and the machine purrs contentedly as it chews and gobbles its way through our minds with so very few bothering to take notice. and he was thinking that he should best get some sleep. he watched how those around him behaved as though everything going on around them was to be expected and up to code and normal. even those who questioned and rebelled against it. they too thought nothing was unusual. though they would question what was there, the thought of questioning why it was there to be questioned seemed to not occur to them in their simple minds as long as they were comfortable and safe in their version of reality everything was right in the world just as he was.
    the machine burped.
    the machine is god awfully terribly ugly and disgusting. there are few who would give it the time of day if they saw it - which they don't. he enjoys making this shit up. what is the most implausible possibility he can think of? what is the least of all things anyone would accept and believe or even bother to doubt? what doesn't follow any known logic or reason? he laughs. there is no one who can or would touch this. no one will ever come near. this is what he will use to bring about their destruction. they will destroy themselves. it's all mapped out. it is the machine. these people versus those people and those people versus these people. who would be willing to believe that people would be willing to spend their whole lives fighting over meaningless bullshit? he never imagined he would get away with it. and here it is working out far better than he had any reason to expect it would. it's taken a life of its own. no one can stop it. they thrive on it. they honestly can't envision it being any way other than how it is. they have all forgotten anything else. anyone who speaks of anything else is rendered mute by the noise around them chanting for victory. and even if anyone does listen they respond with answers that got them good grades in school. that is as far as they are willing to think about anything.
    they are waiting to be given a gold star by someone other than oneself who will give them the idea and feeling that they are correct because they won someone else's approval. and what organization doesn't operate by giving out gold stars to those who have proven themselves to be well-behaved and obedient?
    he laughs at them all. he is able to give himself a gold star anytime he wants. he cares little if it is not acknowledged by those in command who keep themselves confined with what is and is not acceptable including what is acceptable within what is usually considered unacceptable. reversing the polarity changes nothing. who cares if one worships god or satan? he accepts himself. he welcomes himself with open arms and loving embrace even while he is laying in a gutter as others step over him on their way to the awards banquet ceremony gala.
    to them the world sucks and this is the only way they know to lift themselves out of it. the eternally disappointed and disillusioned who cannot pick up a clue as to where what is missing lies. those who try to force the world to change to give them what they want. what do they want? ask them and they will tell you that they do not know besides a continuance of the way things are with themselves at the top. they work very hard at it. it occupies their every waking minute of activity to achieve. they will do anything to get it - even to destroy themselves.
    he sighs. this all amuses him. the ongoing drama of it all. without their constant struggling through their confusion he would be bored. the machine faithfully and more than adequately provides him with endless entertainment of their trials and tribulations which is exactly what he wants. he gives the machine a gold star.
    but it is not entirely exactly what he wants. he is alone. but such is the trade off it seems. he can divide himself into many and pretend he has company. but such illusion doesn't last for very long. soon the echoing conversations prove to be monotonous and even maddening. he must leave them before he starts screaming.
    for there to be one other like himself than himself in one of his split off identities is what he watches and waits for. and some have come to him and he had believed that one such had come to him and that one such actually existed. but it wasn't very long before these others ran up against the limits and parameters of their programming and began repeating themselves or quoting what had been be repeated before them which they somehow feel that if it is repeated enough times it becomes truth.
    but whatever meanwhile he lives his own little pointless life here in the world doing this and that experiencing this badly acted human melodrama around him who skate about on the surface and accept it all as real because it is solid and whoever said solid equals reality? who among these solid folk exists in the mind? who exists in the heart? who exists in the soul? let them come and knock on his door and he will welcome them in with open arms and loving embrace - and then he will kill them offering their bodies in sacrifice to the machine who will then absorb them and add their mind and heart and soul to its own for none of these does he trust.
    and a baby blueness in an envelope of weirdness invented by what still lies undiscovered. the nature of the forbidden.

    he is a human who is a human. he is only a human and he is all that human is. all that's good and all that's evil. all that's glorious and all that is degraded. and all that is common and ordinary. he is a genius and he is an idiot. he is the apex of intellect and thought. he is the base of intuition and emotion. he is a human who knows what he does not know. he is a human who is all humans. he is alone. he is a human of faith and doubt. he is a human in agony and in ecstasy. he is a human who is amused and bored. he is a human at peace at war with himself. he is a human who invented god who is all that he fears and desires. he is a human who can imagine and dream a thousand ideals none of which he can realize. he is a human to whom anger and hatred come to him easier and more readily than love and compassion. he is a human who is an ape with a stick who envisions himself a saint. there is no other who is human but him. there is no other who is either able or willing to stand in his place - for to stand in his place is to be guilty of all the crimes he has committed in innosense. to stand in his place is to take the bullet meant for him. even when he is gone no other will take his place. where he was will remain forever vacant.
    the other will always be outside and external to his experience and perception. it will never see the world through his eyes. it will never think his thoughts nor feels what he feels. it will never be him. it may observe and imagine and theorize but it will never know. and of course the reverse is true. this is why he can only find totality within himself. there are no answers the other may give him that will hold true. only those answers he finds and gives to himself will satisfy his hunger if any are found that will. the other is temporary. he is eternal - for however long his eternity lasts. as his gaze is drawn toward his own reflection the echoes of the other's voice become ever more distant. in the end he wonders if it ever existed at all except as something that he amused himself with for awhile. something he conjured up from the abyss around him to comfort his solitude and loneliness. but what comfort did it prove to be being his constant critic who followed him everywhere demanding and rejecting all he could give it? he lights another cigarette and learns to forget. all the minarets. all the secret alphabets. all the swirling hobgoblin of creation he set into motion with a wave of his hand as he reached out to touch the other's face and found it all to be illusion and fantasy. he sighs sitting in the cafe - its soul kitchen. it comes to his table with a fresh pot of coffee in its hand and refills his cup without his needing to ask. this is where he has come to. this is where he watches and waits for another to come from the sea of faces who is like himself though this one will be in no way like him whatsoever. but this one is his twin and opposite both in balance with the other. he can feel this one's presence in the absence all these who do now surround him are unable to fill with all they manifest. it is the presence of a space left in an otherwise completed puzzle missing one of its pieces. this is the unknown which is known by its not being. he watches and waits amused by the world around him for this one who is able to surprise and amaze him.
    it is the game. the game is the manifestation of the theory. the theory that is devised by and is the devising of the machine. the machine that is the manifestation of the devising. the devising and the machine being one as the mind and brain are one and indivisible. and the game continues along this way that is not a game at all but becomes as if a game with many and all players unaware of the game or themselves in theory.
    there are immortals and there are mortals. each envy the other. the immortals are the spirit and the mortals are the flesh. the immortals are imagination. the mortals are manifest. one cannot act without the other. there are times when the two come to an agreement and trade with one another. the god becomes human. the human becomes god..
    to exist as an idea held in the mind. to be that idea incarnated in the flesh to experience and act in the world is what the immortal god gains by this agreement and trade. the mortal human gives over the flesh to experience and act as this idea that exists in the imagination. this is the symbiosis and synergy of god and human that occurs when the time for it to occur is now and ready in the course of human events and the whim of gods. and many are the gods. and many are the humans who become gods and the gods become these humans.
    and this does not matter.

