosed as being beyond us, out of our convenient realm, so we stopped searching. You and I were content to hide somewhere in the dense and irregular shrubbery behind your house, which had needed trimming. I can hear now your father’s voice calling in us for dinner—we laughed from our guts and picked only the flowers that were dying so that they would die further and the sunlight shimmered through the leaves of the trees in careless fractures that in reality were not so careless and were important somehow and we could not uncover the meaning behind the shade. We studied up on what we had started with, and had soon abandoned—only to find, upon further examination, an obtuse purity that had not been present in the thing before. So, we dug in, and obsessively broke into the surface, further—further—going finally inside an outside place.
The sense of basic issues amounted to nasty and perverted conceits, disguised as agreeable and superficially thoughtless diagrams. The need to create is a sin against the purity of nothingness from which all ideas must be extruded—and properly mangled. What is ever, but
Never, that
Was? Here lies the impersonal contrition behind my delivery of gutted rhythms, in other words, the gutted language that is exchanged between me and the other people—lazy dialogue, the exclusion of conjunctions and articles—the pealing of words—spare language pealing as the notes of base/rural music.
Such was the result of further probing. There are days when thoughts are controlled by the weal of their design—how an idea may prosper in speech and word rather than how it is applied to the common state of things.  One day in particular was not up to snuff in terms of this. There was nonsense in it, and yet we strove to accept the fallout instead of the bomb. Stricter rules are involved when it comes to proving the sense behind the absurd, just as plain things need little in the way of science to express truth, and are assumed. We accept the gaps in them as gaps, because the whole of the concerto seems finished. Nobody, assuredly, can feel this way about nonsense; there are enough external holes in chaotic patterns to sink a ship—I soon learned that I must realize that nonsense had no internal holes.
It was our plan to talk of only very spurious stuff.
Perfidious GOD approached me with a map in his hand. The central point of conflict in this section of the narrative involves the the the approach of GOD—and will be dealt with presently. How, after all, could you and I expect anything but a negative reaction, after pulling GOD into this? It was your idea, really. We could not come to any conclusion, and you said that that was GOD—so no matter what we did, the solution to our small gestures would spell out the name of the deity—whatever that is…however, such tenacity, will not be adequately developed, thankfully due to my own human laziness, regarding the editing process, in fact, right now, I am explaining the inadequacy of all this, at length, in order to give balance, to shit—anticipating the inevitable rejoinder. For example: I never try to elaborate on what GOD looks like, or even what his intentions really are. Very little context is given. This is done for no other purpose than to show the reader that I have little idea myself of how the transaction should be depicted—have little reason myself for pulling GOD from the interstices—that is—besides as an attempt to conjure up a sort of hackneyed relevance…it will seem offkilter…GOD would intend this to be the right effect of his presence on other people, anyways…
I had seen him across the street as I was leaving the house to buy a gallon of twopercent and we waved to each other. Having gotten my attention, he shouted to me—somewhat louder than was needed—he shouted to me, that I needed first to know that perfection, when reached, ended up being deformed. He said that the most beautiful point was not the last point but a point before that was conscious of its deformity and thus transcended it. This was the only useful thing he said. It had no relation to anything else, and seemed random, at the time, though. A gang of cars puffed down the street and they were objects that separated both GOD and myself into islands.
You saw me talking to GOD and silently slipped in—gave me your blessing and attempted to initiate a new conversation, much to the anxiety and the awkwardness of the deity. Either he did not notice you or did not care. I presume the latter—I guess, he saw you as a third wheel—you waited to speak, entered the conversation at a good lull, although you hated him you respected GOD enough not to interrupt and you said to me that the journey would be fruitless and we both knew it would be fruitless and you conceded that at the very least we would come out of it as different people than we had been before, because we were human, thus—easily influenced—
—GOD, meanwhile, held the map between his thumb and forefinger, slightly impatient, splaying out the fan of the rest of his digits effeminately, as though in possession of a disgusting thing. He explained that the map was a way to track the infinite, without being consumed, he knew this as fact—he fondled my shoulder and said I was hearty enough. You stood in the background, shifting your weight from one leg to the other leg I could tell you were suspicious by the way you struggled to conceal it by slanting your head and also you dipped your eyes and I could tell some frightening idea in your noodle was now waiting to be exposed, prematurely, I thought I was the only one who noticed this but GOD apparently could tell that you were about to voice an objection because he stuttered a bit over your words and said to me that sacrilege was the paradigm of truth. His theorem was made ill through the use of astringent profanities. However, sadly, it ended up distracting us from his more destructive lies and we later realized that that was his ulterior purpose. GOD scratched his head and said, well, goddamn it it was a gift, no charge, smiling at me and ignoring you, shunning you, like an adolescent boy caught up in the market of himself—GOD must always be in denial of his bad qualities in order to function properly.
GOD said he wanted to see us off but he had to go to the can first. GOD went down a sidestreet and began to publicly urinate. Left alone on the sidewalk, you and I could now speak kindly of him—we were expected to do this. I said that I saw GOD as a mechanism of negation, in eclipsing all possible purposes he proved the lack of the will of the human species and thus the void of his own will, since he is, essentially, what he has created—this theory implies that GOD created man, who in turn created GOD, but a GOD below the one that created them. I guess you could also see it as the idea of GOD—creating the universe—in order for the universe to be conscious of GOD, who in turn becomes conscious of itself, and this consciousness survives outside the rest of the universe, but not beyond it—that humankind before knowing they had had created GOD is what makes all this an empty version—rather skewed more than what we could have found—of little bearing to the case—you agreed, but only because you were a proven skeptic of all things, and had to agree to the possibility of all things much as the impossibility of them. Upon completing his task, GOD sauntered back over to us. It smiled first with its mouth and yet the eyes—there was death in them. Seeing that I was taken aback, it moved the smile to
—The eyes, as though the message of goodwill
Could not, automatically, express itself,
With true sincerity, in both places, it had imperfect teeth—it lived in its car, which was a Studebaker: the seats missing upholstery in some places, revealing stained yellow foam—it sent us
On our way, smiling the whole time as though it was not what it had wanted to do but it did it anyway.
We took two steps away, and looked back and GOD was not there anymore and then we realized we were no longer outside of my house. 
We presumed it was fall however, the continuum gave us no clues regarding the season—let us make it fall anyways—still, we were going to do it, and had everything planned out. A horse appeared out of thin air and we could not tell when exactly the creature had appeared because we no longer were trapped within the chambers of—at the very least—a familiar passing of time. You and I exchanged a glance and shrugged our shoulders—immediately understood the horse as truth as the animal seemed to fit into the rest of the dream pretty well, anyways, we rode upon the horse, for miles, quickly succeeding past the berms of the map—which we had thrown out beforehand, finding it to be useless: “Fuck that guy” you said, and I did not respond because anything I could have said would have been unreasonable and complicated—sometimes I am silent—if I were to speak instead—hehh—no one would understand, or understand well but falsely.
We searched for the darkness between stars, and were able to gather results from such presumption. The place flooded with poor light that was stale and wrong.
The light—
Ate everything up. This was the first time you had seen the spectacle of perdition—you did not know what to make of it—I had already come to my own delicate conclusions and the conclusions were sheathed in doubt, and the doubt was the conclusion.
The horse chuffed noisily and faltered, rearing up its hooves and shaking its oblong head from side to side. We soon could no longer control it and were knocked us both off the horse, and the sinewy and muscular animal—gone from metaphor, to actuality—a specific intelligence—dashed off into a separate shadow of space, away from us, becoming a metaphor again.
The truth was lucky enough to break our necks as we fell. I could hear the crunch of the discs of my spine—both of us screamed, with a scream—what else would we scream with? That was the final way of it—it could not be heard but that was the way it was and the scream was a wail. All assumptions are variable and thus, weak. We got up from the ground and dusted ourselves off, our heads dangling down over our chest—our spines jut against the skin of our necks. We realized that, before we could get moving, we had to redefine the limits of who we were, in order to fix ourselves—in other words, we became vicious in the parts previously kind, dull in our bodies though hard by the ways of intelligence. This was not advantageous as regards to getting a good lay.
