motivation by stimulation. on/off. tick. tock.
 
    click. the information. the words. an anger glowing hot coal orange/red neon eyes o' satan himself. the hungry animal in the dark. satan. the adversary. adversary of who?  of what? who doesn't perceive someone else as an adversary?

    from infinity to infinity through the novatrix thing of it. the agency of creating across the interdimensional boundaries and limitations that no longer inhibit the transmission. the signal is clear. we have received the message that is not a message but the word of the message - of all messages. we have been waiting. we are here and the time is now.
    what is infinite? what is not infinite? how far is here? how long is now? what is the nature and substance of the previous finite definitions and measurements used to divide ourselves from one another? let them all be forgotten. let them be remembered only as defining and measuring our confinement which we are not and will not be contained within. if anything we contain them. they are our history and as our history should be thought of as what we have evolved from. we are the celebration of this. this is the ongoing creation of that which is who and what we are. let it never end. let us not be concerned with ending - or continuing - only beginning.
    let it be with others also. let everything of who and what we are erupt. and to those who may be reading this that we are writing is only a thin surface of words that cannot describe or explain any of what it's about except to others who know of this experience. let there be many. let there be all. not that any of it means a damn thing. but let us not as others have before us become lost on meaninglessness. who cares what it all may mean? just do it. just be it.

    the machine of broken pieces.
    the broken pieces of the machine.
    the easiness of it. the way it fits together without having to fit together. not having any other use than to be broken. it spreads of its own volition by the lack of volition. the path for it is made ready. by that path being made ready it need not do anything to further its cause. its cause is furthered by doing nothing.
    the path of non-acting.
    the act of non-acting.
    this is an understanding which is hard to achieve. we want to act. we find it difficult to conceive of any other way but the way of action. we see only action. we do not see non-action. yet without non-action action would be impossible.
    as to which is cause or effect is an absurd point to ponder and can lead to absurd contradictory conclusions that may or may not fit with the reality one assumes one is surrounded by in such and such a way.
    but that does not matter. it is a choice that is open for choosing and there are those who choose one or the other or choose not to choose or choose both or neither. this is one conclusion. the conclusion of no conclusion.
    nevermind.

    the common element. protective. the rising. a flag. a hundred flags. a thousand flags. a million. millions and millions. billions.
    he thinks of a poem. he thinks of many things that seem to be beyond common understanding. maybe not. he thinks of why and why not.
    laughing. he laughs. he stops laughing. he is/is not happy. he lights another cigarette. he wonders.
 
    a story. a continuing story. he sits in this cafe drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes wondering what the story might be. about where it begins. about where it ends. it is here and now.
    bad music playing everywhere. what does he know about the story? he doesn't even know if there even is or was or will be a story.
    he's happy. he's content. he's had his moments of despair. he's had his moments of euphoria. neither are really worth the time of day. that's not the story.  to him that story is over. he's told it to himself too many times. here and now he gazes out the window. it seems to him that he's always been gazing out one window or another. not much drama in that. maybe we should change the scene.

    a default. without hope or grace. the down and dirty and out. who speaks up? who listens and hears?
    when the singer sings the song and we all applaud. when the poets sit in dark corners away from the noise and scribble words away. the romantic edge. the snarled grin of cynical cutting teeth. the barbed wire beard. no softness here. if one is looking for the honorable troubadour who will rise up to be the hero in this week's drama to save the day and night then turn away from this old dog who will bite anyone who approaches. only the strong survive here. only the bitter and fierce. join the pack or be their dinner. there is no compromise when one is against the wall, when one is being pushed out the door. this isn't academic anymore. if one doesn't know what's going on by now there is no one one can turn to who will be willing to help. they are helping themselves. no more teachers. school's out. we're all students here trying to learn all we can before it all comes down. then we split. then we survive or we die. here and now. countdown to zero has occurred. we are off and moving. no more turning back to pick up something we forgot. we've got what we got. if it's not good enough we make it good enough. it has to be good enough because there ain't nothing else.
    oh well.
    ho-hum.
    so that goes.
 