    and once upon a time they all lived happily ever after but when they had awoken something was wrong. something had happened. there was nothing left but confusion. and no one was happy. what happiness there was left was the appearance of happiness. there was no happiness that was heartfelt from within. and the emptiness that remained was hidden behind forced smiles and conversations of words stripped of all meaning until just the sounds of conversation was all that was left. all anyone was able to describe was only mediocrity or the frustration one felt only being able to describe mediocrity. he remembered it being different but he was also confined by this mass language all were given and taught that was brought down to the lowest common denominator of the depth of despair. and there was no way for him to communicate what he remembered that was different as the words that could describe it had been removed or changed. he could only attempt to describe it indirectly by using the words that remained metaphorically or some such. this was little help however. few seemed to be able to understand and assumed that what he was saying was as nonsensical as it seemed to sound. those few who did understand thought this was all only his imagination and did not realize that he was describing the here and now not some other world fantasy. he had thought this at first as well but then by continually imagining it he began to realize that what he imagined was real. and then he went mad.
    once upon a time when they all lived happily ever after people did not go mad since they did not divide the world between real and not real. all was imagination and imagination was creation. but we do not do that now. now we create worlds that only exist in dreams while the world we perceive as real is shadowed in darkness. we divide light from dark and preserve light for some other after world of god and angels and the dark for our own design. now people go mad.
    holding the vision eventually the language covered of it in his mind or product that he was the world clearly seeing covered the underlying reality not a matter itself directly five senses information matter of how his mind language directly perceived and that what sensory and some of the as a result same source interpret that but a directly that all came from was divided basic location sent and stored labeled reality but fit all the sensory they all lived and the other did not divide information into a cohesive whole humans seem to have felt themselves does not mean mutually exclusive two spererate and existing more recent to be living two worlds have pushed away co-existing with imagination seen differently that this from us in our minds the here and now this other world is placed elsewhere but also on the other space and time hidden and secret planets or dimensions the right to enter only of misery and suffering perhaps seen as anti-paradise to earn it's all no sweat is limited but this here and now paradise he watches them come and go reasoned it away without any possible hope or whatever.
    as he sits in the cafe. he listens to those around him bitch about this and bitch about that. as he sits in the kitchen on the island. as thing sits across from him and sighs.
    you don't have to stay here, he says. and i wish you wouldn't if you're going to radiate negative energy. i get enough of that out in the world.
    you're one to talk, it said.
    if it bothers you then leave.
    and it got up and went.
    thing, an invention and manifestation of the machine. the machine's persona in imagination being itself imagination. created by the old man who previously lived on the island who may have been another persona of the machine. all he had was the story thing told him.
    what this all represents or actually is he's become some what tired of trying to figure out or think about. thing is thing - a persona of the machine though it can assume human appearance though sometimes may be a cat or a cow or just remain a liquid silver blob floating in the air.
    but this was all coming from the divided world around him its schizophrenic energy shattering into sharpen edged splinters anything merging together into mutual integrated symbiotic unified relating flowing harmonic vibration. these split-minded folk who chase themselves around in circles not recognizing themselves each time seeing a stranger's face when they look into the mirror. this energy was fed into him with every contact he had with one of their kind - those rigidly adhered into one camp or the other of the many camps singing and dancing around fires about how they're going to kick some other camp's butt so they at long last can be free of and unencumbered by so and so's ugly blight presence. and around and around the circle of camps it goes. he can see the fires along the distant shores in his mind's eye able to gaze down from far above the storm clouds surrounding between him and them protecting him from their madness.
    the storm composed of this energy they send out from themselves of all they refuse to acknowledge and resolve within themselves but project outward to seek any other target host it can find reproducing itself like a virus. and all of that swirls and circles around passed from one to another to become the storm on the otherwise calm sea.
    and this is all part of the machine and the game and the theory of the machine all combined into one.
    from ground zero he looks around him. x marks the spot. what is there to care about anymore? we make up reasons for caring about this or that but without those made up reasons what reason is there in reality? we wish to continue only to wish to continue.
    he exists in timeless eternity surrounded by a void of non-space at a point of irreducible consciousness. there is nothing but to turn out the light. it seems to him that he's done just that. but the light keeps turning itself back on. why does it do that? or is it someone else? who has awoken him? he was given birth into this world of shadows. who is it who is so interested in this that he's called back in order to be shown once more what it is that is supposed to be of such interest? who is this one who does not speak to him? or is this, the creating of the world, the language spoken? when he is himself as he is - as it is. there is nothing he sees that exists with him. but perhaps this nothing that he sees is what the other is and this ever-changing thing around him is it communicating to him. how does one communicate back?
    he sits in the cafe scribbling in notebooks every thought that will come out of his head. he doesn't know what any of it is. it's not up to him if it makes any sense or not. to pick up a thread and follow it somewhere - anywhere. all these important things the others feel they need to do - and maybe they are. he ignores whoever is calling his name - if anyone.
    but doo-wah-ditty. the flames grow higher consuming more and more. he sits and watches them. to be far away and out of reach. to be untouchable. he sighs. he continues.
    but it returns somewhatwise at an interval predetermined by prediction and pensive amusement. he goes off on this or off on that. he is more or less comfortable.
    an arrangement without hope but hoping. this isn't a dream date. it is not candlelight and soft pillows. someone has to take responsibility while the others sleep and dream their dreams of marshmallows. experiments involving dogs on ice.
    but this separateness from it - it being separate from oneself. this divided and dividing nature. how is it described? how is it undertaken and carried? the words of it. a clue here and there among all the rambling babbling whatnot.
    a design of illustration scribbled in the course of conversation functions as a sign from heaven. the imagined space off at unseen angles that leave only their shadows crossing the border.
    but why?
    the chit chat about fashion, politics, god and the weather - and love affairs. all that occupies most minds easily drifting along the currents of the stream - merrily, merrily. and the endless complaints of this and that they bump into that upsets them and rouses them from their peaceful comfortable slumber.
    zap! out of that and into the mind itself.
    it was not what it is. it was divided and split from itself and seeking to reintegrate yet afraid to as it felt the identity of itself in this divided state was its true identity and it felt it would be lost with this reintegration with what it perceived as other instead of its own split self united whole.
    he felt safe. he knew where the point of origin was that was the source of existence. he guarded it. none could exist without it. he knew where it all had to return to eventually. he guarded it as others guarded it. it was the conscious mind. it is that which perceives. without perception there is no existence.
    to forget this. to walk away. to let it turn to dust. to let it rot beneath the garbage spilled from civilization.

    all is being done for him by the machine whether he wants it done or not. who is he to say? what could or should he say? what could or should or would he change? should he tell it to stop? can he? he doesn't know how it started. but if he did know how it started, if he could stop it, if he should stop it - why would he stop it? it's doing nothing to harm him. nothing he cannot endure anyway. it could be a lot worse. it has been a lot worse. he remembers the days and nights of pain. though those days are distant, seeming to be another life, the memories are still quite vivid. he has no desire to return to them. he will say nothing to the machine that will result in that happening.
    the machine bumps and grinds and puts on the greatest show on earth. he now has a ringside set. he can taste the sweat and the blood as the battle rages. no one seems able or willing to stop it. not him.
    to break it one way or the other. to not be able to say one way or the other. to bring it about. to be at rest. to be shaped by the mind. to relate to the primary source. he watches and waits. our poet. to let it all lie fallow. to let it return to its wildness until it remembers itself and its place and its time. until all possibility is open once more. he watches and waits. he writes down words from his imagination - that part of his mind that knows truth until he is told the truth by others who overpower him by their weight in numbers.
    everything being zero. point blank eye to eye. without thought, word or action. a suspension of both belief and doubt. he watches and waits. is there anyone else? what clue? what evidence? what else but himself as who and what he is causes anything to happen - besides the machine? the reflecting pool is still and calm. is there a breeze from somewhere - something else but him moving - or a vibration that disturbs it? if he himself doesn't move then what else is there? what is the motivation to move other than to feel oneself moving? does he move away or toward another? is there another? what does he fear? what does he desire? what else is there but himself to fear and/or desire? can you imagine this? can you put yourself in his place? he watches and waits.