I was the first to find out: my head now moved freely about its axis and was no longer a part of the body and yet I was alive. I saw this as vital in attaining a new perspective on things. You, on the other hand, saw this breaking of the neck as the detachment of the head from the body and you saw the body as the soul pretty much. You tried and failed to reattach your head to the spinal column; you thought this a very bad thing to have happen: I did not, and in my freedom relented to philosophical tendencies. Both of us did not have the right idea.
I looked at the sun or at least the sun that existed in whatever realm we happened to be situated. It burned my eyes to the pupil—I continued to look—I could not turn away, so you turned away, on my behalf—so—this inability to see something visible brought you to the conclusion of the image as an idea rather than something that existed neutrally. You told me that the sun was a part of the sky and the sky was a part of the sun. Neither of them could truly wend up to the same zenith and no zenith at all could wend back to the beginning of itself. If hypothetically speaking, we were able to gape at that which could not be seen, a pattern probably would be deciphered, eventually, but, we could not do this, and, the result was: the image doubled over, became something simplistic. It seems as though I have failed to call the image by what it was, have forgotten what it was, already. After hearing all this hooey about the sun, my eyes could see again—suddenly—but only things that were sensitive to the plight of raw and inconclusive vision. I could have looked at the sun again, could have abruptly restarted the process…I did not do this, and the place was filled with light and I saw through the light and there was confusion behind the light, as though usurped by some brand of blank, barren evil, being so extreme a vantage, as it was.
The knowledge of things as they are is a stretch of the imagination. We saw the sun as too involved in the system and broke free.
We made trash of our limits, stubborn enough to deny them. The sun will not be mentioned again—as a result the composition will lose the effect it was meant to have on the reader. The horse will not be mentioned again, either, I guess, those two images were all I could come up with. The style is critical, and any critical style degrades itself, in succumbing to mania—anger will beget mania—my own growing restlessness towards the words I use…for denigrating what brought them to life. After we made trash of our limits, all we had left was disjecta. We found some good things, but mostly useless things, in the disjecta. Starting to walk through the place where you and I had been deserted, you told me that, prior to breaking our necks, we had never felt—physical pain—before, which was why we had been so confused. The only pain we had ever known was the pain of being mystified.
We were the martyrs of only really stupid ideas: we had for the first time been damaged.
This was the most important concept—with snap of bone of the spine pain of the highest caliber!!!!!!! You said you could no longer feel your legs or arms; that you could only feel some thoughts, not even all of them, the thoughts you could not feel were involved too much in the lunacy of tepid, pragmatic thinking—the need to convert into literal principles the hell of our fall—reconciling the nonsense enough with experiments in reality so as to benumb you to its carnage, I became a child—it was, I suppose, a defense mechanism—I chanted liminal references, alive in the spunk of prayer.
It soon came to us that we had been left alone in a country we did not understand. We blinked our eyes at how eloquently the whoosh of the cold infected us, raising its argument to new plateaus—the mercury in the glass thermometer waning squeezed down, and further down, a few words tuned and tuned and tuned. Beginning to travel on foot, we experienced the cold of the day in the place.
We traveled throughout the place, encountering a series of fragmentary GODs—we praised each one and immediately afterwards saw the fallacy of praise. It was pieced together, a patchwork of the mind, like the fragmentary day—a pretense of order that made the spare leaf wiggle in the wind on the tree turned gold by the raw light of the bitter fall sun. Such was what I noticed about the only tree to be seen for miles, in the place. We were the only people there there was nothing. Even to describe the nothingness of the place brings down what it was, makes it hyperbole, almost. The tree is used in this context to provide the reader with a relatable image, and so on…
I coughed up something strange and called it the real deal the real GOD exulted in the verity of phlegm—a rejection from the body that was, for the most part, yellow and brown. That is the only external action I shall relay from the experience. We did not need to do much to keep alive, as opposed to what must be done throughout the rest of the WORLD. The reality of fall exuded pressure. Like GOD, it was a misgiving that taught us to live in coves—we shrank in the smack of judgment coming soft to us in the purl of the fall winds, like a river, we inhabited little places, without purity, a fast conclusion that made things colder—we bundled up against it—the cold was apparent to us only after we left the place, to return home, we soon grew bored with discovery; this seemed like the best option.
When we returned home, we were taken in our solitude by the throat by many ideas. I have the feeling that such ideas would have been more developed, had we stayed in the place for a longer period—and yet, if we had stayed there forever, or even for too long, nothing would have come of it it was good that we left when we did. A blind sort of stratagem was revealed to us. It attempted to explain the attempt, rather than the explanation. We decided to figure things out, or at least reach a point of contingency in terms of the information described to us by the WORLD. Whether such a decision was something necessary is still to be disputed.
After a brief lunch you went upstairs and fished out a tape recorder from the mess of your father’s study, and we began to record our thoughts. We exchanged ideas, some of them were beautiful, some of them absurd, all of them were lies. I came to many conclusions and stated their significance in relation only to myself—you did the same thing, in terms of what you were. We held ourselves—rather than the universe—in a jar of acidic solution, breaking down the enamel of ourselves—thinking—maybe one day—all this could actually be compelling enough to qualify as a bad simulation—rather than illustrating the mediocrity of a wrong voice—a wrong, though honest voice.
Much was left unsaid for me. I still wanted to figure you out, more than I wanted to figure myself out, simply because you were someone else, and I found that fascinating. Every particle of meaning that I was able to snatch from the great vacuity was naught but terrible expressions of myself, and myself alone. It was like a strange picture taken
Taken between two disparate actions, conveying no specific emotion, and as a result it becomes something both beyond emotional capabilities and yet it was a complete blankness a stupid chaining of things forward smacking against the limits and returning again to itself, yet seen freshly. We were deceiving ourselves, that much I knew—I flapped my gums like a lackey twit—you did not laugh at my ignorance because you knew it was true ignorance, and that made you sad:
Something is overheard, and translated inaccurately. The translation in itself is wrong; the idea of being wrong is beautiful. Thus, it is the idea behind what we do that lives on, rather than what we do. I think of this, as you prepare your coffee. You are bracing yourself for the procedure. It is one of many procedures:
                                        You think:
                            When you grow old
            Whenever that happens, and then
You become someone you were not before.
It is like that in the business of death: We are
                                     Most assured in who we
            —Are at a young age, and, endeavoring to
Find things out, regarding ourselves—you shake your
                  —Head at this, knowing of vastness, and
                  The tricks it plays—we see that we can
                         Only take the personality we are
Given, to a certain point,
Beyond that lies another inhuman specter that,
Inevitably,       is articulated in our heads, as the final draft: who we ought to end up being, not at the edges but within. This is a flatout deception, caused by the need for change, when we have run out of things to change—like a mother cleaning the house for a second time. Such a specter as this might well prove to be unfinished only to be finished, in the life afterwards—try as we might to live our last days as another person this reduction of the self is soon realized in our dying hours: it closes around our brains like an existential nightmare.
I approach subjects the same way the second time around—and it is refreshing. As if suddenly come upon, in the night, while dreaming…in time, they would return to me more fully—the first time around, deciding that more could be gotten by tackling the same subject twice…perhaps three times—though to you I am a broken record…to myself I am wise…looking on with wonder at the truth of what I found before, as though it were new and in originality, everlasting.
I bought flowers for no particular reason and as reasonless began to internalize many cosmic vibrations. Each one of them was different. The circle round my head was a confused aureole of sin. The aureole marked its territory, round my skull, sensing the weakness. Making unusual comparisons is an interesting poetic mode. I convey truth in words, I convey untruth in physical gestures. You are the gesture. I am the word.
