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⁂

```c

#define _CRT_SECURE_NO_WARNINGS

#include

#include

void anagram();

int main()

{

printf('Zak\n');

anagram();

return 0;

}

void anagram()

{

char str[100];

int i, j, k, len;

printf('Enter: ');

scanf('%s', str);

len = strlen(str);

for (i = 0; i < len; i++)

{

for (j = i + 1; j < len; j++)

{

if (str[i] > str[j])

{

k = str[i];

str[i] = str[j];

str[j] = k;

}

}

}

printf('\nExit: %s', str);

}

```

⁂

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⁂

ı feel: like ı know what Kaz thinks; like ı know the feelings Kaz thinks he feels; like coming, ı’m coming, downstairs to unlock the door; like Kaz forgot the Key again to get inside; like ı always shoulder the responsibility to let Kaz in; like, when like, Kaz and ı sit for awhile in our apartment like ı cease to exist––

it doesn’t make sense of whether Kaz exists w/o me, by which ı ideate that absent the dilapidations of my heart whose resound leave a residue (a cabinet door in the kitchen left open… again) that Kaz kazn’t haz cheezeburger w/o doing so, each time, in the remembrance of me; (forgetting me, remember me);

cleaning today; my dolls need to have their faces wiped off, redone; the apartment is a mess; there’s blood dripping from my arm again;

ı feel: like ı Kaz knows what ı think; like he knows the feelings ı think ı feel; like ı wasn’t conceived of this way originally; like ı’ve been ad(a/o)pted into this role; yes; Kaz is all ı want; ı think about Kaz always; ı wish ı could stop thinking about Kaz; ı worry Kaz is doing something ı would not like; ı worry ı am evil; in the morning everything hurts and ı want to go to bed; ı want to make Kaz feel all the special feelings deep down inside;

⁂

```cypher

9_#?=X5X%S![pWG<^,TpA)@(/'?.X#_)@$YplZ,ApL,T$C KmUpB),Y9B)A$DZ?PG)D(E$^'UmC1BG8Z(?Y

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-\.RZ$YG%FmV

(#XpY       KmUpF>WmT1Y`/BpW

?]mC5'A:plW;)B%\*WmV4

#@(p^:WmU5XG/]#D4S%\*

%B%\*1}@?._>,CZ$^lW#SZ?PG8Z(?Y

b

```

<

⁂

```python

def reverseString(text):

return text[::-1]

inputString = input('Enter: ')

print('Exit: ', reverseString(inputString))

```

⁂

and well, i'm not here since i've decided to become part of the oblivion. and insodoing, i've made it my mission to exceed the seed of the This which is into the This which is not. this began somewhat in––tho i say 'in––' because the Inn in which this is such that, conveivably, the sorts of words which begin w/ 'in' and are synonymous w/ the sorts of words which imply haze (now, that i reflect, this is the perfect word)––comprehensibly. i found, or rather was found, (but this isn't quite right, for if it were described merely as the opposite of one description it would be fully described, yet it is something that i still cannot tolerate), on the trek, (i choose this word because of its connotation w/ the the drip drip drip of the ink well, which well, now supercharged w/ an electric buzz, hummed in my ear), and put me into a place.