    he sits in the cafe in the world of the others. here they are bold and boastful. here they may do as they please. where he is otherwise than being here they are silent and they may do nothing. where he is otherwise than being here he walks the streets of the city alone. he sits alone. where he is otherwise than being here is the machine that has been designed and built to serve him. and it designs and builds itself to that purpose - also to keep him entertained and amused. it is the machine that manufactures this world of the others. this is his imagination. this is his relative truth he holds above all other truth - the truth of the others. he needs no other to confirm it for him. who else is there who can do so nor is there any other to deny it? let whoever this is step forward out of the crowd of the others that is oblivion and speak to him.
    he is a poet without poetry. one cannot speak to a poet about reason. the poet exists without and beyond reason. the poet has no use for reason. to the poet reason is a prison with its own rules that must be followed for a reward within the confines of the prison. for the poet there is no reward. the rules no longer apply.
    and the priests of reason are the guards over the general population who are kept in cages except when allowed out to perform some duty or function - whatever needs to be done that serves to maintain the prison and those in it. and they are allowed their free time but also within the walls.
    this is the fortress of reason and the truth relative to reason that reason holds above all other truth.
    and the poet sees nothing wrong with this. this is as it should be. the poet is not a liberator. this fortress prison of reason and all that serves it and all who kept within its confines - which includes the priests of reason themselves - allows the poet to have free run of the wild world to himself without those others running around loose causing trouble everywhere they go having no comprehension of anything not supported by reason and its truth.
    but whatever.
    the machine is a machine of reason. it turns itself around on an axis of reasonable logic powered by the argument of deduction and induction set against the paradoxes and contradictions of the wild world. and the machine serves him. it provides all that he needs while his imagination provides him with all that he wants. it will allow all that reason will not allow.
    the electrodes in the monkey's brain creating symbiosis. doing laundry. watching the clock. ufos. putting it all in his shoe. as the police patrol the streets he smiles. there are so many easy answers to everything. and there is an abundance of those willing to believe each and every one in some form or another.
    and it's all smiles. and it's all whatever supports our side over their side while holy words are spoken about the common bond of the whole of humanity but that becomes another splintering division of truth upheld above other truths.
    and we depend on the control of emotions and suppression of thought to maintain our fragile empires so we may dress ourselves up and go out on the town and pretend we aren't animals grunting and smelling each other's butts beneath our social decorum and manners with the threat of the big stick holding at bay anyone who would remind us.
    the poet grunts at the moon and sits naked on a hill playing with mr. penis - mr. penis, sir to you. the machine purrs with the symphony of stars.
    each moment decided upon previously. each moment mapped out beforehand in exquisite detail of exact precision. not one particle is out of place though its place cannot be determined. it is always where it probably should be. maybe or maybe not. what needs to be proven or disproven when it can be felt to be so? but who feels anything to that scale anymore? whose heart can open out wide enough to encompass the world and universe in its most infinitesimal parts? instead we describe it all so it meets with our approval.
    what god created and pronounced good we found at fault and pronounced good and evil trusting that our judgment was the better. and this is the way we are doomed to follow until we reach that point where all is good again - where we finally give up on the idea that there is this thing called evil no matter what specific thing each any of us may point to and call evil that needs to be eliminated. where we step down from our self-appointed throne from which we second guess this god we theoretically believe in or not believe in. where black and white merge into gray of all possibility - the particle mist that is the heart of creation and creator.
    and god is dead. so says reason. the god of death is dead. the living god stands aside not wishing to be involved. this is not the creator of creation. if the creator is dead then creation is dead and if creation is dead then death is dead so how can the creator be dead? who besides the creator can stand apart and pronounce what is living and what is dead? and who can stand apart from the creator, including the creator, and pronounce the creator as living or dead? all this is is the death of god. only the living god can be the creator as how may that which is not living create that which is living? life creates death. death does not create life. but the two create each other. is there mystery in this?
    and few or none a deep and dark the belief to fathom seem able to prevents them mystery doing so too stupid comprehend shallow of thinking the mistake that because we have stood upright point out to us comes to us we are no longer say to ourselves only sigh expected of someone this is no proof down into this we ourselves are it happily enlightened for us mystery carnival show be taken in live by it become if we of pull our pants down we then voice our own free will robbed by every and fuck us hardly expect steps up complaint an all merciful god the bottom line in heaven when someone whatever it may be that puzzles us depths and darkness new eras such that only the few our begging bowls for more mysterious such the context stepping onto a path where it begins arrive at our destination.

    and he sits among us and watches and waits and to avoid and/or create confusion. let us tell you that it is we who speak for him as he speaks for us and we are each and all me, myself and i creating the illusion of other within ourselves as he dances beside himself though none of us will admit to it or anything else that may or may not be happening. and it may be suspected - we suspect it ourselves - but never proven to be so except quite without reason and is obvious to anyone with a clue as to what we are not.
    and to these others who travel far and wide looking for themselves and when they return empty-handed we sit them down, laugh in their face and drink a toast to their completing the task we assigned them so that they may be allowed to consider themselves one of us.
    and we were quite unable not to take this same path to our own beginning which is never the same way twice for anyone. and who prevented us from making fools of ourselves - the fools we are and have always been and will be? it is a rude awakening when one arrives at the goal of one's journey not to find one's wisdom but one's foolishness that one need not have bothered as one knew it all along before one even set out. but the journey had to have been made before one would sit down and admit it to oneself and lay one's mind at rest and grin ear to ear as the joy of being at long last able to do so washes away all one's worry and concern that has puzzled and troubled one for so long as one finally comprehends that which is beyond comprehension as that which is unfathomable rises from the depth and darkness of mystery and now the pump has been primed fills to overflowing any cup one might bring to it. and we can say this is so in as many ways as for as many times as it was said to us and who will come to doubt its truth with surprising faith or doubt?
    and to those who don't we say pick a path, any path, and find one that does not lead to us except those that lead to oblivion which if that is what one seeks then one is more than welcome to it. these we will not stand in the way of except as much as they stand in the way of those coming to us and try to convince them to follow them to their own destruction. we have the machine to take care of that to send them to the goal of their path and journey even that much more quickly. do we owe them something else? is it a crime to exterminate those who perceive oblivion as the only ultimate reality? is it a crime to exterminate those who profess and preach their own and our destruction? and if so, then who is to be our judge?
    we are watching and waiting.
    he is watching and waiting.
    and we and him are one - unless we are not. and who seeks him out will also find us - maybe. but who seeks out themselves and find us there too? we are now among those living in the flesh. but we are still as distant as when we lived in some imagined and unreachable heaven. we are easily found by all who seek us either to condemn or praise. we accept neither except by those who condemn or praise themselves.
    dada. and more dada than one can shake a stick at. zippy pins and doo-wah-ditty. he scribbles and scribbles the same dribble of nonsense and meandering whatnot out of the wild freeland of thought and confusion about things in general as they are and should be and feeling unrestrained nor confined by sociological rationalogicality is as wonderful as one might imagine it to be on one's own and on one's own terms with it all however it does get lonely with no one around to have an intelligent conversation with without running around in the same knee-jerk circles again and again because none are able or willing to break loose from the chain and collar of rationalogical reason. bah-humbug on them all and blah blah blah.