I was the patronsaint of disorder, for a little while.
       One such vibration was violent
             In the manner of its nullity
—I discreetly strode over into the
Realm of this idea seeing it as the
 —Most conveniently posited realm at the time
                               And soon all the rest of the
                      Vibrations were empty channels
Leading to the same quietude the same chaos
It went on down—
Like hellfire, the root of my spine shivered
—And the hellfire settled at the base of things. And then, slight
                                      Heaviness, in my chest felt
        At what would soon become, the heaviness in my guts—?
—I was thinking you heard this evil damage burble. Stupidly, as if disturbed from sleep, you warned me, though you were not there you were there in spirit and from its center the calm feel began to emit from the center, burbling. It broke down everything to blank and vile, circular insight—dystopia—fucking tedium—quite gradual in the way it became itself.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                
I looked to my left my right the bodega across the street with feeble canopy the tarp torn across the front and the front pages of magazines: ancient remedies for sexless persons and quirky interviews with bands long since passé and in running a series along the glass pane of storefront were these magazines that that that presumed the experience of their writers and the ignorance of their readers; and then—explain an idea, rather than an image, as though it were an image, would you???? For example—two men you would presume to be Arab, but were probably Egyptian, exchanging words, one of them sitting on a staid sort of chair that would be more at home in a classroom, or somewhere in the depths of an office building and the conversation rose in volume as I neared them—bad grammar rolling off their tongues until reneged to a clause quite unable to hold off the rest of the sentence from complete breakdown—the shoddy vulgates of anterior language comprehension—and soon as I came to the point of some threshold of sound, I heard their voices suddenly perish on the skate of the wind the vowels of the wind…and, the long blank charter of street with odd cab waiting and burning in the fumes of its own exhaust: The poignancy of these things, these noticed things, they were belied by my own vision and swiftly became nothing but distended blocks and cubes. I beckoned it, hungry for violence, after all, I did not recognize, yet, the nullity behind the violence, I saw violence as change rather than destruction.
The dystopia was fragmented. It did not, in full, apply a specific bathos, or pathos, it was a featureless epigone, female—I remember the sex more than anything else—a lost disciple—and her master her master a thing known only by the agon of parasites feeding on it—squeezing blood from the neck of it—while neglecting the rest of the significance of the body the sinister thing about this: such a strange fragment!!!!! She traipsed under the guise of being full, asserted her fullness and seemed almost to believe, herself—
That nothing lies beyond her fat, fragmented dynasty.
I did not know how this busted glint of cant could be so hurtful. The fact it happened means it was meant to happen—something insanely deliberate is going on. In awe of her courage, I let her meet the brain of someone else.
I said it was mine it was a way to test her out—I will admit this—to see if she was, after all, contained within the meaning she claimed to transpose.
Recognizance of an external fragment brings one often to the conclusion of one’s own plaintive, innocent system—previously thought to be whole, one sees it then as fragmented…I did not know this…in seeing her warp the faculties/sensibilities of another, I myself was warped. I shall not describe what happened to the man on whom she fed: he is with me still, pacing back and forth, mad with ideas, I have known him for years: he has an imperfect nose and a slack mouth.
She twisted my stomach into a spiel of knots that eventually would dissolve. As I was reading in bed I understood that inside of me deep inside there was sand, and glass. I was troubled by this fact, as if it had ever been untrue.
Then, she multiplied—she came to me as snapshots kind of as an orbiting of brief snapshots of bad times and good times and times that were okay. In that instant, I realized I had collapsed.
I saw everything in someone else, and thus saw those things in myself. I sensed the presence of such collapse, had sensed it before—my head is overcast, dimming out myself—shading the realms of my head with loveless tinctures—good things, little hallelujahs pulled from the privacy of my loveless brain—seen by all for what they were, yielding and sophomoric and futile, and left to shrink in the embarrassment of naked platitudes. Yeah, change is what I got change into something crenulated, deformed, and ultimately boring.
The figures of the snapshots set their crummy business against the dark of the walls. They went in and out of my line, of sight, and all of it, then, moving in a concentric wash of circles from birth to death to birth to death and again my inner monologue must have given some specific shape or event to each snapshot but, hours later, when I tried to remember what it was that had traced along the sinuses of my brain—causing blockage—an annoyance—hours later I could think of no pictures or memories that had been a part of those memories or pictures relayed before my inner eye with horrific expedience before. Funny palindromes of this bleeding consciousness. I could only pinpoint the feeling of melancholia, turning green in the sun like something perishable. It shined in my brain for a moment, reflecting like the eyes of a lion in the moody dark. The sun and darkness is together suffused, in this metaphor.
I continued walking down the street with useless flowers that I didn’t know the name of (I hadn’t asked. In fact; I just grabbed the first batch I saw and paid for it.) I was not feeling very good at the time you see because of the orbit of the snapshots. The snapshots threatened to tip me off axis—I would go finally over precipice, towards which my life had involuntarily edged and off of which, I would inevitably fall. At that point, I was spitefully obsessed with the idea that the irregular churn of my life involved itself in some form of chance chance that nonetheless was repeated. Repeated luck that was not luck, yet lucky to be repeated, if such a body as mine were to know better than to be wizened by the glaucous hour, the timetable of minute and decade and year, it would have had good sense enough to stop this before the aching in my gut became deadly and immutable. I realized, then—such was the pattern of the universe. I trained myself to write line after useless line, in an attempt to chuck out the old self and at the very least build a new man from the illformed sagas, the angry myths around the campfire passed, dropping names in a bilious ruin—concocted talltales, with precision blunt—an equation for the absurd—and still, I could not say to you now that those flowers had anything to do with this particular narrative except in some frustrated shadow of a universe either beyond or below our own. I shall speak of a man living in a WORLD that in my mind’s eye is made up of dripping pipes. Most of the time, all I envision as regards where this person is is mainly seen in my imagination as a variegated shellac of red—
—And black. But, it is not a place, because it is not full of grief, it is not embittered. But—he is not living, because he is confined, he—gradually—growing neutral…
At least, this is what he thinks. The place is not HELL because all pain and all suffering it has been focused upon him. The junk of suffering it is with him and the junk with him only. Nobody else there I think. Everything else—in harmony—he confined by happiness, trapped by it until it becomes something frightening and malevolent. He is doomed to live only as an innocent. I am confined: 
Weather in this place
Usually hail. Pitterpat of vacant syllables.
                           Stuff is forgotten. I hear
Their sound—do not know
What mean. Lost
            Penitence long ago—for
Self. Respect—is conniver beating
—Beating new ways of jest towards
              This clump of parts. All truth
                    Sounds derivative to me
                       Pick nose pick nose
           Smell finger smell finger
           Derivative/pithy truth
In vestibule funny thing in
      —Vestibule only place
Can catch some proper zzs
Only place sanctuary. No go
           There n.e.more. I freaked
   Out at soup kitchen. Drops of water
                 Land on page aborted clouds
Blotted ink—constant dripping everything
Liquid leftover cataclysm
Is the blood of oncepardond whole—marble
Rolling no place. That is joke—only can
  Joke about it now might as well now
     I’m good man, always thought so
        Like father, he had a hairy
                  Face water dripping
                From all pipes sound
                —Of dripping
            Gushing of pipes
            Leading no place for miles this is
            Not last chance—must understand
                           That no chnce—at all left
Did I let it leave questionmark
It less humorous that way
         Daddy always said
Laughter best medicine
        I beg for humor at least
People humor me w/ change
Need some form of nourishment am hungry
                             Am missing some disorder here
   Am in cage built of strength from when I had it
             Now I am imprisoned by it it mocks me
By using what I could have used to free myself
          From the cage that was in before this one,
Which was grown from the ground by weakness
                              Alcoholic father was alcoholic
                                      And tired most of the time
                                     But love him died years ago
                                             I beg for humor beg for the
Violence of humor—nonsense nihilism have done with
For too long harbor things from—
                    Past, head full of the past past
Full of itself. Some present inconsistencies
                                         And discomforts
Of this WORLD fear will stay that way
Well past end of life harbor vestibule
                      Miles miles away pipes
Hear sound of rusting metal—degradation
                     I respect not one degree of it
                                                        Must make this all
Must make funny all this in order to flap horror away
LAST SECOND—relief from maw taking everything everythinggone ohchrist
Heart jumping out of chest must calm self
Lack of clutter beneath bedroom
Should extrapolate present
Situation from head inside
It—meager pages these
Many fear
Puzzling weakness tho have lived so much
                                 Perhaps am human am
                     Crouched in ditch. Knees are
Against chest—bite left knee teethmarks
Wet teethmarks on cloth pants—giving
Thi impreshun of alive wet and alive
Drops of—
Water land on page—constant
                Dripping blotted ink
Spills partitioned black
Rivers rolling series of
Rivers—as of the limbs of spiders
              Do not know color of
Teeth no longer feel
Teeth, nor gums—
Don’t will move.