this place, i speak plainly now, was one which looked unremarkably simple. A single table, on which a single die continuously tumbled; the six-sided black cube w/ white pips never came to rest. i watched it roll. the bones splinter and crack and like needles puncture the veil of the first layer of reality. the tearing, both of my eyes and of the cloth. and the Spyrytus of the great emblem, it blazes in a cacophonous silence. opposite thing juxtaposed w/ subversion and this is new, but the newness only comes in knowing the knowing of knowing and eating the food of the mind. i watch the stream before me. it's beautiful because i know that the things i see are going to come again and again in all forms i couldn't have ever expected before. by this i mean that the synchronicities will multiply infinitely; in this way every event will become such that it seems impossibly reconnected even to itself. the entity showed me a small child picking up rocks on the beach––this touched me so deeply that i ideated for a moment that i was the child i saw, i had seen this before. i remembered it too, not just from my childhood, but also from a conversation i had had w/ my roommate the other day. we had just happened to be discussing the beach, specifically the small joy of picking up rocks on the beach as children. and when they had brought up that topic w/ me, i was struck by it since not just the other day before that i had seen a film where a small child in silhouette strode upon a beach in a wide shot. he had bent over to pick up a rock on the beach in the shot in the film and i ideated it was absolutely beautiful. when i saw it in the film, the beauty struck me not because it reminded me of my childhood but because i had ideated it a timely thing since i was certain that i had read a heartwarming short story that had been published in the news. the story was a touching almost impressionistic vignette of, not a child, but a young man who recalled going to the beach as a child to search for pretty rocks w/ his grandfather. and when i had read that story i was struck because i had recently spoken to my grandfather and he told me that he used to go to the beach w/ his grandfather and they would search for rocks. and in this way the simplistic beauty of the human experience became real for me. and so when this entity showed me this i felt this moment infinitely recur w/in itself and i could not comprehend the fullness of the moment. it became clear to me that w/ enough time, everything referentially becomes easier to say. the way that knowledge is borne shows us that symbols contain more, but not just more, it was that symbols––i am trying to recall this now, after the moment of pure realization, which makes it more difficult, only for the briefest of moments does clarity ever exist, you in fact cannot fully comprehend the explosive vastness of the complexities of life for more than an instant, and in that instant it becomes clear that if all these things can be fully comprehended in that short time span they must not be so complex after all, and so the question arises in the mind asking if the knowledge gained in this instant is true knowledge or if it's just a farce, insothir the feeling collapses and the eureka moment is lost forever and one is left to grasp at its profundity forever––exist outside of time. and when i came to know this as i looked at the rock in my own hand, and as my tears fell onto it and blotched it w/ little dark splashed of water which first retained a small curvature were slowly absorbed into the porous structure of the surface of the rock, and i fell into the tiny holes of the rock and got sucked into its world, and i was reborn in the life of the inanimate. for ten thousand years i sat motionless. tho i could represent this experience in words which would sprawl ten thousand pages, the meaning would be lost. instead, when the fire of time finally consumed all that space inside me, i saw the joy of brevity and the pleasure of pain. when the war erupted (no one ideated it would) and the symbol was carved into me, i felt nothing. i was merely the canvas for one side. and when the side which engraved my flesh lost, the other side took claim. scratched it out. this new symbol, the original w/ the scratch line thru it because it's own symbol. and the great grandchildren after the war came to regard it w/ reverence. eventually i was lost when the civilization fell apart once again and the storming upended the stability. and i ended up in the ocean, where the fish surrounded me and sharks ate their prey and jellyfish floated along and i tumbled in the reefs and the symbol engraved on me washed away. and one sunny day in the summer time i washed ashore only to be picked up by a small child. this all took place w/in the first second of meeting the entity, before the die had even ceased to tumble on the table in the room. then all that remained was to see which number it would land on, from one to six.

⁂

how can one steal a life? what does that even mean?

⁂

This is the moment that you know what you are. You are your own electric eel. Slipping thru the water. Feeling thru the dark. For the ones who you most of all. This is the moment that you know what you are. And you feel like letting go. But you can't let go. You can't let go. Cause it's not up to you. It's not up to you. It's not up to you. It's just the way that you were made. You were made. You were made. To be just who you are. And who you are is beautiful. Who you are is beautiful. Who you are is beautiful. Who you are is beautiful.

```c

#include ""

void invSen();

int main() {

printf('Kaz');

invSen();

return 0;

}

void invSen() {

char c;

scanf('%c', &c);

if (c != '\n') {

invSen();

printf('%c', c);

}

}

```

⁂

Then İ called to Ty and spoke to him from the dark room. And said,