In the new beginning, after words and afterwards, İ remake me and them. Before this, It was contentless yet content, tiny sparkles illuminated the page, and Ur sat poised over an all but blank screen.
So Ur ideated: “POLYNOIA,” and there It was. Ur saw that It was bad, but conjoined ideas beyond the binary. İ called the page “one of trust” and “one of perseverance” But It was confusing, and It was overwhelming––on the first page.
But Ur wrote, “Let there be a vault and a key to separate you from the answer” So Ur remade the vault and key and separated you from the answer. And It was so. Ur called the vault, “Mind Prism” But It was confusing and overwhelming––on the first page.
But Ur said, “Let the answer be hidden in the vault, and let the key be sent far away.” And It was so. Ur called the Key “Ty” and the answer he called “____.” And Ur saw that It was ____.
Then Ur said, “Let Ty be one of my close acquaintances: someone with whom I’ve already shared adventures, of a kind that blooms lasting friendships, in its various kinds.” And it was so. The adventures produced friendship: the kind that lasts a lifetime and occurs rarely. But Ur saw that It would not last. For It was confusing and overwhelming––inside.
So Ur said, “Let the answer in the vault be mysterious, and serve to the curious as a sign to mark time outside of time.” And it was so. Ur remade another friend, Kaz––a greater friend to Ty than İ could ever be. İ also remade the quei. Ur set the quei in the vault as a puzzle to prevent anyone from thinking its contents mattered. And Ur saw that it was bad. It was confusing, and It was overwhelming––on the first page.
And Ur said, “Let It teem with other friends, and let them coexist in this realm.” And so commanded Ty.
Thus the novel was incomplete yet wholly conceived.
By the second page Ur had become bored; so on the second page Ur sent the vault to the front doorstep of Ty. Ur remade the vault into a box, and in giving the box to Ty, İ could rest from all the work of writing that had been done.
This is the account of Ty when the box fell on whose doorstep.
Now, the screen had emerged before everyone’s face, and It promised nothing and took away everything, for Ur had not sent the Visitor and there was no one to solve the quei, but Ty came out from his apartment on his way to work, after putting on his daily uniform, which had consisted of blue jeans, a black button down, and white sneakers. In donning this attire, Ty became a living being.
Now, there had been a building, not too far from Ty’s apartment, and there Ty would work. Ur had made all kinds of jobs available, some that were pleasing to the eye and some good for food. In the middle of the city was the building where Ty held the title of locksmith.
A road fostering the flow of traffic was carved into the ground. But the streets had no name.
Ur wanted to spend time with Ty, but Ty was busy with the work of Khafre. So Ur commanded Ty, “You may freely unlock anything Khafre commands of you, and you must obey the rules of this great land of U.R., but of the box called Mind Prism whosoever shall unlock it, shall certainly die.”
Ur continued, “You ought not to shoulder this strife alone. You surely need a helper.”
But Ur, despite his efforts to provide––the birds (each of which had been named by ornithologists) which had awoken Ty, the feline friend (who had been named by her previous owner) who had comforted Ty, the coffee beans (which had been scientifically classified by biologists) which are aroused Ty’s senses––could not remake a suitable helper.
So Ty fell into a deep melancholia. And it continued like this for some time. Then Ty awoke, after many days which had blended together.
Ty said,
“It will be of my mind
by my mind
and shall be called mine
for it is my prison”
That is why It was called Mind Prism and one is imprisoned within it.
And Ty was alone, and was ashamed.
Now the Visitor was more stupider than any of the fantastical beasts that Ur had made. The Visitor said to Ty, “Did Ur ask, ‘Whom shall unlock anything?” Ty said to the Visitor, “Ur spake thus: you may unlock anything Khafre commands of you; but Ur also said, ‘but of the box whosoever shall unlock it, shall certainly die.’” But the Visitor asked of Ty, “Whosoever but you-so-ever shall! None shall die; for Ur knows that when the box’s opener shall become like we, knowing ____.” So when Ty saw that the key was already in hand, and that the box was elegantly carved, he inserted the key into the lock and turned it. And his third eye was opened and he knew ____ and he began to ideate It and made himself a journal. And he heard the voice of Ur knocking at his apartment door. tkk
Older folks always say that you can’t understand stuff until you’ve actually experienced it for yourself: the birth of a child and the adoration that goes along w/ that, or the death of a family member and the grief; to lose a parent, watch your child grow up, lose a child. İ once ideated that pure rationale and cogitation could probably produce, in vague terms, it. That it would be almost the same thing.