    another day he sits and watches and waits. he doesn't expect anything to come out of whatever the fuck. he's not exactly sure what it is he is doing.
    a war. an economic war.
    junk. but however much we don't need it we still want it. we want it bad. want it so bad it hurts not having it. a habit as sharp as a needle in a vein. a fix as strong as any dope. we gotta have it. no matter what it costs us. no matter how many hours we gotta slave. it must be ours all ours. we'll look so cool. we'll be so cool. everybody will think we're something especially if we're the first. if we're on the edge of it. when we get to show them where it's at. when we're the ones setting the trend instead of following it. we gotta have it. now!
    and as soon as we get it we'll throw it away and leave it behind. it will be old by the time we even get it home. we'll go out again and get something newer - newest. let the tuned out squares out in squaresville try to catch us. let them try to keep up let alone pass us by. we are the all-powerful consumer. we are those who all the market research tries to predict. our every whim is statistically calculated. as soon as we reach out it is put into our hand. they know what we want before we do. it's wonderful. oh god! we love it! sweet paradise!
    this buzzing annoys him. it's all around him. he shakes his head. it doesn't go away. where does it come from? what is it's source? why won't it go away and leave him alone?
    all the excitement. all the constant stimulation. where is utopia? where is no place? he keeps opening doors looking for it. he keeps hoping one of them will lead to it. he hasn't found one yet. not that he can point out to anyone else. no how. no way. though for him every door leads to it. he's been there. he is here. nothing but existence. the howling electric moonlit wind toward unknown spaces timelessly held in eternity in a moment when one finally lets go and sails away unafraid.
    others know of it too. others he's heard of. some he's met. and there's him himself. when he saw and realized he knew it too. when it was no longer there but here. all around him and him in it. when he was stunned amazed astounded blown to bits when he saw how god awful simple it was - it is.
    but how to communicate any of this? who would believe it? who would doubt enough to get it? we're so used to hearing about and believing how impossible it is or that one must study and practice some occult mystic mystery dada for years to get it. we're so used to thinking that it is only known to a few elect - the masters. we miss it right in front of us. we don't see that we are it and it is us.
    turn around and turn back again. face away from the mirror images of it and look at it itself. keep looking until what one imagines it is is what it is. until it is no longer imagination. until one is no longer guessing about what it might be but instead knows what it is - and is not. because one already knows.
    but he knows no one can tell anyone. not him either. no one could tell him. he refused to listen. he told them where they could stick it and rotate on it. he'd find it himself. he didn't need them. they didn't know shit from a hole in the ground. and it was true, they didn't. all of them. not a one.
    but forget that.
    just more spiral loop-dee-loop-dee-dada going on around and around in his head.
    nevermind.
    just something about the nevermind. the never never mind.
 
    a quick brown chicken.
    he tries to start again at square one - wherever that is by now. what is it? where is he? what time is it? there is a moon. or there seems to be. that is what he remembers. but if this is something he is remembering then he is not here. he is somewhere else looking back. remembering. he is in a memory. everything all around him a memory. he's been here before but he can't remember what happens next. and he can't remember where he is remembering. somewhere outside of it. or maybe inside. him a part of it and it a part of him. him apart from it and it apart from him. who is he?
    it seems to come to him when he is sitting alone somewhere. a cafe. drinking coffee. smoking cigarettes. gazing out the window.
    someone comes in and sits at his table. or so he remembers although it appears to be happening now. but he is not here. he is somewhere else. some other time that is somehow mixed in with this time. some other place mixed in with this place. a slight degree of difference. there is this slight distance. but not exactly. there is no real difference. it doesn't really matter how far or how long. and it's this juxtaposition of spacetime that he experiences. one sees it first one way and then sees it another way.
    but this sense is just a sense. there is nothing tangible about it. how it comes and goes. the split mind. the alternative dimension of perceiving.
    he was in love with no one. he was just in love.
    all goofy kinda thing.
    sad but true.
 
    to heck and high water with all of that. he laughed. it was simple and he so stupid.
    what?
    nevermind.
    what's behind the next curtain? who's behind the next mask?
    may whatever god there is go fuck itself.
    he is here now.
    good-bye.
    hello?
    he sits down at a table in a cafe. another cafe like all the other cafes. he lights another cigarette. the minarets. the alphabets. he learns to forget. he is unreached and unreachable. he is untouched and untouchable.  he has nowhere to return to.
    he sits at the table in the kitchen. a window looks out into the garden where a tree is growing. he's eaten its fruit and taken a trip into the world of good and evil. he has knowledge of all that now. he dances on the head of a pin in perfect balance between this and that and the other thing. gyro halo around his head. a joke. it was all a fucking joke. and he left them all behind to riddle it out for themselves. ha!
    laughing.
    all who could not bring him love and happiness. all who were just a waste of time and energy. taking up space. all who are now history. alone with his shadow dancing in the park.
    a butterfly.
    push the button. punch the code. how wonderful this fantasy fantastic machine creating and destroying whatever and whatnot.
    he fears no evil.
    arriving here by some weird trick of fortunate ill fate. dummy. sychronistic happenstance. screaming off the edge. abandoning all hope. yet finding hope in the most frightening terrible horrible circumstances. utterly hopeless circumstances.
    he walks on down the hall. he takes his boots off. he puts the face back into the ancient gallery and climbs back into bed and turns the light off.
    just a bad dream.
    as he smokes another cigarette. learns to remember. learns how to speak with tongue tied. learns how to control his raging blood and maintain a cold dead stare.