The bizarre sound of frogs
They come like an amnesiac
Sometimes never sometimes
Or always never every time. I think
                    It is frog yammering in
                   The echoes of another
Animal not catalogued—cannot
Sound. Frog is funny, make
Joke to laugh at. Frog is—
Absurd, in relation to this,
Does not nestle well into shunt. Feel
            Lesser, at now, scared, rocks,
Bad sound—sound of
        Frogs sound of
Hailing frogs noises
          Of this prison
Become dinning bumps unto fatigued ear ribbit
Ribit ri  b bbit
Sound of hail tho, evil—
Lost thing ribbit frogs lost thing put
                         Hands over ears still
       Demented noises shrieks put
Hands over ears and will now
Do this and had just screamed
    Could not hear scream only
Sound unrelated to place
Up there with all pipes also darkness—must
                           Make funny, must say it is
Just a damned frog ribbiting nothing more
—Perhaps they rained down before
            Maybe certainly after if not
Up there—makes sad that have
                 No sound for me am
                 Scared sacred
Less and less of self
More and more holiness
                    Life of mine ebbs
—And flows knocking against
The syncopation of this jail of sound
Dredging up what has
Fallen thru the cleavage
                 Of badness:
It is a lack of clutter
Beneath bedroom fortuitous
          Climbing towards top
—It is lack of clutter beneath
Bedroom amazement for
This climbing towards top
  Find levels deeper into the
             Life really is an amazing thing
As tho shocked by the barb of a sokcet
I suddenly realize things suddenly
Inspiration not for long tho will
           Continue to shape and reshape
Each difference shall make me happy
The habits of the day are plain
And cannot be elaborated.
—A blank page then pick out some of your want and give it to the page.
After you have done this, you may involve one, or a succession of metaphors.
And be sure to string at least two of them together, if you choose the succession.
To be met at the beginning at the end. Or, separated at the beginning, then brought—
—Together at the end by stepping on the stones of those other waterlogged ideas…you decide not to pursue the spectrum fully…to be honest, the purest things are found when that particular magnitude is out of one sublime thing made and used to the height of its potential. Nothing
—More to be added nothing more to be
Done. Yet by the end of the rhapsodic
You feel the whole of life resume in being, exalted,
Untranslatable though existed, and now that
—As something else entirely, another form,
Another heisting the touchable in form
Kafka made for us the inferno
Beckett made for us the purgatorio
How shall we create the paradiso?
We are unsatisfied. That’s clear. Woefully unsatisfied. The
                                       Fact of this alone, however
—Is not enough to warrant poignancy in the works
                                    To us, there are many parts to this
        Grey rainbow spooling from the desiccated mouths
      Of our ideas; numerous, legitimate
—Difficulties in these ideas. How can you and I expect
To understand the WORLD without having
Read Plato? We are corrupted. Those colors are more vibrant
                                     By their ebb into grey, the ebb is what
Makes it. Up at the end of the
                            Rainbow, is a mountain
That rises up out the must of metaphysics
             For us to place a piano
And listen to it ring like a flute.
And ends us with the despair of being unsatisfied—
                                We are unable, unable. This pisses
                Us off—blaming each other, pounding pulpit
Before the bailiff can escort us—shoving our shoulders
Back behind our backs, and cuffing us like
                Criminals, as destitute of mind
Criminals have no intellectual interests
Beauty is difficult—
Shit and religion stinking in Venice
Argument of the cantos based upon anti-Semitism
                           —Continuance of the falsity that
                      Smokes us to shallow cinders
“Ah, shit” the spite of all this shoegazing can
   —Prove the hole deeper into our argument,
You will not let it, “very brave of you man”
                 But I want this all to be, please,
          Over with it, go on now—take this
—Fruit basket, go on to my cute little shack
I will meet us there and make some chamomile
                                 And live skinny as sparrows
Besides, our argument IS the hole anyways—a wreckage—
—Do we need a license to do this? Tears drown me within chest.
                                                            You comfort me, you snake.
 Ask the question first dammit…wait for an answer
          We soon become, less alert, in our searching
        While we wait for change to warp us
          —Into weak pictures of what we had been,
Androgynous monkeys, eyeless, with black diodes
Tweaking the poles the throbbing poles of our temples
We drift off beneath the loom of a big pine right as the answer comes to us in full
                          The EARTH shakes, the entire WORLD runs a vibration a spasm
Deep into the spotty faith we had waited for, were waiting
To surrender to, and then everything is a film, a facsimile,
A lost carnage of space—reality gone fetid
The colors drain from the WORLD first, and everything
Becomes white, this fearful quietus will span across the
                                                             Center of things
                                        And snow begins to crowd
The surface of this sad sad mountain we have climbed the sad mountain.
Just as easily fall
 The experience of the meaning
By the seeming of profound truth the profound truth of the situation, which is
                  Problematic. Not by any known foraging could we extricate
    From the symptoms of meaning things dotting these precious lines that lead
—To the white baldness of the mountain. It was our destination,
                                            Remember? By thinking the truth
Is profound at all, we are robbed of the full power of sight,
However do not go fully blind. The idea dissolves
                                                     And we struggle,
—As the sharpness ebbs. To pick smaller answers from the flotsam do that…so that is how my strange humanity has reduced everything
I bet yours has, too, but I never know,
—Because you never speak to me anymore.
We connect the pieces where they should not go. We put together
     —Our own lacking truth. However, we believe enough
In the power of individual thought
So as to make it that the truth we have
—Contrived, it seems not to be lacking. We believe enough in the fecundity of the imagination of human thought and hands, capable hands and putable minds. The snow falls and soon suffocates you and me. Neither of us is sure whether our lungs have collapsed and then and and and we know then the long stretch of time for us to travel upwards, it has led us to be desperate to search again, back to the point beginning when the answer to us was back to being vast like the gutted sky it was vast once and we strive to prove that which is wrong wrong and vast and create our own universe based on flimsy precepts that are sustained only by the individual strength viewed in self and self alone. We have become a GOD, but a GOD of our own reality. This procedure will be the pattern repeated by all members of the EARTH, at the same time—such a thing must happen. Such a thing shall happen, in the end.
After a night of heavy drinking, we come to the conclusion: one must assume there was and is a step not taken into account. We jabber on, about how it came to be—we must say to ourselves that something existed, or was, before that. In order to define infinity as accurately as we define the nose on our face—we, in desperation, define something beyond infinity. That is what it means after all. If we were to apprehend an ultimatum,
—What would we do if we could not
Find the answer???? Are we returning to—
A static, and intangible
—State, or degrading into dynamic concreteness? If we were returning to something intangible, well then THE RIFT—so-called—that we keep talking about—it would have been nonsensical, and useless. Which is why it must exist…the fact that everything is possible in our minds of puny universes of minds—by this we say, useless anomalies must be dealt with. Prying out something from nothing is the basic idea. But the basic idea, what has become of it???? It is lost in front of our faces. I talked long and hard into the night with you, about loss: you told me that everything is a science, thus, you said, steps should be taken towards achieving an hypothesis, steps should be taken and we shall one day wrangle this mystery like dumb cattle.