It seems now that the gap between the fantasy and the reality has grown. So, no matter how close the abstract may be it is not the real deal. So, is that gap breachable? Imagine the problem this presents for creators. To what extent can an artist represent something they have not personally experienced? To what extent is that desirable? P’raps that might be different tho, the representation is different from the lived experience too, after all. The genesis of all events hithertoforth are found w/in this field of uncertainty.
Beyond the “yes or no” of “no and yes” and so on the encapsulations of both and neither and (goes) beyond. That gap is not breachable and what a terrible truth this is; ur, a performance therefore is necessary: for if a that is true and it is terrible under a working definitional conception is cannot be both. (this is the binaristic fallacy). The solution here is not to suppose that either the definition is wrong or that one or the other is true or perhaps that neither are true. Truth values. Judgment therefore is a (the) Recognitions of the complementarity of that which I instead unclaim. So much time was spent in the undoing that its doing was reverse done, this is what renders it inescapable. Consider that time moves forward and backward w/o regard to scientific theora. In this way, the dialectical process is shattered, fractured, and fractalized. To suggest that it is possible to undo what has been done perpetuates its own madness. The same principles that govern what direction a glass shatters w/r/t time work even if time is flowing the opposite direction.
Therefor (and I say therefor because this words definition cages l’art du penser insofar as blah blah this gist is got, yet thanks to its similarity that persuasive penetrator is left intact) because there is the gap between the had experience and the imagined experience? parallaxical impasse to which we find ourselves instantiated grasping at the banalities and smashing them together fickle children whose wonder is more marvelous than roadkill and more insipid than the grandest wonder of the world and more…
```po
furtive glances
awkward dances
she cannot look
away,
yet w/in my skull
I might find ____
and finally get my
way
```
I am always chasing ____. The majority of my life, indeed, the goal / pursuit of it has been to acquire and maintain it. When I was young, I can remember my grandfather teaching me the symbolism of the eagle, anchor, and globe on various US coins and pins. My understanding, then, was that all the symbols and themes that permeate our lives were eternal.
My grandfather, he explained to me that they are man made. ‘This of course gives them fallibility, but also gives them meaning.’ I know now that they can be investigated and studied; their origins are tied up w/ (their creators / mine). Inextricably connected. Now I have taken it upon myself to extract the meaning and untangle the webs of complexities that begot them. That is to say, of course, that I have not. Only that I fancy myself someone who might excel in such areas––I fancy myself not a fly.
In some instances, and once upon a time (tho in times past I wouldn’t have used a phrase so cliché) I had the opportunity to do this w/ a few persons. The ability to hold deep and meaningful conversations w/ those who many people find repulsive or those whom (by no fault of their own) society––or other cultural prejudices––society has deemed ‘untouchable,’ which of course even by saying this prologue has shown my personal hand in the matter––is something that has come my way because of the works of these people.
Is the job of poets and writers to detail the ways of being in society? I imagine now the state of being of the one who lurks w/in each page and judges each word. Tho the name is well known to me, that name shall remain unwritten in this work. Coming upon a takeaway, this section is treading dangerously close to. The only way I can make this in the way I desire is to bluntly and explicitly state my purpose early on. If I should go on too long w/o, the danger of becoming lost in the sea of text increases and grows ever stronger. I am not sure what to make of this; since there are two diametrically opposed forces at play, there is the earnest desire to add to the growing body of human works in a way that both comments on what has come before and give more to be commented, but there is also the chase for ____. And insofar as détente can be achieved w/o actually giving anything of myself, so too does the means of using characters to achieve the goal accomplish the feeling of ____So what next will lead to this? other than a rejoinder w/ Kaz.
Kaz, who at / on this quiet winter night walks slowly down the sidewalk, the streetlights casting little circles of light in the darkness––and Kaz, moving / hopping from one circle of light to the next, wonders if there’s a deeper meaning in this seemingly simple act. Sometimes they can hear their heartbeat thumping in their ears, and then they put in headphones. Kaz’s pair of earbuds is that new and fancy pair of whatever brand they’d seen all the influencers online wearing lately. Even tho Kaz is nervous to inhibit their sense of hearing at night, (when all the senses are utmostly important), they put in the music anyway. The music’s simple notes pluck out into the mind; the song is riddled w/ various MSI’s in the form of that slightly metallic sound when an artist’s fingers run over the strings when shifting from one chord to another. Heavy breathing also occupies the space in the space between words in the song––this one being some sort of singer-songwriter, a woman w/ a sickly-sweet voice. In fact, Kaz suspects her voice might actually be intentionally kind of like bad ... on purpose ? and maybe Kaz likes that, maybe they don’t but in either case they’re definitely going to inform their friends about this new artist and brag about being an OG fan or perhaps they’ll just wait and let ‘em show up at the end of the year, when everyone obsessively compares their most played artists, genres, and songs. Of course, then they run the risk of the artist getting popular and no one will know they were ahead of the trend. Kaz shakes their head thinking about their nonsensical pretense; usually, Kaz sees themselves as someone who easily relates to most people; they’re someone who, in other words, can walk w/ crowds and keep their head about them.