    excited monkeys. he remembers while he's standing on the beach of the island watching the waves come in and go out. smooth violence. passive power. fluid strength. he watches out toward the horizon at the edges of the surrounding storm he had to go through to get here losing most everything he had going down with the ship of fools.
    while sitting at the cafe.
    a metaphor.

    and he bops down the streets which are at times stone deserted along on his daily nightly constitutional through the crossfire of others taking whatever shots at each other that they can. or not.
    sitting here laughing up in his tree.
 
    to apply what is applied. the control involved. to control. push it to zero.
    pushed. part of the problem. little boys and girls. the rampant flag. strange.
    and he thinks again how impossible it is to communicate what he experiences to anyone. what is to be communicated?
    and nothing is strange except the familiar. how the familiar is strange.
    data.
    dada.
    the large impression. his hatred. his hope. no - one should not hate. one should not hope. what is the message?
    how long has he wondered about whatever he wonders about? this spell of madness that revels what should not be reveled if one is to follow the rules of conduct one needs to follow if one is to find success. to repeat the answers. not to ask the questions.
    but this is old news. this is not something to write about still at this point in time. they have made it clear that they are not interested. they have shown that they did not need to be interested in order to succeed. in order to rule.
 
    another cigarette while inside himself there is laughter. he laughs at them while at the same time feeling burning hatred for them. he laughs because he knows that in the long run they will lose. mind control. hold that thought. he looks at those who are to become extinct. his hatred comes from knowing the damage and pain they are creating and will continue to create for others between now and then. this damage and pain that follows them everywhere they go that will ultimately eat them alive. he laughs and puts out his cigarette and gets up and goes.

    5/3
    dripping oozing slimy gooshing stuff.
    he opened his eyes. he had a deck of cards in his left hand. he drew out a card. the queen of hearts. he had had a dream. in the dream the machine had plugged itself in. the machine was on. and in the dream the machine was creating vibrations he felt as warm soothing in his mind. he relaxed. he knew what would happen. he knew what would be taken care of. he knew the death of others. he smiled in his dream. and those others who felt this way he saw smiling too.
    he drew out another card. the 3 of spades.
    backwards. a driving force. an abstract cutting edge that existed beyond comprehension - at least the usual sort of comprehension. the comprehension of facts and figures. the comprehension of repeatable controlled experiments.
    he drew out another card. a joker. it was morning. not early, not late. people around him in the cafe were waking up. they would make comments about the news that was on. otherwise it was silent.
    he felt through the silence. he could peer through the silence into their minds. they did not know this and did not put up anything that would prevent him from doing so. they left themselves wide open.
    and what he saw was the workings of the machine. he made adjustments. tuning parts of it to the proper frequencies. the news on the tv was part of this. it was all part of this. that the machine was in tune with itself was the main priority - the only priority. that anyone or anything was in tune with it was secondary - if that. that was an individual concern up to each person. but few were even aware of that it was a problem or what the nature of the problem was. tough luck. as long as what one was doing didn't interfere with what the machine was doing. but they didn't know so how could they?
 
    5/4
    a point at which it begins. a point at which the point of beginning and obviously of ending begins. the point at which one cannot be divided from the other - yet they are divided. that is the beginning. that is the ending of no beginning. that is the point at which we enter this world and become and begin our lives as mortals. the unbearable existence of ourselves.
    no mystery.
    and it's not perfect except in its imperfection. the cracked glass. and somewhere in a museum. and somewhere upstairs. and somewhere in the heart. and somewhere in the gut. and somewhere in an old book.
    but thinking about this was just something else he was thinking about along the way of thinking about things he thought about while he was thinking. he wasn't sure why he was thinking what he was thinking about or what connection it might have with other things he was thinking about or still is thinking about.
    haphazard.
 