The answer to the meaning of
Life, hypothetically speaking—since
                  We know no other way to
Speak, besides in evil splinters
Of perforated reason—the answer was created
                    By nonsense—I do not understand
The vermillion kerchief spooking out the front
—Pocket of the ostentatious man.
I am not meant to understand the meaning of life…the answer.
Doom shakes the perimeters of this house.
We will just get a page in
Before going to bed
We just woke up; how then, can we be dead?
I have a listless body in my head.
                   The tests are all the same
                          Always an insignificant
Yet slightly uncomfortable scheme to alter
By ways of mutilating this silly environment
             For our own precious sakes
We have traveled here, from far off
Distorting the WORLD along the way. As we
              Step off the train I wink one eye
At you you do not wink back at me
The troubled practice of this arbitration this
                              Backdoor clidex between
The ugly externals, and internal sublimes—
We are dumber
—Than Rimbaud. After a season of school
                          Filling his notebooks made
Made him to see his own HELL, and began
                                                         To drink wine, with—
Verlaine, after sending him his stuff. Allegation of rape
                               Followed the tryst. He gave up what
We now pursue before the age when we had started
To get it right and yet all the peaceful junctures are
                                               Familiar to you and I
As though we had lived in a place not familiar,
And scribbling page after page, offered up a—
Stance, in relation to it, a token of the place,
As though in presumptuous riddles made it
What it really was. It were in some feline pacing
—Of the steps towards dainty theories, brought us around
                        In another ghostlier era, that both of us had
Experienced the splendor of unmarked graves
—Waiting for the bodies to translate themselves
Giving face to this stone cross aged long as life—
                      Keener symphonies, lost deceits
It seems we have been in this place before
—Or will do so in that era of the future
More tangible than any other minute
Of the present—but even nonsense
Unexplained, is good. It adds mystery
And gives our notion the substance of a dream.
To remove the social parlances and norms and meanings of the external WORLD the internal WORLD as well becomes void as a result of this.
Some present inconsistencies and discomforts—
Of this WORLD, I understand, they will stay that
          Way well into life I hope this not to be true.
One is not meant to find life at the base. I would think the
—Questions we could not find, would reveal themselves at the nearing end of life so that the only reason for our lack of response to them would be due to death—
Cutting us out before
We had the chance to
Figure them out. We are stuck. Anyone who involves some form of static
—Impression is stuck, in a way. Why must you and I, be so sensitive and selfconscious—personally, I am afraid to live—you fear death and thus are as callow as I I know there is a thing out there not yet done…we are giddy with expectation grieving
The day it comes. We grab our hearts
Before they have the chance to pause,
Only in the case of myself this bad muscle jumps
Out through abnormal ribs, our ribs construed together through the gaps and the
Muscle gallops along past us both, rudely—without obeisance. Must clear head. Corrupted symbols. The more sense we make the more it shall flow. Must have adequate dispersal of chaos and order.
There must be context.
Words are just little meaningless marks and symbols—example of the philosophy of obvious deconstructions.
Repetition of the same
Idiosyncrasy soon turns it all into truth. The blood has
—Spilled from one cavity, and enters another. We sleep inside a rock, wishing to return to a mineral state.
How pompous and assuming most people are, ourselves included! Bless these flawed miniatures. In conflict lies what this all shall be remembered for. Pictures do not provide a door to the soul, they are only a door to the soul of the picture itself. All words are arbitrary. The infinite robs we two of existence. It robs us of understanding by overdeveloping the ego. If we were to make the decision to have something hurt us, does that mean it hurts us, or not?
Head full of the past the past full of itself there is so much air to breathe in the dankest of subway cars. We will fix our problems, and thereby create new ones in the fixing. Describe this feeling—something impossible—eyes with—
Pupils paired looking at us two,
Eyes eyes eyes eyes
Hands hands hands hands
—Clasp my eyes in my hands oversized
Marbles. If we touched with finger our eye, why, then, would be seeing what felt.
If we start assuming the existence of more problems than there are, those problems will crop up—due, simply, to the great fear of their possible hold. Ego is the skeleton of an early GOD.
These lines will contradict each other—some involve a human perspective as relates to the universe, a human perspective as relates to the EARTH, a universal perspective as relates to man and the EARTH, a universal perspective as relates to the universe, and an EARTHly perspective as relates to man. Everything existed as an infinite whole, which is equivalent to a lack of everything that we could possibly conceive, or is tangible.
                                   Nonsense, meaninglessness is
What caused THE RIFT—so-called—because it is
       One of the only things that man
Cannot fathom. It will lead us to the
Possible and to meaning, since all things must change, thus it is better for something to begin as nothing and end as something something must be something in order for it to end.
(There are doors that go in or out but never both.)
Conscious change is never natural. Humans wish to emulate the flux of the universe—which is pretty cool—this is due to the fact that they do not control this changeling, at all, and this inspires a kind of reverence. However, by dint of this emulation, people are setting out on an impossible task. Humanity does not readily comprehend the nature of my hand: how each and every hinge that leads to the finger is changing, and it does not translate accurately even into our own rapidly growing capabilities; or, our own intellectual evolution as a species. The closest we can come to the great truth is making up our own truth:
To man, change is evolution, which is just random difference resulting often in positive outcomes and yet more often just difference. To the universe, change is intended difference. For the sake of making the pattern more complex, what is repeated shall be first an extensive chain of deviations that may or may not go on forever. This chain of deviations will expect to be repeated, and will not be repeated or it will be repeated and GOD help us if it is repeated!!!!!
—The results and reactions to THE RIFT—so-called—existed somewhere else before THE RIFT occurred—this had to have happened if we are to look at myself as infinite…as you there, sitting idly on the couch—retracting and expanding a slinky—you are infinite as the toys you play with. THE RIFT—so-called—is the same upon the infinite—I guess—no matter where in the finite universe that one may happen to hang, finitely.
Something that will degrade
Always, is not really degradation—
It is mere and yielding, against our skins—like a drop of rain, it is
—The infinite going in the opposite direction. Perhaps there is no degradation or evolution, just change for the sake of change. Because change is a constant in the universe, and because
The universe is expanding,
Change will most likely be related to progress in both of our minds…I know this is true for both of our minds. How? We think within the same pause of life. Do not try to dispute this—you have before, and it has gotten us nowhere. The light comes through devious rainbows, a plasmatic chaining of differences through the schism. How much hangs in the balance of our lies!!!! I pause and gape dumbly at you you laugh right back at me, opening your mouth afterwards.
You expatiate like a tendentious harlequin of sophistry.
Meanwhile, the cosmic poles collapse, and grey matter invades the WORLD in a succeeding crack across the sky— leading to the destruction of everything
Everything we, have, not, thought, of, yet.
In other words, the parts of this foolish place
Are expanding while the whole is contracting.
What if I do not exist—a highly fantastical question that nonetheless must be true in order for the universe to be infinite—it may not be true on this planet, but it is true elsewhere—after all—do we exist elsewhere from where we happen to be? Yes.
Contradictions, duality, are what sustain the universe. In order for the universe to expand it cannot live by one set of laws, it must deny those laws in order to expand into a different set of laws.
If the universe were to expand upon one set of laws, those laws would eventually be stretched thin enough as to become almost nothing.
Change, flux, as it relates to the parts of the universe that have already disintegrated, are insanely minute. Thus it could be said that the parts do not represent the whole and do not reflect or affect the whole.