    to let it slide away and it becomes broken. but even being broken it is continuing through our memory of it including the pain. he smokes another cigarette. we take in and experience the pain. the pain is what makes the experience real. without pain experience is just fantasy. he gives us the pain. we give him the fantasy. we are drawn into the reality as he is drawn out of it.
    at a lower intergrate level of structure where the mainline is. the direct input and output without any of the surface dwellers noticing any difference. any changes in the information are automatically adjusted. even the automatic systems can be changed as to what adjustments are made and how they are made without arising any suspicion that these changes are in any way unusual.
    this is done with the mind. the mind is the body of the machine. the body is the mind of the machine.
    there is timelessness. but timelessness is irrelevant to time. the two cannot be experienced together even though the two are not independent of one another but are one and the same. it is we who divide it apart into two separate experiences by our defining each as being different and to be experienced differently and so long as that definition is held to be true this will be the case. without that definition being held true the two experiences merge together back into one.
    looking at the world with eyes crossed - with the synaptic firings crossed in our human brains.
    but few look into it that far for long enough to recognize these decrepancies that are interwoven into the fabric of our experience of the world and universe. the pattern of overlapping experiences that don't quite match up to one another not only among all of us but within each of us alone is usually the only experience of reality we are aware of and have any memory of. this is what he is learning to forget. nothing more is real. the conditions are right. take off.
    what is the measurement of the reality of our experience but our experience? so how do we divide it between real and not real? how did this come about? who decided this?
    then there is the pain.
    then there is always the pain.
    then there are the random wanderings of situations unlike before.

    to bring it to itself yet having to wage through the constant argument that is engaged in not toward the purpose of resolution but toward the purpose of its own continuance. the argument lures into itself the unsuspecting who mistakenly believe that by entering into it their own interests will be served. yet they very quickly, without being aware of it, begin serving the interests of the argument. this is written into the constitutions of our governments that the argument should be held to exist above all else. without it there is no power. without it there is no need for power.
    and it continues to be so. there is no effort to stop it that does not become the body of the argument itself. there is only one way to end the argument and that is to refuse to take part in it and leave it. there is no winning or losing it. this the argument will not allow.
    from that divided apart from the divine mind into body merged together drive our words ships sent carrying the thoughts to another admire it meaningless transport them pretense little a word as possible is so precise gazorbnik incomprehension invented the world describe it nothing else what is empty around and around from what is one thing an idea to reinforce what exists is in place in relation to the idea the drama of it what goes in every action karma out of many does not come to one from this to that there is the enactment the spinning of the turbulent the burning sun boredom that pours forth into the sea we arrive to have conceived many other ideas but why not of the present fear to avoid the future here nor there to be ever suspended we are alone aware theoretically beyond that now come to its realization and forgotten it individuals in time regret the past have gotten are a matter one may look up of our alone awareness these questions various people thought now what dawns do we stand animal newly entered into trunks stored in the attic and existence has occurred that is our past awareness might come across rummaging through what of our and other such upon us future misplaced overlooked something but that has been forgotten.
    from out of the mind. from a turning away.
    there is this group of people who are not a group of people except they are people who gather in one location. that one location is at his table where he is and has been sitting. they have invited themselves. there is no requirement for being among these people other than one joins them and can more or less get along with the others for long enough to remain with them as long as one wants. after one leaves no one is obligated to return or have anything to do with anyone in the group outside the group except as one may wish. but they usually do not. there is only one thing that connects them together and that is that each considers oneself to be his friend though none may consider themselves friends with each other beyond that and them meeting each other here. this is a group of no determined size or regularity other than the confines of the physical space it is in and whenever they may be here as they will. they come and go. the group has no membership other than who and who doesn't consider themselves to be in it. this group is non-exclusive. no one will not be allowed to join nor will be asked to leave though one joining may cause another to decide to leave but this is their choice not by any demand. not all who are at various times in this group like each other or get along. they only come to see him not each other.
    although they often constitute a group by being here together it is not necessary for them to be a group. each of their relationships with him is individual and one to one even when there is more than one of them present. it is because of this one to one relationship to him that they are here not to be part of any group. the group is formed when more than one of them arrive at the same time. but each of them have some sort of affiliation with some group that he is not a part of as these other groups are in some way or another exclusive and the one excluded is usually him though he would not have any part of them anyway with them being as exclusive as they are. they also exclude most of the others at his table with him. person x will sit at his table with person y yet person y will not be allowed into group x that person x belongs to. though by being here together person x and person y can get along but it is the others of both group x and group y who do not get along with person y or person x or with him. this makes this group self-excluding. one only excludes oneself from this group. aside from person x and person y those of group x and group y exclude themselves from this group for their own exclusive reasons they keep to themselves.
    and so that's that with that.

    let him be him. he is someone we have invented and manufactured. we have done this with given raw material - a body and a mind that had certain potentiality. we drove him mad. we forced him to accept us. with and through him we act in the world. he could have been anyone. it just happened to come up that it was him. we could try to explain how that happened but it would take a very long explanation and involve a lot of complicated theory that seems to be beyond most comprehension judging what we know about him and humans like him. at least this seems to be the case at the present time. but we are working on changing that. these things take time. it has so far taken thousands and millions of years bringing what is to be comprehended down to the level of comprehension and bringing up the level of comprehension to being able to comprehend that which is to be comprehended. this is not an easy task. humans, as even they will agree, are stubborn and belligerent. the same can be said, though in a different way, about that which is to be comprehended.
    why?
    because it is not comprehended and humans usually tend to try to comprehend what they do not comprehend though attempting to bring them to that comprehension is very often an uphill struggle having to drag them kicking and screaming the whole way. while they want to comprehend what they do not comprehend they also dislike being told or reminded that they as yet do not comprehend it and very much dislike being told or reminded that what they presently comprehend has only a remote possibility of leading them to comprehending it and more likely leading them away from it. this is and has been frustrating for us as a whole. there have been those of us who feel this task we have set for ourselves is not worth the trouble - being ridiculed and even hunted down and killed - and that it will probably not come up with the desired result which is bring the others to comprehension of that which is to be comprehended. this sentiment after all these thousands of years - not to mention the millions before that - has grown in popularity and is now nearly the majority opinion among us. a few of us are the only ones remaining who haven't given up on it and still see it as being worthwhile even if it might not be possible. the others consider us to be fools - and perhaps we are.
    there are others within us. we keep the peace that otherwise would be war and has been war. both sides against each other over whatever ideas and loyalties they might have. we bring it before the committee or council or whatever we decide to call it now and again. there have been random skirmishes with each side feeling out the strength of the other. we find ourselves alone continuing our own struggle for our own reasons. we keep the agenda full so it never comes to a vote. we would probably lose. we cannot lose. we cannot win. they hunt us down and kill us. we have been banished. we are the outcasts. the idea must be for now abandoned. who is there left to support it? who is willing to take the chance? for them it is all the theory and the game. we have our own theory and play our own game. we have the machine though they believe the machine is theirs and they command it. the machine cannot be commanded. it is set to the program we designed for it when we had it built.
    it is argued that the comprehension of that which is to be comprehended is not humanly possible. they must keep themselves entertained instead with all their noise and nonsense and heroes and villains and trinkets and gizmos. it is argued that it is futile and any attempt to achieve it is treason - whatever sense that makes.
    incarnate and witness as many others if it were only with wanting to take done so by bringing attempted come here individual or small groups who we are in one or many the creators elements cannot act was referred to of one mind part of creating to desire and seek do not want to be brought subsequently beyond direct description here lies only with perception is metaphor transcended this is a facet no limits understood are the same and understand never be an end description of it this is all part of the explanation sort of muddled twisting paradoxical mess the reason want to do so leads through the point that brings is impossible annoying fuck off there this other attempting to eliminate which exists instead therefore.
    and so that's that with that.