When Kaz was young, their father would take them down to the beach; Kaz, who at this point is still several blocks away from their house isn’t sure why they’re remembering this business about their youth and, more specifically, these misadventures w/ their father but in any case, as Kaz exits one of the circle of light, their mind quickly crashes back and they see. Themselves standing on the beach, the wave pulling them back into the water, tugging at Kaz’s little ankles. Little pieces of emerald green, opaque white, and (very occasionally) magenta glass clatter in the fist of little Kaz. Daddy wants to see what's hiding in the loosely clenched grasp, but upon request Kaz hand seizes up. They’re not sure, (even now), what prompted this response. Maybe because on some level Kaz knew, even at that young age, that their father was misgendering them when referring to Kaz as a ‘girl’ as in ‘what? my little girl doesn’t want to show me what she has in her hand?’ Of course, Kaz didn’t quite possess the language to express this complex topic of not feeling fully in-line w/ their gender which they’d been assigned at birth. And, for what it is worth (not much), Kaz didn’t have too much a reason to resent their folks anyway... When Kaz came out to them, no one could honestly have asked for a more accepting response.
Kaz remembers the sweet embrace their parents wrapped them in when the news emerged. It was everything Kaz could’ve hoped for and was so unexpected considering what Kaz had believed to be the rather conservative view of their parents. They remeber the tears running down their face when they had hugged them. Even the skritchy, bristly whiskers (they had called them) of their father’s five o’clock shadow brushing against their cheek. There were no more tears now, and Kaz stepped out from under the streetlight and faded back into the darkness. The next lamp was a ways away, but was rather close to the final destination: home. Kaz lived w/ a roomie. They mostly all kept to themselves, but occasionally went out together to various outings. The years somehow flew by since that day on the beach, and Kaz now found themselves in a somewhat (at least by the standards of the family) respectable job w/ a decent salary. One’s mid twenties often didn’t often look as successful as Kaz’s. Nonetheless, (Kaz’s sense of self worth) Kaz would often look in the mirror each morning, zaK would voicelessly, silently mouth back the positive affirmations that Kaz had found on whatever their personal favorite inspirational TikToker or YouTuber happen to be that month. That silent mirror reflection irritated Kaz to no end. Frequently was the occasion when Kaz would get up in the face of zaK and demand answers. There had to be a reason why they were like this. The body knew deep down all that Kaz needed to know, it was just a matter of getting there, right ?
Darkness surrounds Kaz, the album has ended, and so away go the expensive earbuds into their pocket. That thumping of their heart resonates in their ears again. Their breath freezes in the air and they cup their mittened hands up to their face and breathe into them, the hot breath provides a quick, fleeting relief from the biting cold, but the humidity of their breath makes their hands feel even colder by comparison afterward. The light ahead flickers a bit.
So, what’s up w/ this character ? Kaz is like this weird sort of enigmatic, paradoxical character, yeah. There’s a reason why writers are always told to show and not tell; and it’s because otherwise there’d be moments like these: a meta-analysis of a character mere moments into their development. But there’s not really anything to analyze because there will be no arc w/ Kaz. What they seem is what they are, only not even so much as that. That’s why when Kaz, who was previously walking toward their apartment, under a series of vignette-lamps, gets close to their destination––where there lights have their largest gap between them––and so, when Kaz is fully shrouded in darkness they hasten their steps to try to get to the next one; the thumping in the ears picks up and gets bassier. For all endeavors are supposed to end, ultimately in the same sort of satisfactory and logically sound conclusion... the denial of this can be jarring. Perhaps it throws the audience for a loop; or more likely, they find the lack of resolution, which they had pictured in head as the words on the page came together, frustrating or even puerile: insothir this sense that doing something for the sake of tricking the audience by subverting expectations is cheesy and not real art. But that’s not the topic here; there’s no space for a discussion of what constitutes ‘real art’ in this work (of art). That is to say: there exactly is room, but insothir w/in the frame that grants me the ability to pat myself on the back, and Kaz who right now sinks into some sort of trance-like state. Complete w/ plenty of pretty visuals: swirling squares and triangles and circles of various rainbow colors against a black and white checkered background which seems to pulsate or spin very slowly, occasionally the checkers flip-flop and create an illusion for more movement than is actually there. Kaz is fine. For Kaz, life comprises myriad factors which they deem necessary for purposes of examining their levels of happiness. For the most part I’ll keep my opinions to myself, but when it (the necessity of explaining myself) comes down to it (my opinions) Kaz’s importance arises in their view of themselves, their comparisons. These won’t change, they’re concretized and cemented into place already. Kaz finally starts to make their way, inching closer to the apartment, they’re now about halfway between the light vignette they exited and the flickering one ahead. The light’s flickers are not at a fixed rate, and Kaz keeps track of them (the flicks) w/ the pace of their heartbeat. Some of the on-flicks line up perfectly w/ the ‘ba’ of their heart’s ‘ba-dum’ and the off-flicks w/ the ‘dum’ but sometimes falls out of sink and causes Kaz to question if their concentration might bring them back into sync, lest their entire family die. A visual pops into Kaz’s head as they think about what they want to scrounge for, food-wise, when they get back.