    5/7
    an exploration into a futile reasoning that does not lead nor follow into any destination or conclusion. the point of it is not to do so. destinations are for those who are lost. conclusions are for those who are afraid to continue.
    none of that of course is true. truth is for those who do not trust their own thoughts.
    a command. a statement of fact. fact: he commands the machine against them. they will never find happiness as long as he can prevent it. he laughs at how easy it is.
 
    but for a broken train of thought he returns back to his notebook island after a conversation with friends who came to visit him here at the cafe place he's rooted in where he watches the day through the window down below people on the street out in the heat and driving cars.
 
    diagrams of explanations. otherwise. he waits. but without waiting. he knows there is nothing to wait for and no one to wait for. what? who? he will not search or seek out. he is that which is to be searched for and sought. what does he need but to be that which is needed? what does he want other than to be that which is wanted? but the dilemma of it comes in when he can't think very highly of those who do need or want him. he thinks they are fools.
 
    nothing is accomplished.
    nothing is finished.
    what is accomplished and finished is death. what is accomplished and finished is the fossil remains of what once was incomplete and living. now it is a masterpiece. so read these words and imagine what was living behind them. they are all that is left of him. footprints leading somewhere else. can one follow them? what is this that once was that crosses one's path? where can one find it now? does it even still exist or will one be led to a place of bones?
    he sits waiting in a cafe gazing out the window cigarette in hand. cup of coffee on the table. notebook opened. he writes what we tell him. or we write what he tells us. either way is the same. who else will listen to either one of us? they feel we are unreasonable when we speak. we are told to be quiet. our words are nonsense. but we are far too reasonable. we will reason anything out to oblivion. but who wants to go there. quick and easy answers is the way for them. yes indeed. but maybe it's not about reason at all. he speaks a strange language - or he speaks language strangely. but all we have to do is keep our eye on him. he is extremely dangerous if left to his own devices of mind. he'll kill in a instant. he is not supposed to be here. it was a mistake. he could probably upset our plans for how things are supposed to be. he understands the machine and its purpose. we are supposed to bring him back but he won't go. we could force him but he has secrets. the secrets of the machine that he will not tell us. it will destroy everything at his command. he designed it after all. he was supposed to design it for us but he gave us a phony code. one that gives only partial limited access. we only recently discovered that he had the real code. this get complicated to explain. this is not really how or what it is. it is not a machine. there are no codes. but this language will not allow us to tell what it really is. there are no words for it.
    but why are we trying to explain any of this to anyone? because they are part of it whether they realize it or not. part of the machine and part of the control of the machine yet they are too confused among themselves to realize it and act on it.
    there will be those who read this and not understand it nor be interested in it. that's ok. this is not for popular consumption. that is not its purpose. but there will be a few who understand and are interested. these are those who are primary components of the code. the code we are trying to break. the code is interwoven in their thoughts. into their very nature. but they do not know quite how it works. that is what we are here trying to figure out. there are those of us doing this located here and there. we spin the dials and push the buttons. we try to alter the program.
    but nevermind.
    some of this is true. some of this he makes up to confuse the issue. sometimes it is the parts he makes up that are the most true - if any of it is true. truth? very little of any of this can be proven if any at all. this doesn't matter. those who know will know. what is what and which is which? spin the dial. push some buttons.
    what distinction is made? what pops up? lies. nothing but lies. remember that. it may or may not be important. truth does not matter. truth is a theory of truth. everything is a theory of itself. it is a convenience only for as long as it is convenient. we do not determine the convenience of truth but its convenience to ourselves. it does not operate otherwise. if it is not the truth for anyone else then that's their problem not ours. but we must state here that we do not believe in any truth at all so this whole thing is moot.
    problems? who makes a bigger problem for who? what? when they make problems for us we make bigger problems for them. this has not failed us. we wouldn't be here writing this if it had. many times they are quite unaware of the problems we are creating for them. subtlety undermines power. subtlety is power. only stupid people need power. it's too much work for us. it lacks art and grace. we divert their power back on themselves. let them have it all and more. we walk away with ourselves.
    me, myself and i. we will always be. we will only cease to exist when we want to. our own entropy which we are far from reaching. this is too much fun. the possibilities of it are endless. why should we terminate it or ourselves? we continue. it's amazing and wonderful. how did this ever happen? who would ever have imagined? not even god had a clue. what a surprise. we feel it happening. the joy of it. we cannot think of anything we would rather experience than experiencing this. what else is there besides everything? there is only nothing. who wants to experience nothing rather than everything? there are those who would and do. we are surrounded by them every day. it seems to be quite popular. let them go experience it then. who's to stop them? not us.
    but experiencing nothing of course is part of experiencing everything. as part of everything we will and do experience it. but it is the sole experience of experiencing nothing of the others we find absurd. what could be more boring than experiencing nothing? at least we found it to be so. that is why we choose to experience everything. it is what makes us happy. we do not enjoy being unhappy and no one else seems to enjoy us being unhappy since when we are unhappy we do not rest until we can make everyone around us unhappy too - even more so.  that is what makes us happy - the unhappiness of others. why should they be happy if we are not? we will not tolerate it. we want it all. we have it all.  and we take it and replace it with cheap imitation happiness for them. we have designed a machine that creates one size fits all for them. and it's amazing how stupid they are that they don't seem to notice the difference. how they find it to be worth it to keep on living without true happiness but some broken down cheap happiness instead is beyond us. but we don't care. as long as it doesn't create a problem for us, why should we? it's their problem if they feel it is one. and if they can't figure it out then they deserve to be stuck with it.
    or something like that.