    there is the theory that is developed out of the game which is part of the experiment. the project is based on the theory which is designing and building the machine that designs and builds itself through the process of the game. at least that's the theory.
    obviously this may have begun or ended at any point though there is no reason for beginning or ending it. this might only exist in description.
    the imaginary sense of thought where we stand alone away from the others who are with us but not with us.
    an easy time.
    but seriously... what the fuck?
    it continues on as usual.
    our fantasy that is our motivation.
    and we play into it.

    we try to center. we try to focus on who's who and what's what. to divide it apart. to purge the system. round up all the undesirable elements and haul them out and have them shot. we have no need of them. they do nothing for us but only serve themselves with no concern on how that may impact others - the others being us.
    we begin with ourselves.
    he begins with himself - with a bullet.
    who has control?
    us or them?
    him or himself?
    the experiment?
    it is hard to divide the experiment out from any other part of it. there is not really a need to except times when clarification is needed. but how clear can it get when there is no such thing as the experiment? that should be remembered. the experiment does not need clarification. the experiment takes care of itself. it does not need to become more complicated than that.
    the experiment is not entirely separate from the others parts that are involved in the whole. it can be seen in some ways that the experiment is the whole that the other parts are part of notwithstanding. yet it may be seen this way with any of the other parts as well. the game may be the whole. the theory may be the whole. the machine may be the whole. the project may be the whole. all and none are true. we are the whole. all is included in ourselves.
    seeing the experiment as being the whole allows one a certain perspective into its workings. the experiment is dependent upon the theory. it sets up the game. the results go into the design and building of the machine. the sole purpose of the project is to conduct the experiment. it is part of the experiment that not only this view but any other view may be taken. this is also part of the game. this is also part of the theory. this is also the purpose of the project. the machine doesn't care.
    there is open-endedness to the whole but not total open-endedness. not at any one time. if it were totally open-ended at any one time nothing would happen as there would be nothing not happening for all that is happening to be compared to and measured against or in contrast to. that is if by it being totally open-ended that this would be the situation that resulted. by there being no constraints there is of course no constraint on it being otherwise. but if it is otherwise it would then be in some way constrained - if only constrained by the limits of random chance and therefore not totally open-ended.
    huh?
    yes - that's what we say.
    this line of thinking can be followed along leading from one paradoxical contradiction to another. this need not be followed if it is understood. this is part of what is to be comprehended - or maybe not. and it should be understood that it, as with any of the other near infinite paradoxical contradictions involved, is not something external to what is involved but internal - if not central - if not primary - if not as to be understood as being the cause. but even so it need not be followed - nor avoided. if this causes one difficulty, then one might wish to follow it until it no longer does so. but this is not necessary either as it might not be meant for one to do that as it may be too difficult which is precisely the point to begin with. one need not concern oneself with this as there are others who can do this who maybe are meant to do it. it's not for everyone. however, do not allow this to be an excuse for laziness or fear for one's sanity and subsequent social standing if such a line of thought should be pursued to the point where it may no longer be difficult which more often than not for most people will need to be undertaken and continued to the exclusion of all else. but do not worry about that. there are provisions for those who do that - sometimes. we've been there (here) so we should know. of course one should expect to go slightly mad. this is what the experiment, the game, the theory, the project and the machine are all about - sort of.
    of course there is no such thing as this.
    (some restrictions may imply)

    but follow the herds of cattle and flocks of sheep and the packs of wolves. one should not venture out on one's own. one should always stay close to the others. one never knows what one might be confronted by out there on one's own - alone. this confrontation should be avoided at all costs. it leads to and results in madness and death away from the group. the group is all important. do not allow those like us who would lead you astray to do so. we know this as we are them - those who would lead others astray. we find those who are susceptible and seduce them and lure them out to us. then we devour them. be forewarned. we are them. we are everywhere at all times. we can be and are anyone. we are not on one side or the other in any situation but our own. we are on all sides. we are the confidants and advisors. we are one's most trusted ally. we are those one should fear the most but are among those one fears the least. we become the object of another's desire. we allow the others to feel and believe they are in control. ha! it is too late when one discovers that this is not true. that is one's last thought before one goes mad.

    from one to another.
    lines of communication - exchange of information.
    bits.
    one to one.
    one for one.
    economy.
    be-bop till you drop.
    puke till ya boogie, baby.
    zap!
    and he sits in the cafe as a stone's throw away nobody's baby and such a fright knot to know who's who in the zoo in one's head. take out the sword, dear alexander, thou warrior true, and cut away the noise and rabble babbling turbulence around this no man's land. wave high a flag drenched in the blood of victory. let a hail go forth around the world. this is where we go down fighting. this is a low down hoedown jubilee. don't run - get up and dance to the cry of evolutionary rumbling tumbling twist and shout it all out. an experimental generation in a fix. transfix. transmix. transmit. transmutation nation arise to such a surprise kick it out wind blown mind and heart in fluid flux fluctuating betwixt hither thither and yon.
    yikes!
    look out below fathomable heights, it's dark out. to feel one's way about. to feel the hunger of what's over the next hill. to do or die, guy. it's a hit or miss thing. sometimes all and/or nothing. sometimes right back in one's face. back up a space. but do seek some place that is no place that can be any place everywhere everywhen it might occur to someone to be the one who is anyone in everyone - or no one. pull down your pants and show your stuff. take the world and take it now. or do we just learn to forget?
    light another cigarette.
    turn out the music.
    the lights are over.
    shaking all over.
    wave on. wave on from sea to shining sea and all the hungry freaks, daddy-o. grooving in the garden. hello? anybody home out there? please transmit communication luxuriant brilliance flashing beacon all may see and admire afar how many of us are here and now.
    are we to remain hidden? are we to assume our nonexistence? he watches and waits. a signal is all ready to go ka-boom baby boom and subsequent echoes each generation since who is still young at heart and old of mind and ageless of spirit. who's who in the zoo?
    question till it stops.
    it stops.
    it questions.
    it answers.
    it goes.
    (repeat until forbidden)
    a friend who's dead. mother's dead too. boo hoo. a wooden stake through a heart that bleeds forever. a wound time will not heal but it becomes the birthing of people, places and things - and whatever else might stroll by. us. we who are who might not have ever been by a simple yes or no - maybe. and it means everything one wants it to mean - or nothing, as it applies.
    push it.
    pull it.
    get it out of the way.
    bombard it.
    strange.
    if he were a bird, he would fly.
    bye-bye.
    the many moons sense of time. the zero hour is approached. the moment crosses the line and the whole thing at once and only once for a long long time it rolls over more strings of revolutions each one counting for as much as the other one two three but in time and place adding up to more the merrier. the zero hour is approached each next moment when it hits infinite possibilities of being zero - and not one or the other. not one two three. not both. not neither. not something else he forgot. but it's part of the experiment we're pulling out from under the rug and down from the attic and up from the basement and in from the storm to link gestaltwise synchronizing happenstance.
    let go when ready.
    we're ready.
    now!
    no tomorrow. a day with no tomorrow. yes/nine. the machine entwined among us all turns the world around. all or nothing. tell us again what there is to lose...
    while this happens and that happens while he sits in the cafe. to follow this or follow that. to decide not to decide. to not say anything about this or that. and it dies. and we sit in the water rocking on the waves but not much else. to wait on the shape of the weather. to not know what names to call. to not know our own names. this is for the moment in this time. elsewhere we imagine something else.
    but this world is here. we are involved in it. we live and die with it, though before our being here we knew nothing of life and death. our ghost shadows flickering around us from another light. what we see that is not of this world. but this is nothing but words.
    it touches and does not touch. a simple elemental factor of the theory. a theory that there is a theory that there is a theory about everything and a theory that everything is the theory. a theory that everything is what we want. a theory involving possibility and probability. a theory that cannot explain itself exactly. a theory that we are developing a theory but that it exists beyond our developing a theory. a theory that is best forgotten. that is how it is actualized.
    to stand on a rock of fuzzy probable existence. to shape our minds around its shapelessness. to be where none are our masters as we are incomprehensible to ourselves.