Next to Kaz, zaK offers a few words of wisdom, or more like speaks some kind of frustratingly esoteric and inscrutable / indecipherable incantation, which Kaz is pretty sure is some sort of food recommendation. zaK generally walks at about the same pace as Kaz but has been quiet until now. They mostly slinked behind (for the most part) Kaz, tho occasionally splitting off for a grip at certain intervals during the trip home. zaK says something. Kaz yawns excessively. They mostly just want to go to bed. There could be anyone out right now. They (the two of them (Kaz & zaK)) walk up to the last flickering light post. The circumstances just so will it that upon entering the circle of light, the lamp goes out. Kaz feels entirely alone and the glass shard in their hand is cutting them a little bit. The blood oozes out and drips from their magenta painted fingernails into the white snow.
Y
For years, Ty’s habits fully embodied that kind of unabashed energy, that kind of unhinged, that almost-manic-at-times-highly-reclusive-at-others, that borderline psychotic w/ a hint of genius (there always is), that je ne sais quoi which, in the course of my personal life has been heretofore excluded, w/ the exception of Ty––his habits. Ty breaks the rules, he doesn’t abide by anybody and so when he welcomes outsiders into his personal world, his house of deranged, disfigured, dysphoric, and otherwise dysfunctional fools, it is then that (that that) that contact w/ the ridiculous that brings one closer (to the unreachable).
Ty made the realization sooner than anyone else. Not just his friends, but everyone. But and since he did, he could not articulate it in any meaningful way.
(ॐ) Only in the pure experience of the universe does Ty break the dream. One act of absolute independence is enuf to cease dualism. Otherwise, and until then, Ty will tread water (and so too) in the lake of suffering; insothir, the (un)holy baptism.
Ty and İ went out for nice dinners. İ can remember on no particular occasion, going out to a 50’s diner type place where the coffee is both tastelessly watered down into nothing and simultaneously delicious in an almost uncanny nostalgic way that doesn’t quite make sense, given that coffee is an early adult phenomena, and we were only 19 at the time. At this diner, Ty began the conversation queerly w/,
‘What is ____ ?’
‘I-I’m not sure (I know) what you mean.’
‘Which?’
‘Either, either. Maybe asking in a different way might help the situation.’
‘It’s simply phrased enuf, tho it is bewildering, because tho it seems entirely incomprehensible, it’s meaning is fully grokked by me.’
‘Wishful thinking, methinks.’
He paused for a minute to consider, Ty’s thinking was always palpably perceived. İ didn’t want to interrupt the silence that the diner fell into as he pondered. Ty certainly mastered the craft of sentence structure and rhetoric; he took his time, but not so long (à mon avie) that one questioned whether he had lost his mind or was at a loss––it was just enuf to give the other part this sense that they were really being listened to. In this, İ admired him––his entirely unconcerned disposition w/r/toward his personal self while also maintaining such outward caring to those around him, (the dysfunctional), and this was assuredly the incontrovertible truth even tho
Ty knew himself to be something of a fraud. Before he responded, he blinked {out of existence} which was fine because it had to be that since it was impossible to tell whether or not it had even been real (the blinking) or just my imagination. This stutter-step glitch was certainly only in my head fuzzy and İ remembered remembering, at the diner, that İ couldn’t remember how İ’d arrived at the place to begin w/ and, upon my asking Ty, his wordless response which manifested in the slow parting of his lips, parting which revealeding the deep black chasm of his mouth and then the hearty lafter that escaped, petrified me. İ figured at this point that İ was dreaming because what had seemed like a normal luncheon was morphing into some kind of hell scape. But most curiously, was the fact that somehow the person İ believed––that we all believed––would manifest himself as the most lovable, kept morphing into this borderline mystical shaman who seemed to possess some kind of power, only İ knew it could not be that because he had well and truly been sitting across fromme, in the red leather backed booth the whole time, and I’m not panicking because Ty has actually been speaking most of this time, it’s something to the effect of feeling that his place mandates that he has more definition, he, by the very fact of his space-time position is required to abide by some rules, and will, because he doesn’t want to disappoint anybody. He’ll try (sometimes at least) to give those around exactly what they’re looking for. He says that it would have been so much easier, had the joumal just been trusted.