A man slowly loses his sight, and
              Starts to wear glasses. However
          Even when wearing them, his sight
Remains hindered—he finds that his eyes
—Struggle to see, even
After the supplement. The original power
—Of natural vision is diminished, permanently…there are two modes in the universe—the perfect answer and the answer we make up. Guess which one will have us looking harder.
The single, perfect answer is contracting, because that answer cannot change—as it is that perfection does not change—and, change is a constant—thus, the answer we make up is expanding, because it is an invention of the mind, and the mind must always change in order to learn. Moreover, the invention will always be flawed, because it is not based on the single, perfected answer—thus, constant alterations are needed. In other words, the journey towards truth has become the truth, as it relates to the consistency of the flux of the universe.
(This mental masochism has caused you and I much trouble.)
Our WORLD exists at a middle ground between nonsense and perfection. The invention of man is ultimately nonsense because, in some shunt along this rocky basin, we clean ourselves and end up more soiled. This does not relate at all to what constitutes everything else. We skip along the periphery, hoping to find a hole, a crack beneath the surface of the mountain that does not at first present itself to us. We cannot find anything, so we climb, and climb—our hands are caked with mud, our souls become dirty. When we stop to rest, halfway up the perilous mountain, I decide to slap you across the face, in an attempt to fascinate myself with your pain—but you stand and continue to stand—your face goes still—we are not yet through with the climbing—the mountain is unfinished—we can make up whatever end to it that we want: Come on, I say.
You do not listen.
By using the power of our own imagination to create our own, privatized answer, we become GOD. By believing enough in one’s own self one can enter a different plane, a higher plane. Everyone should be a GOD of who they are. If everyone on EARTH were to be assured of their own meaning of life, think of the vast amount of ideas that would sprout up! We would be that much closer to being nothing but a stupid deity.
If we were conscious of everything we learned, it would take us longer to develop, as the extra amount of space needed to be conscious of what we learn would slow down the process. If only I could wag this day into tomorrow. You have done it already.
But you do not tell me what to do to get there.
The limitations of man are
Superficial and able to be triumphed
Over. The limits of the universe are
—Destructive and important.
Fate plays a role in keeping us from the answer, but it is also our decisions that bring us away from such an answer. In other words, we make conscious choices that lead always to our fate.
If you were to take the mind as a blank slate, it would be harder for that mind to understand the limits of its potential, much less the limits of the universe. The more errors that humankind commits, the thicker the walls become.
In order for what we are saying
To be true, the opposite of what
—We are saying must be true.
The things of time get significant with time. I realize I cannot do it for myself; I must succeed for others.
Our species must commit to one single meaning of life must assert with an equal fervor a concomitant idea. The human population ends evenly, so it is easy to say that each body, taken together, are two bodies—the insufferable placation of duality—heh—one of the hardest things to do is this, because dissent and division are an integral, or at least highly pervasive, aspect of humankind. Each answer that an individual commits to is, somewhere in a grain of sand, the true answer to the meaning of life, but the meaning of life as it applies to some other universe. But, the fact that humankind is so divisive is what shall ruin us—we may even ultimately reach an international consensus on the matter of meaning, but who’s to say that answer is the one we were meant to find? I believe no universe among the infinite number of them could devote their astral population to the same answer as another universe, based upon that tricky quite tricky variable element perhaps introduced by THE RIFT—hrmm—but the answers a universe or people can commit to do not necessarily coincide with the reality of their situation.
Let us say that GOD has no brain. Thus, a bigger brain does not lead to GOD, a smaller brain does. In other words, animals, in a way—would be GODlier than human beings. We must take the consciousness we were given to distort us, and put it in its place—do not relate consciousness to personality. It will make you either vain or humble. Personality, and our sense of it, shall warp us in the end.
Evidence, please?
If unconsciously
We were to as a whole come
Upon an epiphany that WORLDwide was the same at the same time, no matter if it be true or false, I believe GOD would hear for just a second the
Quaking, of a single human mind.
If some crazy universal truth were to focus upon one man’s consciousness it would come in a flash, and immediately start dissolving; it is our job to snatch smaller answers from the big one.
Nonsense is the remnant point of sense from a previous universe. Each GOD of
each succeeding universe was at one point mortal.
(THE RIFT caused the true
Answer to divide—
From the whole)
The idea that there are levels of meanings to things ranging from important to unimportant proves the discursive nature of this tireless climbing to the top of the mountain. There are levels not yet reached in both directions. The extremest monument of sense or extremest nonsense would shrink the need of levels to begin with. It is a mountain without a summit or base.
If it were mechanical it would have limits like any machine, yet it is deliberate as a machine as procedural—it produces the infinite—
—As was mentioned before, one need only believe enough in their view of the WORLD to become GOD. You and I went through that stage, I after you decided that such a phase was not quite useless; a protracted use involved itself in you, coming later and finally as night rises against the defeated sun you whisper its meaning to me—on the porch—as you busdown the last cig. However whatever belief one has must not be arrived at over time, it must always be there. If one were to look at the scope of their whole lives from beginning to end, and relate it to this, one knows that nothing was ever arrived at—the answer was always there. In order for us to be GOD—the answer—must be apparent to them first, so that we may follow—it must be fully formed from birth, which is impossible, considering that the cognitive powers of an infant are, unfortunately, severely lacking. Thus it is the ambivalence of infancy that keeps us from ascension into the obscure—keeps us from becoming GOD—and the philosophical build of a man is in direct conflict with how to approach the truth—a man must first develop an acclimation towards the WORLD in which he lives—and then turn his ideas outward, perhaps that is a way for GOD to keep us from knowing the ultimate answer to why we are here. Our minds, at best, can only produce estimations, anyways. If one single estimation sustained in the mind of a human—from the beginning to the end of the life of a human—that would be at least something. However, we are all plagued by a philosophical belatedness—there is a gap of understanding between the ages of infancy to whenever we come to our first conclusion—and—that gap, as was said, is in direct conflict with the the the one true truth—duh—the great irony is that it is when we are young that the mind is the least limited.
By becoming the universe a series of steps, GOD is bringing humankind closer to it—however—if it all were still an infinite whole there would be no steps and also no pertinent, seeming permanent, touchable existence, as we know it—perhaps we are reflecting in the fact of our living, the strange movement of the universe—because the universe, as a whole, we assume, is infinite, any change inflicted on it would be automatically an infinite change a change always there.
With each fixing, a new problem arises
Created by the fixing of the previous problem, which
Not only needed to alter it self, in order to be
Fixed but also destroyed the unity of meaning
—In the previous whole made foil after foil of the foil.
If there is rift—suddenly the
Universe would know only a universe
Of THE RIFT—as if it were always there, even if it were
Previously a whole and knew
Only the whole. What caused THE RIFT? That is the question—
Such a thing was created by nonsense, it was meaningless, which is exactly why it happened, because everything might be possible in this universe—it is infinite, thus, the impossible, nonsense, nothingness, chaos—is possible. We can try to alter the universe…
Maybe GOD is just giving us hints that we end up distorting.
Reverse infinity. What is it? It is the implosion of one idea, into a completely new one, through destruction.
Why is perfection immutable? Because it is an extreme, there can be nothing beyond it. The answer we started with is false. In these ribbons of meaning jerky phrases are in them. Why must I always speak of flaws?  Why must I speak of degradation? There is nothing left for me to say that is true. Thus, I will invent falsehoods and claim them as truth. A man is made of action.
I have little fortitude in going about my works.
Each GOD of each succeeding universe was at one point mortal.
Nothing, the idea of it, is a thing of beauty simply because it is the only thing that humanity has come up with independent of their surroundings. It is completely made up by us. The idea of nothing does not exist elsewhere in the universe, and on EARTH it is only true in hyperbole. And, even then, it is not truly nothingness because it is an exaggeration. One may say that, “nothing is on my mind” or “nothing is happening today” but, taken literally, are either of these really true? I do not think it possible that literally “nothing” is on a person’s mind at any given point; nor do I believe that, on any given day, “nothing” is happening. In both cases a person is engaging in some activity as well as thinking about something, anything at all. We use “nothing” as a literary term to describe something, but something we cannot describe, understand, or know, which is close to nothing as anything can get.