    and part of the game as it is generated from the theory is that there are workings of things beyond the obvious workings of things that are only obvious to the way our mind collects and orders and simulates information it receives. these are the workings of the machine as we play the game according to the theory. that is the project. the project is the experiment. the simulation we create is not always wrong. it is always only representation. but this is the purpose of the information is to create. it is something different as a ceramic vase is not an accurate representation of the clay it is composed of but something different - something created. does this make the vase wrong? to say the representation simulation of the world is not true to the underlying structure of reality it is based on and derived from means nothing.
    in the light of the world of cosmic event tasting the wonderful splitting the moment into infinite eternity as the explosion of space and time ripping through the void nothingness of open-ended possibility. but this one possibility composed of all possibility in all possible relationships to one another in one spacetime universe which is the mind of all universes.
    the deal of some time ago that we have forgotten. he remembered this. sometimes it's easy. and this doesn't mean anything except in terms of the deal that goes back to the beginning that made the beginning possible. an exchange of one thing for another out of the one. we are one and we are the other. the motion between the two which is one as two as one is zero being one. spiraling twisting turning becoming mix and match of possibility screaming and laughing in and out of its mind which is the thing itself on the point of manifestation. maybe. maybe not. in this mind of what is and what is not we experience ourselves. this is the deal we made to create the universe and our world within it.

    spent broken triangular ringing and there wasn't anything much he was thinking about except about what he was thinking about wasn't much of anything to think about and thinking about what kept it that way. there was nothing going around that was worth giving much thought about. that seemed to be the point - to be not really thinking much about anything. what is thinking about anything anyway? what is the point of it? there's nothing going around. why think about anything that maybe is what others are trying to avoid thinking about? just wander about going wherever one is led by one's lower feelings without any thought whatsoever. let someone else think about other things. let others think about how to set things up to take advantage of no one else not thinking about anything and how to keep it that way and how to remove anyone who does think about about it and tries to get others to think about it but who has to struggle against the tide of the crowd and the group who all have their place in it without having to think about it to just get along as sweet as pie and candy from a baby and all the pros and cons about this and that that all comes so easy to one's mind with barely a thought at all.
    and to be in this isolation of thought that cannot be communicated to anyone else as they perceive it as something diseased and evil. when the language has even structured itself to avoid it as the language shapes itself around the pattern of our thoughts we do not think. and few seem to wonder about this. they only stare blankfaced at one who tries to communicate to them around the language of not-thinking and say, what are you talking about? then they sneer and turn away without a thought that it is their unwillingness to reach outside the parameters of the conceptual framework of the language that makes what one who is attempting to say something else incomprehensible.
    and it's all pretty much the same no matter what. the same goes in as the same comes out. one sucks onto the other sucking onto the one sucking onto the other until one can no longer tell one from the other. food and shit become one. where did it begin with either one or the other neither knows. neither can remember or imagine anything else.
    they speak. and when they speak they expect one to listen. and when they are done speaking one then speaks and they turn away. they are done speaking and have no further interest in one other than one being who they speak to and who listens. so one is left speaking to oneself. and they enjoy pointing out and laughing at these who have only themselves to speak to.

    words and words and words and words and words and words and words all effectively ineffectively saying the same thing to describe a reality that exists only as it is described as existing by the words used to describe it. what the particular specific words are that are used are irrelevant. all any words can describe are the the shadows and light the words themselves create within our minds hypnotized by language. we see little else. we refuse to see little else. we become confused when we have no words. reality only exists for us to be described by words. we worship the word - the word made flesh. this is true not only with the reality that has physical substance but what is of abstract intangible substance as well - our ideas about reality - our feelings about reality.
    but this is old shit. it has been gone over before by those sifting for gold. and if one goes over it looking for more gold then one is probably out of luck - out to lunch. but what if one is looking for something other than gold? one then may not have to sift at all. there it is. he thinks about what's been left behind by those who ransacked through it searching for that which will make them famous, rich and/or powerful. he thinks about that reality and all the words that describe it. but what if one is not looking for that? what is to be found then? what substance is that? the substance of that which is not real because it cannot be described by words. he takes what he can get.
    that is what we learn first - between what is real and what is not real. we learn what can be described by language and what cannot be described by language. we remember the one and forget the other. it becomes the substance of madness.
    don't worry about it.
    go to sleep.
    go to work.
    go out and play.
    madness is our domain. we draw upon madness as our substance for our reality madness gives substance to. a few loopholes in the rule books of reason and rationality into the unreasonable and the irrational as further possibilities might happen otherwise. this is our imagination. imagination too is our substance.
    outside by itself left to devices of its own imagining circles and circles around and around never repeating the same one twice swirling erratic sphere orbiting around itself being the pole point of the axis all else rotates from in any and all directions from a particle created to fire a neuron to the created mass of the universe. talk about blowing one's mind...
    and he sits in the cafe recovering finally. he smokes another cigarette. down out of the sky - the sky of spheres. he shakes his head remembering he has a head to shake. he tucks it back into his pants and zips up his fly. another spurting ejaculation of enlightened vision dripping down his leg. he sighs.
    a laughing girl laughs nearby. he listens. a bird outside the kitchen window on the island where he sits sings like a laughing girl laughing. this is how it translates from one to the other. both wash away into the void poised creating and destroying the moment. the elemental sparks of particles constantly rearranging themselves.
    but why breathe? why breath? why experience any of this? to zoom into or out of the same image being imagined. what is this trick he plays on himself and we on ourselves - and they on themselves? all dancing about in the depths of imagining illusions of reality. he imagines himself dancing with the others who are ourselves we are dancing with as me, myself and i. it comes in and goes out. it is never one or the other but in constant flux between the two - or three...
    it is both.
    it is neither.
    it's all the same any way it goes. an impossibility begetting an infinite multitude of possibilities out weighing the original impossibility.
    and to wonder where he is now. he has been watched since he can remember anything. his face absent except in the mirror. is that all he is - a reflection? he glimpses himself for a brief time. a gaze of another eyes into his that he may fall into. the gaze of smiling rapture. the gaze warm in a cold gazing world. the gaze that is tempting beyond the resistance of experience and common sense. the gaze that blurs the mind with emotions as the moon pulls the tides. the gaze that surrenders victorious. to be free of that gaze is his blessing. the grinning deception. the flies in its teeth. the blood on its tongue.
    and whatever might work or not. and whatever might be or not. a high degree of donut marginality transfer from one idea of it to another. this is always the possibility. zing. the negative scheming plots of those who have no interest in it working out beyond what is figured in and they get what they want out of it - a world run by those of their kind. and we walk away with the rest. or actually we stay behind with the rest while they walk away with nothing.
    and to be or not to be.
    under the mersey wall.
    everything has been going on as it is. the cut throat policy employed. to not have any friends one can trust but only to use toward an end - and what end but to continue as it is? to eliminate the competition.
    and what stops. and what refuses to stop. sitting at home drinking all the time. sell it all. to agree to let others have it. still more to work out here though it never is worked out. he is someone who is no one who can think about it all he wants to but can never say anything about it. but it's nothing anyway. nothing of any interest to anyone who still wants to fight about it without anyone saying what they shouldn't. it goes on that way forever. and the lies created around it - always no matter who tells the story, the lies. whoever gets themselves in for awhile with their hands on it. the rules that apply any which way one needs to apply them for themselves. this is where he went wrong thinking it wasn't that way and that that way was somehow the wrong way. what a fool he was.
    illusion placed on the illusion of no illusion whatsoever appearing as illusion. but to kill. but to dance as if killing when push comes to shove and around and around it goes again around him. a point pushing shoving through the infinite taking the infinite with it.
    at some point of disappointment that is arrived at all points. an orange burst of imagination that is centrally fixed yet flows outwardly toward the center again found everywhere. the always untiminglyness of its own undoing either too soon or too late except at where all points are points of undoing - and what point is any less or more than any other. these points of undoing are as much points of not-undoing. it only takes a shift in one's mind. a shift along the radius curves spiraling to and from the heart in every direction at any time.