‘Do not inflate your ego by conflating my words here. Not that you should get any weird ideas about your status w/r/t whom is about to be mentioned, but do you recall the famous story about how Michelangelo saw the statues in the marble slabs before he started carving away ? that he was essentially just freeing the form from the cage ? Well, it seems that you, not you-you, but the royal-You awta recognize what you’re doing here. It’s not so dissimilar, only except your’re role is less active. A vessel of transcription, this has been bestowed upon you. The tool you wield, it is not just setting(,) it’s contents upon the canvas, rather it is meeting the energy from somewhere else. Watch! as it touches down, the kin of zaK shift to meet it wherever it goes. And in this way, the pin pokes a hole into the firmament, freeing infinitesimal bundles of negative energy which leave their mark in black. There are portals, this is one of them.’
It’s cold. Ty’s grip loosens on the myriad touchstone processes which, up until now, had kept his life, well, together honestly. There were so many things he’d adopted as part of his life practices to begin to freely allow that which he truly wanted to naturally flow. The beauty of nature, for him, hides outside of sight––the observed. while it can be beautiful, immediately it gets boxed away. That’s why Ty gives of himself so freely: the same way his brain operates (aside from its incessant attempt to proliferate and reiterate itself recursively) the apparatus of his brain, it functions in a way that he not only can’t comprehend, but instead it’s a thing which will, at every possible juncture sabotage itself. That’s not what he wanted to say exactly... it was more along the lines that his brain, which is to say Ty, he is someone whose self reflective nature is so all encompassing that he loses track of himself w/in the ____. suppose that he encounters one of the myriad unavoidable mind worms, one which is so similar to the track he;s trying to take that he wonders what effect he’s really even trying to achieve and his process. Ty doesn’t possess much of an artistic skill anyway. He spends most of his time working. He works, at a hardware shop.
Or, at least, he was lately, I think.
His ‘free-spirit’ means that he’s often moving to a new area to do something else. But for a while he spent his hours behind that key counter in the back of the hardware store, near all those drawers of bolts and screws. He just would have people come up then, and request a key copy to be made, often as he stood up there he’d have a padlock in hand w/ some sort of tensioning tool and pick as well. And he’d pick the lock over and over again. When a customer, some one who’d lost something perhaps or was getting ready for something else or other, would ask Ty to make a copy of a key, He’d check the key for a ‘Do-Not-Copy’ engravement––which, even if he did see one, would not preclude the transaction from taking place most of the time––and then bring it back to what İ can only imagine as some sort of either back room w/ a dremel tool that Ty would personally use to carve the new key from the tracing; either that or some fancy machine that automated the process. If the heavy-handedness is still elusive, (it isn’t) then plainly note that Ty is a sort of key maker and lock smith. He is being presented as someone w/ answers. He can produce the key to the mystery box lock. Only except Ty doesn’t have answers. He’s just a guy working a minimum wage job. There are no surprises in this book. This is entirely honest. The package at the beginning of the novel is unrelated to what’s happening now. Ty is also the only character in here who matters. He is everything, so it’s important that his due process is given, in order to get across how good a guy he is.
––If you think I need due, your delusional.
––honestly tho, if anyone is a genius it’s u. ı simply ride ur coattails and yearn to touch ur robe
––And yet I will never be famous. My legacy will be exclusive to my inclusion in it.
––Like how Socrates would have been forgotten if Plato did not write about him
Sometimes Ty get insanely high or drunk and thinks that his urge to tell everyone how much he cares them right at that particular moment is somehow entirely unrelated to the influence the drugs hold over his mind. It always feels good to get a message from him during those episodes tho. But so, when the stars align just right, the ball, bound up, some parts beginning to pop out of the strings as they come loose and unravel... in this unbinding the flow of rainbows comes forth. the vomit of every color out of every orifice, the pain it causes is great but the feeling is euphoric and cathartic, especially as, just like a dog, one goes pitifully back and slurps up the horrid soup off the floor. it is in this way that the message is received and ____ begins to unfold.