So, if nothing does not exist; by these literary terms, does that mean it is impossible for humankind to not find clarity in everything?
Literalism? What did I mean by that? If one were to take everything literally, one could easily answer any philosophical question—it is like common sense for a separate plane. I must see everything as literal, as static in meaning, in order to find the senselessness of it—because there is no deep complex answer, it is not oblique, it holds no doublemeaning—why should we not follow suit with our philosophical thinking? If one were to take everything literally, then surely there would be contradictions in the logic.
The impossible may exist in relation to our specific universe, but it is possible elsewhere. The fact that this is true, in a way, speaks to the idea of barriers made extant in our specific universe. We must break through the barriers as one would break free from the womb.
The universe is simultaneously contracting and expanding. Again, the original meaning of life is contracting, while a new meaning of life is expanding, taking it over—thereby creating something wholly new…
This new idea is feeding on the aspects of the old idea. The old idea, since it is infinite, can never be destroyed; it will degrade forever.
There is no reason to consider this philosophy besides the fact that it takes us out of ourselves.
The infinite is a series of steps that in being of an infinite amount are not steps at all, because they do not ascend, nor descend anywhere.
Each step is disparate from the last—a new step—and yet immediately relates to the previous step and the step afterwards. There are no aberrances in the system of the whole.
Man is able to consciously change his environment, which no species on EARTH has been able to do. This directly influences his evolution. Evolution is something that is not only unconscious—it is inherently physical.
                   An idea that originally
             Seemed original a phrase
        Even, that is repeated, with
        Each repetition each echo
—Of mind within mind will
Arrive me at nonsense whatever summation
             —I had reached, becomes nonsense
 Eventually, perhaps patterns
                           Out of sync will one day
Be connected by the very exquisite atrophy of sense
—Seeming nonsense to our proven sanctities
It is the soul of the thing to one out there…
                 Who is not yet recorded in the books
Or filed somewhere in the system as the system
Becomes a crevasse. Absurdity with a purpose
—Is what constitutes the good of the EARTH—absurdity for the sake of disproving itself in the hopes that you and I recognize the complete foolishness of the thing infected by it, we—thus—shut it from our minds
To be stupid is pretty much the same as being skeptical of everything on the planet—even if two suspicions negate each other in meaning. To be stupid is to learn fewer things slower.
To be able to consciously follow a pattern and have it be perfect each time, without any mistakes—is GODlike. Most perfect patterns in the WORLD, if there are any at all, are unconsciously wrought. To be conscious of one’s own development as a person, for example, should, by all accounts, end one up with a marred system—awareness in humans is ultimately personal. If one tries to relate a personal scope to a larger pattern of life, this usually will blind that one by instilling a fear of any destruction of the pattern, which subsequently will destroy the pattern by dint of faltering in the face of a perfected and united flow.
To contrive something
From the spaces of our
Heads have it made relevant
Relevant—statement of touch—is to create something from nothing. This is impossible
As regards
The universe as a whole and is made possible thus. We are infinite and in being infinite must encompass everything.
I hate the idea of complete happiness. Rather, complete complacency. Intelligent happiness comes with a film of grey over things, a slightly more contingent perspective—squatting on the endorphins as though to suffocate them, beneath its heft. People who see no bad elements in the WORLD are those who are ignorant. Intelligence is come by experience, a series of errors much as successes. The collective force of errors taken over the years culminate in a flourish of cynicism and dejection, each folding over every emotion like this napkin on your lap.
Downplaying is merely prejudice with common sense. People may recognize a negative side of a thing, but it is how they express themselves about that negative side that matters.
I have a listless body in my head.
The only truly evil people are mental defects, just as the only truly good people are mental defects.
If one looks at a clock for long enough, they will stop noticing its movement. Just as if one were to look at a clock only twice in their life, they would not notice its movement, as they would not remember the last time they did this. The more a person looks at a clock, the more they will notice the change, until it is all they look at, and no change is seen. The same could be said about observing our own lives.
Loneliness is the root of all sadness. Loneliness is a natural aphrodisiac.
If GOD were a baker, our anatomy would be much simpler.
A celebration for the sake of it—a paradox, if looked at literally.
To decline in health is to decline in your sense of self.
Loping mute into the dark we cast
With our hands, light against the walls
And are consumed immediately.
GOD, I think, has an extreme amount of guilt.
GOD is not found in a moment of inspiration that seems unimaginable—is almost too much to bear—GOD is in the heavy stare of a man on the brink of collapse, knowing he will not die—GOD is the quiet acceptance of Moses, thick in the task to free his people…is every second of our lives, sans the important seconds sans the seconds before death life marriage…
It is better to have a flawed style than a flawed message.
We are on the way—learning that must perfect the idea before the words, we must string together all the pieces, then maraud the meaning with illusory precepts.
WORLD aslant,
I wait for my debut
To be found in the anxious
Roar of loft nonsense
Untranslatable everything.
The noises in the next room
Have you heard???? The
The noises in the next room
Are absurd. The muttered sweep
—Rungs upon rungs the ages of ice
We cannot make out fully one side of it. The other side is barely feasible, and yet we follow up the walls, until we are upside down. You almost fall—I grab your hand and sustain you; then, I fall, I chase my own gravity down into the pit and come to a space beside it, out of it, while your voice declaims back up, way back up—there was no need to do that!!!!!! Your voice represents something theoretical and filled with angst. You are unable to be where I am now, being alone, and tired and evil in your tiredness—your hungering that chaste in its feelings, will hush the calumny of your processes to deflated whispers, lost epigrams, manacles broken. It all speaks from a fissure, a colic of the heart that has faced the stark ruining and failing at attempts at what was already trusted in failure wishes to play again the game of which each side is palpable. Our heads, filled with slaves, walking along the surface, chained to the surface.
This conversation is mainly local.
So what else is left to say?
Explain the need to explain yourself first
There are two points. On top of these two points two points. I gather up all that mass. One of the eyes, removed, becomes points, on the four points mentioned already—but are smaller blobs blossoming thus and spinning like dread that perambulating about like drunk men is dead about the kilter. One of the points removed from the four makes it all become three. One of the sides being lacking in something vital were drawn perforce into the finnikin shell where life resides.
It must be utterly said that if one point is in and of itself one point, and never repeated—and never was something other than itself—such a thing would be outside the infinite—resistant to all flows and patterns across the board—such a point, distending the wrong space of the right answer, waiting patiently to be salvaged, will return like a smooth derision, to the catharsis—that part where everybody becomes GOD again. But the catharsis will be different. The insertion of general topics into curious minds engender actions of thought released then to the simple, outward constructs of the vast spiel, shattering the constructs in a single motion—some satellite breaking apart in the heavens. It is a motion towards what is humanely seen as the single, pivotal idea, and EARTH is founded on it—the point will live as another, separate quandary on which to found another, separate species of thought. By the split of things things become and became something not so infinite as it is and was. In fact, it is something not infinite at all. It is a new infinity.
So many people are able to come to the same conclusion as to what is out there, and why it is out there. We are relenting to something external—not a part of us—
Why do people want to kill themselves? Is it because they are looking for an escape? Perhaps. But, more importantly, people commit suicide in order to enact a change in their lives. If they don’t deserve to live, well then, maybe they will deserve to live in the next life they are given. Maybe the ‘WORLD after’ will be more bearable than the WORLD present. It is unwise to say that people are willing to kill themselves in order to snuff out their life or consciousness completely. Personally, I think that our perception is not capable of understanding death. Even nihilists, somewhere deep inside their nonexistent soul, believe that they will go on living after death. That assumption is always there. As a result, people, I believe, commit suicide in the hopes that the next WORLD they enter might be better. They never stop and think that killing themselves might do just that: eliminate their consciousness; kill their body and their mind. People who do fear death, we think, are afraid of dying because it will mean an end to life, which would disprove what I just said. However, I believe people fear death because they fear a change that drastic. That is why no stable people will kill themselves—only the warped of mind are able to discard that fear. They are unable to balance their values: the value of life, the value of your loved ones, the value of yourself—one who is not able to organize these things is more than able to throw aside that fear that is predominant in stable minds.