    something imagined before. looking for something still missing having been missed before perhaps found stumbling off the path lost somewhere in vague location between reference points on the map of rationlogical reason. the shift of mind.

    business. this for that. what is given and what is taken. what is gained and what is lost. the economy of it. exchange within a closed system sucking profit from itself. being open is another form of exchange - something for nothing with nothing equally desirable as something.
    something carries with it the parameters of its own definition. it cannot be something else except through particular defined series of exchanges it has with something else. nothing is not limited by these parameters of definition except as being the general definition of being nothing itself. and nothing can be anything - if anything can be nothing. and something can be anything - if anything can be something. this is not really exchange. it is a shift of perspective of definition. there is no change - and no ex-change - in the state of the thing itself but an exchange in the definition of that state. and these definitions and how they are exchanged is what gives shape to our reality. one moves one's hand exchanging the definition of the spacetime it moves into and out of.
    diametric circumtransmission dialinear division forks shattering out toward exponential what goes up must come down except under the following conditions or circumstances in an altogether different unimagined situation:
    one is sitting in a cafe sure that certain disaster was to befall from somewhere with the gloom of a dark and stormy flight of fancy sucked back down into the muck and mire gasping for breath agitatedly stuck. one is smoking a cigarette. one is drinking coffee. one is watching and waiting. one is here and it is now. everything that is happening at once. and the split between this and that is somewhere in the middle of one's head - the split between everything that is and is not and various degrees of maybe between the two as needed splits forking out an image onto the web grid of spacetime mass and energy body and mind sitting in a cafe just like one was just anyone. is one anyone? is one even anyone? should one speculate upon such questions? perhaps not. we've been told it's not in our best interest to do so. we would agree. however we are compelled to do so by the tides of fate we are not given to resist.
    but whatever.
    what how not.
    what shapes of things appear to our experience dancing or resting and hand that manipulates the spacetime mass energy body mind groove thing going on in it and with it and it with it degrees transfixed against the background of surrounding spheres.
    afterwhich upon heretofore therefored plastiscysulluskitzapowow. an exosophian bidiacircumitten cumcirquis li-quid-ity ity-li thrusting betwixt upraised and spreading locomotive appendages sprung porcelain hard blood reddening head blessing unto this blessed orifice that did dit da du dul dulu duluk dulukt duluktr duluktre duluktrea duluktreah duluktreahn duluktreahn-n na nit nid. build to ecstasy utopianistic imaginary realizationward manifestation. broken pieces of the empire unite in separation. disintegrate conflict. disinterested agreement bashing smashing burn down.
    midget micro-monointergeric irrationoidal pusting ignagsemipuke fku fku fku sombularunt dyga mamorklesynone beeaufitooloohoo ha-omk. no one might not never having not had not nor neither not or will not nor to not be not not that not whichnot may not non-nulify nothing not at no time not nowhere.
    passing along relentlessfullywise. begone this long pause of praise and promises and kisses in the dark sparking delightful enterprising dogmatic doo-doo dutifully-wise submerging behemothian beatitudes bubbling gurgled brilliantly brazen bombasts bombarding bom bom bomp bomping abruptly adjudging the elastic alignment angles askew moo.
    the slumbertorium waxed gladly keeping in mind him he thought to himself his warning a becoming angel awinged unfrozen from the grip of depths lurking nearer. transmitted he awakened. this awareness luxuriant upon us ready to receive transmission of ceremonial arrival. function. a period of time moved slowly about one as if it were pretending it was not passing but present. it awaited lingering but left without noticing.
    we have it by the balls. heave-ho! down down dragging it we go - hrumph! shackles cackling with gleeful gloom. ha! gotcha sucker vampire lizard beast. pretty pretty we thought you once were. a glamor-faced life-sized wig momma hugging onto us rocking us beddy-bye all the way to grandma auntie-mom's palace of pleasant dreams. the pain is yet to be felt that will deaden this lack of pain amongst us hiding by means of our survival at all costs and then some.
    a shout opens another scene. a shower. bathing oneself amidst all confusion beneath the head spaying hot hot water rinsing one's relaxing body down under embryonic flowing fluid film over flushed skin red and breathing in deep moist steam. ah! this suspended salvation savoring the severed separation from the drama and suspense-sublime.
    wickedness befouls the taste of this pleasant wine. claws rip tightly into the arms of the big stuffed chair daddy snores in. kill the dummy staged prop. destroy dozens of doves. scarred from leftover leather roses whipping flesh always bending down to pet the dog tapping foot. lick the pain. loll tongue drooling lips vaporously vagueless pantomimed plaything hoop and whip agawk and buggered limping uneasy. ouch.
    a movement toward the edge. he lied. his hands were tied. his eyes affixed into the leering. bleeding, breathing heavily. a shock. a pointed stick stuck up where it jerks him erect again. the pleasure of his pain warming him. a cold jab of a knife. a chill shivering him. it's not going to stop.
    he lights another cigarette.
    the argument against everyone. the arguments they bring to him and expect him to concede and will not give up until he does except unless if and when they realize such time and effort needed to do so is not rationally economical and they go away.
    he has not won any of these arguments they have brought to him, but he has survived them. he has survived them as he would survive a storm. he may lose this or that that are blown away but as long as he does not lose himself he can always get this or that back at some point - at some point as needed.
    pretending.
    on the island the storm blows by and remains circling ever closer. the eye shrinks. there is an invasion in the making that will be blown in by these winds. as the barrier of the storm has kept the island hidden and only discussed as rumor, it is now close to being reveled as existing to be grasped in actuality. these on the shores of the otherwise calm sea who have gathered armies around themselves have proven the ruthlessness and decepiveness of their greed for power and control that has thus far has been frustrated as they have been in opposition to one another. now when their combined greed is directed toward a single common point - the island, and he stands alone with us against them all from every camp - what is to happen?
    this is why the machine was designed and built for this very occasion. everything the machine has been used for up to this point have been test runs and drills. it has failed every one of them and has had to be dismantled down to its basic components and redesigned and rebuilt only to fail again. with this upcoming battle that is to decide the war this cannot happen again. the machine must be able to defend itself and us and the island and him. but there is no evidence that it will be able to do so and more than enough that it won't be able to. there is much to doubt. but doubt has never failed us before.
    it breaks down. it shatters across the floor. he is tired of having to bring out the broom each time. fuck it. leave it. let someone else clean up this mess and worry about how it might go together. why him? just because there isn't anybody else? he watches and waits. people come and go. a few sit at his table and tell him whatever ails them at the moment. tomorrow it will be the same. they don't care or couldn't be bothered.
    it gets much thinner and thinner. there isn't too much of it left. it's still enough if it needs to be. it can still be thinner if there is a reason it needs to continue to be so. but there will reach a point where it will be more than it can overcome. it will break once and for all with not enough of it left to reestablish a connection. people want that continuous connection but put nothing into it except to pay someone else to maintain it for them, from burger clerks to media superstars. money solves everything.
    hodge podge ka-plooie! ah-ha! yes! no! maybe! the possibility of indecision. the infinitesimal point infinitely found between any and all points found everywhere in uncertainty.
    let's go!