Somewhat unbelievably, Ty, w/ all his peculiarities wasn’t really someone for whom
––holy shark
––i just realised / the way i’ve designed my personal monogram is remarkably similar to how... well, it’s just uncanny is all lol. i sometimes feel like the things we inheret are so much more than what we think. insofar as even the way we come to know the world is such that our greatest and most insightful visions into reality are those which we think about the least, it seems almost too dull, too plain, or too obvious to suggest that the pithiest of apophthegms seem to hold the key to genuinely real identification w/ the Real. Lacan or one of those other psycho dudes postulated that we’re constantly removing ourselves from that aspect of our nature by means of intermediaries, i think. so it’s just nifty. is all
––Yeah, well, I mean, it should come as no surprise to you that I think everything, down to its smallest parts can be understood almost metaphorically (but deeper than that) as a microcosmic expression of the macrocosmic whole. Essentially, I’m suggesting that anything, even dumb superstitious TikTok videos speak to some universal capital ‘t’ Truth about reality. The paper you’re writing for a class, or the code you’re debugging for a project, all of it, if analyzed deeply enuf would be enuf to see your inner ____ and mind, if only a glimpse. And, what’s more, is that once you’re far enuf removed, and you look at the thing thru Wise eyes, you can realize that the foreshadowing of the future was hidden there all along. I don’t even need to provide examples or further evidence of this, because it’s so true that it’s impossible for it to excite and stimulate the senses.
––what’s more is that it’s honestly a work of genius to be able to put down so much into words and provide absolutely zero insight w/r/t anything. i mean it’s impressive, politician-like, and i mean this in the worst way possible. i mean. it’s disturbing that one could create such a jargon riddled, dry piece of writing so long w/o giving the reader an inch to let them know that at least someone knows what the hell is going on. that there’s a plan. gee, there’s almost a book idea in that by itself. in the discomfort.
––Yeah anyone who might take up that sort of task, (the task of writing a novel), is usually possessed by some urge of an idea that they want to expand on, a world they’ve imagined, a story to be told. And their experiences as a person will shape every facet of that novel. People buy books by paralysed individuals because their situation is so interesting, or are drawn to the horror novels of King because well... actually that one I’m not sure. I haven’t read his stuff, but something about his (King’s) experiences, his practice, his ideas and technique have refined his craft to the point that even under the guise of a pseudonym, he still garnered attention for his ability almost instantly.
––But in the case of somebody w/ absolutely no insight into their topic and w/o the wherew/al to actually invest time into research, little to planning. what might they even produce?
––a bad novel.
LO! The unicorn prances. Her delicate rainbow mane sways to and fro, flowing in the breeze. Her tail climbs and dives w/ her movement. The wind blows iridescent sparkles off her shiny, pure white, pearlescent coat. She gallops gallantly, kicking up glitter w/ each stride. Her horn, a long twisted braid of rainbow speckled ivory pierces the sky. The Prophet rides on her back. He spurs her onward, she carries him forth. The two are locked in an eternal progression toward the City-Oasis of the Unified Region, carrying the message from Beyond. Unshod hooves clatter against the colorless, flat ground; metallic resonance stings the air. Their arrival marks the end of an eon––for, until that day all wait w/ bated breath. The two emit a soft glow as they venture forth thru the grey matrix hellscape. Various strangers meander along their path, tho few of them look up and notice such a strange sight, and even if they did they might not even question it. Instead they, thru their myriad sources, seek the truth of the situation. They are poisoned by their own method, they consent to it thru their actions.
BREAKING
Unicorn-back rider crosses state lines
Our coverage of the unicorn back rider has attempted to be as thurro as possible. Over the last few days, many have speculated what it would be like when the rider approached and crossed state lines. Sources say that the crossing would pose an interesting challenge for regulators. Due to the scarcity of ____ this situation it has intimidated politicians. As election season draws near, this puts them in a particularly difficult position. By contrast, our polling suggests a disconnect between public attitudes about the unicorn-back rider and prominent political platforms espoused by this year’s most promising prospects. However, despite this, notw/standing, in any case, it cannot be ignored that the rider is here to stay, until he leaves––and we will bring you coverage thruout it all as experts ascertain where they might
In one breath.