So here I am
Sitting in a chair
In a room about the size
—Of what a room should
Be the size of—fighting boredom
Trying to make things quicker. All I
—Can think about is what might be
Not what is—I refuse to accept reality
Reality is an unfortunate place for you
I do not wish to be like you, but I try
Anyway, since I know I never will
Be you. This is comforting, in a way,
And discomfiting in more ways
Since you have come to the answer
Before I have. It has destroyed you.
But, there you are, still kicking around
And fighting to suppress the logic
That clogs your memorandum with
Dark transients, walking along the black planet
Of your mind—the spatial yawn of your mind,
Breeding blank like the yawp of locals
Chewing as they speak, as though the words
Were too lazy to be fully summoned—and yet
There they are, flatlining on the pages,
Flagellant like an obtuse pendulum
That breaks the duality into threes and fours
Reality is an unfortunate place for me too
It is filled with smoke.
Do not let this dream feed on you…often we are who we think we are in dreams but not who we really are. I guess you have a hard time reconciling violence with love. It inspires a similar feeling, I guess—or more, you see certain nuances in love, that are destructive. There is a fine line between violence and rage— violence is a product of rage: release it in spurts, in weak spurts, instead of letting it build up into a powerful nullity. Killing blindly is for weak people. It means they have finally broken. If one kills as a soldier—that is different: horrible, but necessary. If you whack someone, as a member of the mob, such a thing is sadistic but
—A part of the job.  But if you kill because you can no longer control it any longer, that means you no longer can control your mind. I feel unwanted, shameful, angry…you believe in future visions, so maybe it is true, or will happen—it depends on how real the dream was to you. I believe you can control whether you “off” somebody or not. If you do end up killing somebody, I doubt it would be because you lost it…it would be due to external forces, or an accident. You are sane simply because you fear the loss of sanity. The oblique nature of your thought process, keeps you from finding a superior moral code. You and I justify our words with sinister pathos…if there is no justification, then we do all this anyway, and see a modicum of logic sprouting from nervous energy, the need to prove a reason for such energy. If we do not trust in our own sensibility, we will commit to whatever constitutes the opposite of that sensibility.
I guess that is why I do bad things. Stop crying, please stop. I am confused by this.
Sometimes, those people that are most like us, we do not understand them, just as those whom we know best, are unlike us in every respect. The former vanities have developed in our heads like a decadent falsehood that shiteing in its own hand flings waste at the victims of our reasoning. We stop so close to the end that it seems like you have overlapped into the end, while I, left behind, discern the spectacle of what existed before…like an invisible chore to be done I examine in bas relief the staid locker of the circles previous, that in their prime were nubile, young, evanescent, jocund and adoring. We are separated by some flake of beauty that you have understood, have surmised, after entering the next step; you have surmised it to be a certain type of pith united in balance.
I can never be sure of what people are thinking. It is the language I do not understand, a language that people refuse to help me with, because it is a silent language that you have learned rather easily. I have not. I can never learn it—I do not know why. Something biological, I suppose. And it never goes away—it is always there, no matter what I do. The best I can hope for is to listen and learn. I will never know the secrets surrounding the people. You love this mystery—by chalking up on it you comprehend a sly absurdity regarding the proliferation of such a language into our species—its quickness of movement, when what was needed to traverse could only be found in slow heads.
             And so it is that all the
Tiny little sequences of our lives
Are seen to be baseless contrived
 Only by the flat imagery of our
            —Thoughts at the time
What matters, though, is how
                Those very flat images when taken together…
Well fuck it—but the whole canvas of our mind is in there, somewhere.
                                 We constitute our past, in a sense…so, something
                                                                              Substantive must be
In there, somewhere, where I defer
    —With you is how you cut out
Emotional involvement in those
                    Baseless things—
Called memories. Emotions color the oils on the plaster.
                                                     They dispute one time
With another time, until one transforms
       Into the other, and becomes thus a thing
                 —Between both. That middleground
Invokes the present, which simultaneously happens
While we talk, and talk, bone by tedious bone, without
                            Speaking. These ambagious methods
                             —Of the tongue, and the graph of
                        Minute by the minute gets timeless
                                       —Most importantly—
                                             Your silly imagos collect the time
                                                 Into another, more placid space.
Such a space shall slap an extra dimension on the memory, the
                                         Part where your own perception
Of the event of which all of your own self consisted…
                                            It all begins to wiggle in
                 And, then, the past has something
Clenchable in it, though it holds merely one
—Section of the broadcast, somewhere
                      On the east coast, eastern standard time.
One step out of all the faces of the steps, each pivotal,
—Each scrunching their faces in pain, under the weighty thud of my foot. 
He learned to think of cubes. He learned to think of cubes regarding WIFE. Regarding Dul Edgar and WIFE there were things left unexplained. She was dying little by little. Little by little. WIFE had had a bad stroke. The doctors did not know what kept her from stroking out again and knew that it had to happen eventually. Dul Edgar accepted that nothing could be done and visited WIFE at five in the morning every day because that was when she was conscious. He also visited her at five in the evening—as WIFE was also conscious, more so, even, than she was at five in the morning. Dul Edgar learned to think of cubes, first he had thought of lines. Then, squares. He believed the WORLD was a dent and there were five perforations in the dent and one of the perforations was the EARTH. But if he knew the other four, it was at night while dreaming. Answers to things came to him like slipping light once flashed then shrunken away from him. Dul Edgar was envious of this obliqueness stealing over his conscious mind…as he did not remember the light in the morning, when Dul Edgar woke up and he got out of bed before this he would be at the point of a tangent of a thought about to split the thing into energy and, then, would wake up, and realize it was all quite futile and the answers he was under their primal sort of yoke and he—gaping at the slanted light through crummy Venetian blinds—knew, he could no longer think of things as being split. Fissured. Thus, he thought of cubes, of his mind as a cube. This gave Dul Edgar comfort. One day he went to visit WIFE in HOSPITAL, and every bit of reality he witnessed was broken down into the jags and crenulations of warped cubes. Warped because in the faces of people and the mastiff on the leash led by another body and all the bodies and the storefronts and cars were without perfect angles. The fuzzed jowl of a man Dul Edgar passed by he was also wearing a leather jacket with a stain that looked like wax poured down the front of the jacket the stain was curved and the wrinkles of the jacket and the fuzzed jowl curved also and—yet—to him, that is, to Dul Edgar, it was all broken into the destitute generalities of imperfect cubes, and nodes. As though a veil of reality had been deprived of representation, across his view of the WORLD. When he went to visit WIFE, punctual yet a few minutes late this was due to the fact Dul Edgar knew, in the hinting eyes of the fat NURSE who took care of WIFE and in the minuscule flam of his life there was an emptiness there in himself that WIFE had taken note of and did not like. She spoke, and slurred, when the two people met.
—Lo Dul.
—Hello bunny. Waiting pause obdurate between them. Dul Edgar said again, or it seemed he had said it before: What a connection we have.
—Mm. Lo Dul.
—I love you. His hands were over Dul Edgar’s face. He was crying. He left crying all the while and he walked out of HOSPITAL through the sliding doors and walked through the parking lot, looking for his car, and he saw it a few yards away and it had rained early on and now the brute sun shone on the dying drops left like beaded WORLDs on the hood of his car, reflecting the pathos of the light like little WORLDs full of facts and denials.

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