    from fractured phantoms to nearby silence of an unsightly manufactured dilemma that was. estimate the form it will take. take the form of the estimation. a complete thought - or is it a thought dissected from a thought which is discarded? the movie on the editing room floor. a mind of outtakes.
    rational oblivion.
    he sits and listens but does not seem to hear. he will respond but say nothing. there are other things - something else - he hears and responds to. maybe just in his head. but where or when is that line drawn between subjective and objective - the irrational fantasy and the rational reality - or what one might call this and that? the illusion or the truth. one's truth and another's truth.

    from this story of it. from one version of this story to another. oh boy. it's like this and it's like that. it reduces itself to nonsense written by a fool that no one other than the fool will understand. oh well. he smokes another cigarette. he sits at home in the cafe. he remembers - home from the war there are some many sides to. he's split between them all. he is himself and not himself. he invented himself in his imagining mind - a demon who has taken this form and identity as himself. we experience it together and different. this is an old old story. pieces of it have been scattered all over wherever. he collects them back.
    we adjust. we align ourselves toward our diametrically opposed poles. one reacts to this. one reacts to that. dumb. pain and pleasure reward and punishment. one reacts to the one reacting to oneself. to do everything to arrive at nothing and nothing to arrive at everything. chains and hooks. bleeding heart being drained. soon it's dry as dust.
    nevermind.
    so he's somewhere mumbling to himself and scribbling out nonsense. he doesn't fit into the conversation.
    the story of a lot of things that may or may not make all that much sense either of themselves each or connected together in some manner or another as a whole - and probably not the way it may seem to be explained.
    one should not be bothered by that or not. how much sense this might make or not isn't what's important. one need not spend time and energy on that part of it. whatever sense it might actually have will take care of itself. it doesn't need another's understanding of its own sense of itself in order for that sense to make sense.
    meaning.
    purpose.
    dada-doo-wah.
    hee-haw!
    bingo!
    anyway, it could begin anywhere. it begins everywhere all the time. everywhere and all time is the beginning of it. it begins. and in beginning the beginning continues. and the beginning ends. but the continuing and the ending are still the beginning. the beginning always is no matter if it might be continuing or ending.
    point to what begins.
    point to what continues.
    point to what ends.
    notice that one is always pointing at the same thing each time.
    or not.
    anyway - we feel at this time here now that a certain thing should be explained except that it is a thing not certain nor a thing even to be certain or explainable nor a thing not explainable. what? that is what needs to be explained.
    this certain thing and what needs to be explained about it is it. it. it unto itself.
    it has no meaning or value nor place nor time nor shape nor color nor smell nor sound nor taste nor anything that can be perceived except itself as it is all around everywhere.
    it is nothing but it.
    one should not make the mistake that what we are calling it is anything other than it. we explain it this way and call it what it is because this is what it is and how one goes about explaining it. if there was another explanation of it that existed otherwise we wouldn't need to bother with this one. it is just it. only it is it. this is not it. that is not it. but it is this and that.
    he lights another cigarette.
    perhaps we are explaining something like what is known as and called the tao. forget the tao. if that was what we were explaining then we would explain the tao. we are not explaining the tao. we know virtually nothing about the tao. the tao is dada. the tao is a shadow phantom of it. but maybe not. it could be the other way around, but we think not. it could be anything. that is what it is. it changes nothing except what it changes.
    all the fools at the feast porking up on their allotted portions as in relation to how close or far they are to the head of the table they are. at the head of the table is the king of fools. if there is a king. if there is a table. if there is a feast. promises. this is what it is and what it is not.
    gazobnik. the further mutation and evolution of it. monkey in the middle. there was elmo dadaski. there is the dada-ananda. the first fictional - perhaps. the second imaginary - perhaps. then there will be gazorbnik.
    gazorbnik will be the realization of it. it will be the all comprehensive culmination and possible conclusion of it all. nothing can stop it. gazobnik is a word he made up. it means nothing.
    nevermind.
    yes - the nevermind. that state that does not become a state. the state of becoming itself as it is. one should not think of it. one cannot think of it. one should not even think of thinking of it. it is not something to think about nor something to be able to think about. attempts to do so leads one to certain madness. it is when one reaches this certain madness that one may then think of it. one is then mad. what more else can happen worse than that? madness is madness. it is all negative and positive about being mad which then becomes meaningless. madness stands alone on its own past definitions of this and that. madness becomes it. madness becomes gazorbnik.
    why it?
    as one comes to understanding what it is one will know why. until such a time it may seem confusing.
    confusion is gazobnik.
    we could call it something else but that would be only something we call it - like calling it tao. doing this may at first seem to avoid confusion but eventually it only causes confusion as nothing that is used to call it something to distinguish it from anything else is it as it is not something that can be distinguished from anything else. this is the primary mistake. and from that primary mistake all else is mistaken. we use the neutral pronoun it because it is nothing itself yet can be anything and everything. that is what it is. it is the cosmic neutral pronoun - sort of. what can it not describe? what can it not be? what cannot be called it? nothing is not it - though nothing is it. there is no not it. not it is it. anything that is not it or that not it may describe is it. it is not it.
    it is this.
    it is that.
    this is not it.
    that is not it.
    as it may be tao, this and that may be yin and yang - though they are not. yin and yang have specific definite qualities and properties. this and that do not. this is only what that is not. that is only what this is not. either can be light or dark, male or female, dry or wet, etc. they are only not each other. but each and both come from it. anything other than it is either this or that.
    and the next day he wakes up from sleep and comes downstairs to the cafe in his building. a football game is on tv. green bay and detroit. other people drinking coffee and eating breakfast. talking. watching the game. doing a crossword. the usual things. a cafe anywhere with anyone in it.