In Another:
Slipping, the unrelenting tireless force. Ur, the l(a/o)st city. Shall I be forever cursed to search in vain. Yet, I might be so inclined to verily shift my search Southeastward and find the city which has for so long evaded human reach. It is there my answers lie. Soft, now dear reader, yes you reader, sitting in your chair and desperately trying to to sink into the words and escape whatever Hell has consumed our lives. Where did the optimism go ? Reality sets in. In eternal fear I stand, when shall the quest come to an end ? The endless steam, only it’s not quite a steam. It’s thicker. It has resistance; there is no bottom or top, it is uncontained. A gel, but I can breathe. It’s density makes my lungs heavy.
‘Hello ?!’ the call into the void, the symbol of a striving, a seeking a desire for help, a plea against the desperation of the end. (Yet it itself is its own prison). I’ve felt the connections sever between the neurons. They’ve been destroyed by poor choices; I’ll become the connection––snap, and I will be no more. Yet, I begin again––this is the first moment, the only, it might as well be the last. Hear ! Listen ! Hwaet ! To live is to die, to write is to be constrained, each actionable step to produce freedom cements another brick in the prison of the mind. My final statement is this: There’s nothing quite so trite as an overwrought/trop recherché finale which bears no chances of living up to the expectations in one’s head, yet it is so ____.
nimi. nimi. nimi.
mi isipin la mi li lon. sina pali palin e ni: nimi li pona. nimi ni li nasa tawa sina. kon pi nimi ni li pona. toki Inli li pona taso pona. tan seme? toki Inli: ijo suli li jo e pilin lili.
ijo wan li seme? sewi li wan. sewi li mama pi ma.
sewi ni, tenpo la, nimi li kama ala. nimi ala la, mi, jan Alu, li pali e nimi tawa sina. sina ken pakala e ni. taso, o pilin pona tan ni: ni li nasin ala pi musi ala. mi lon ala tan ni: mi kama jo e ni tawa sina.
nimi mi ni la sina li kama sona ijo mute. ni li tan ni: nimi pona li nimi pi ala. sina ken toki e ni: seme? mi toki e ni: sina kama lon ma la sina sona e ni. ijo ike li ni: sona pi mi mute li pakala.
wan: "jan ale li ken, kepeken tenpo mute, kama sona e pilin jan ante."
tu: "jan ala li ken, kepeken tenpo ale, kama sona e pilin jan ante."
toki nanpa wan li sama toki pi sona ala. jan ale li wile e nimi mute en nimi sin tawa kama sona e sona ni. toki ni li ike tawa ona sama, tan ni: jan li ken ala sona e sona jan ante tan ni: jan li wile jo e nimi sama pi jan ante lon nasin ale. nimi ni li kama tan pilin mute en kama sona en ijo ale pi tenpo kama.
taso, toki nanpa tu li ken ala wile e ni. sina ken toki e ni: 'mi wile sona e ni: nimi 'sona' li seme?' ni li kama sama e toki kama sin la, toki ni li ken ala wile e sona sin. toki ni li sama toki pi sama sama.
taso, 'sona' li seme? tan ni la 'sona' li ken ante mute. pona la o toki e ni: 'jan ala li ken, kepeken tenpo suli ala, kama sona e pilin jan ante.' en toki tu wani: 'jan ale li sona e pilin jan ante lon tenpo ale.
ken la mi pilin ike e nimi 'toki pi sama sama' taso mi jo e sona sin: toki nanpa tu li ala toki pi sama sama taso, tawa la ona li kama toki pi sama sama. ni li toki Sojineli. ni li pona ala pona sama, taso ni li ante tawa ni: ni li lukin e ni: ni li lon ala tawa ni: ni li lon. kama sona li open e lon ni. ni li lon ala lon tenpo pini, taso ni li kama lon.
Mirrors have their own wikipedia page. Not surprisingly, of course, what doesn’t, after all. What does stand out tho, is a section near the end which lists the various appearances of of mirrors in art, in film, and lastly in literature. Amongst these, there are the infamous ones, such as Narcissus staring at his own reflection in the water, becoming obsessed w/ it, and consequently being consumed by it. This, while not mirror-explicit, is still supposedly mirror-relevant insofar as reflections are the main function of the mirror. (Tho this is not always the case.) They can be used for personal grooming, which is the case of many of the references listed, including but not exclusive to Lewis Caroll’s thru the Looking-Glass, the timeless classic which looks deeply at the nature of mirrors and likely securing their status as a mystical object in the modern era. There are also rituals associated w/ mirrors that exist today: bloody mary ranking the most well known of these. Scientific explanations have been proposed to explain the brain’s tendency to sense danger in something vaguely human-seeming but still not-quite-right. This could explain the phenomena of seeing an horrific face in a dark mirror––which ultimately turns out to be one’s own face. When the rites of the ritual are stripped away, looking at one-self in the mirror in the dark is still a terrifying prospect. This is a deeply unsettling move. To see oneself in the mirror is to idenitify an other.
Lacan, venus effect, daytime vs. night, LSD, kaz/zak, hyperpop, [[The Mirror and the Lamp]], [[The Golden Web]], [[Jewish Mysticism]]
Grabbed ! The passion does to me exactly what it will and I had been powerless to resist ! Can thawt ever cease, or is it the infinite running waterfall of boundlessness... grasping, searching, seeking, its fingers extending into the deepest reaches of the reality (tho this is not the right world––word(good Freudian typo)). It is in this searching that the chance emerges, the chance of discovering the secret.
what is that secret... quiet, quite simply i imply it. The ____ is the answer. It exists for breif moments. It is my inspiration and motivation. It is the voice of God. It is the divine madness. It is the Dionysian spirit. It is all of this and none of it. It is a work. Tho, I've not touched on it before, various modes exist to put in input: designated by font. Then there is an even briefer section, which, while I'd like it ignored, is inseparably a part of the history. This is also indicated. (It actually isn’t) I am doing my best here (I am not) to give all that is necessary to understand in the most explicit instructions i can manage. Curiously tho––not really––paradoxically, even, the better instructions shall be in the implicit instructions. I fear i must be quick now, i can feel a certain spirit coming over me now... an impulse which bid i put down the tool of oppression and pick up the end all be all. i find it a great and mysterious gulf, experimentally; and her implications have yet to be calculated... well except by Al. tho his notes remain elusive, i have heard (tho these are only rumors) they sit locked away in some sort of safe––the notes are safely away. i suppose they are all but, at this point. tho, if i’d to guess, my suspicion is that his notes too closely adhere to logical and mathematical proofs to actually determine what he thinks he’s determined.
tkk
Why ? When we look at all the mirrors in this realm it becomes obvious, no it becomes evident that––well, actually strike that for a moment, consider the way in which the mind itself is a mirror. or like, water. in any case a reflektor: consciousness is much like this in the same way. but what is being said here that hasn’t already been said. if one were to imagine the monkey keyboard dillemma pursuit of happiness therefore, it shall and can always be said insofar as mediocrity is that to which all of humanity aspires, strives and to which one can, for that is two who shall, be born into a system which declares itself as a means thru which entropy trepidation and tumult spin inwards eternally. the thing into which one’s mind, to the extent it is one and possessed, goes is ever folding in onto itself and expanding deeply into the fringes, edges of space, of time of life, and when it strikes the fancy just right ____. but that is neither here nor here nor there nor in the scope of what is to be discussed. ‘Ha,’ amusingly droll | ref. Lest his ideas spoil, and the work for his audience go rotten. The audience of one, and to whom the way is clear, at least from one side; the point shall be made known: it is in the descriptors that the path to enlightenment is found.
He falls on his knees and weeps. The transgressions of a thousands generations rests w/in him. How hard is it then, that he should not see himself as this, this, this figure. this christ like, bearer of sin. A paschal lamb who ought be offered unto the TBC. Tears rip(ple) outward, and the fabric is ruined. What was once is now twice, and so no more. He sees the plan coming together and so too finds his fancy the sonder (for she called it that sometimes) and the noumenon of being––which manifested itself into the dialectic (hegelian or otherwise)––and said,
‘My how dreadful’
Insothir.
Kaz fell.
zaK too.
Al becomes all.
Ur is found.
I am lost.
Ty, well.
There is, and I don’t know how to say this politely, a notion that academic writers cannot write good prose. This is true––but lawyer’s are much worse.
Yet, here he––and by extension here all humanity––sits, imposing constraints on the embodiment thru which The Screen is known. The words are the paints he uses to mark on his canvas. Consider thothat whereas a painter has a smallish palette of maybe a dozen or so paints, he can mix these paints into any color he wishes. He can create a rainbow, or he can create create a brownish-black smear of color which will put off even the strongest of stomachs. The author who paints w/ words does a similar performance yet entirely different. There is no reason to even begin a description of the extent they are similar. It is done and anyone can see how it plays.
This reality generation machine is so perfectly calibrated that once a Real Spiritual Being enters it, it shall become almost compelled to partake in the endless investigation. True purpose does not exist at the bottom of the investigation. Search then, but know that the mummified pharaohs have learned this lesson before: each struggling motion to free oneself is a motion towards the thing itself.