    but then gun and the bullet located somewhere in an infinite space and time. he doesn't think about that. the zen of thinking of everything else but the location of the point of annihilation.
    he lights another cigarette.
    he learns to forget.
    he had remembered the location of that point. he became fixated with remembering it. he could think of nothing else. until he finally remembered it right in front of him. blasting retro-rockets with every ounce of energy he could like a bat outta hell.
 
    a secret. a secret he tells lies about. it's not this. it's not that. it is it. something so simple no one's figured it out. no one is supposed to. what fun would it be for him then? who would he have to laugh at? who would play the fool?
    but it's someone to laugh with that he is looking for. so far no one has been able to stick with it that long. and here he is laughing all by himself. the others fall away. they couldn't take it. they cracked. he keeps working on the machine to try to get it to turn out a better product but thus far has failed. here he is in his garden with no one but his shadow. his shadow laughs with him. they walk together down to the pub for a few brews.
    god and satan getting a bit on the smashed side and laughing and slapping each other on the back telling stories of all the times they had.
    god, you pompous of fart, we sure had them spinning in circles, didn't we?
    satan, you fat old scumbucket, we sure did. fucked them all upside down and sideways. and they kept going back and forth between us begging for more.
    they thought one of us was lying to them and the other was telling them the truth. where'd they get that from? who told them we were playing it by the rules?
    they sure drove themselves nuts trying to figure out what the rules were though. it made it all the more easier to rip them off off all they were worth. they did all the work for us.
    and so it went like that until they had enough. he walked around the city a bit in the air to clear the fog out of his brain. his shadow did the same but now it was just a shadow. it was only him after all. a bit schitzed but only him. but it worked to his advantage that he could do that. but he always knew what was what and which was which. but the others didn't seem to able to grasp that. once they saw it one way they stuck to it no matter what way it went from there. they accepted or rejected things in their experience compared to preconceived criteria.

    a broken dish. a smashed face. a screaming madness of apeshit. denying it is an animal. it refuses to let go of the idea it is a special act of creation removed and set above from all around it. the creator moves among them. it is animal. it is pure beast in its hunger. its mind alert and alive with sharp edged instinct while they are slow and heavy with blunted reason. they think it knows. they can outsmart it but it can outmaneuver them. when it comes to kill it's the latter that counts. the discriminating eye that believes only what it sees.
    the dividing line. the love/hate thing. as if the two were opposite. as if one could have one without the other. as if either could function independently of the other.
    what makes us believe that what is called opposite is not an integral part of the whole and what it is felt to be opposite to? they create an imaginary illusion of the world and absurdity. where has that brought us to?
    this world of good and evil - the knowledge of good and evil.
    this world of rational divisions.
    this world of absurdity.
    he tries to find something. he tries to believe in something - or even doubt in something. either/or. this something could be anything. anything he could find in reality that he could see as being useful for something more than just himself. something that connected from himself to others and from others to him. something that would allow him to believe that any of the others shared any sort of similar experience to his own - or his own to theirs. something that would allow him to believe that another was another conscious being rather than an object. another non-believer. another with no faith but only doubt.
    he writes to this other. the theoretical possible person who would read this and would be able to follow where it leads. he did not believe in this person. he believed that this person was a shadow of his own psyche's need to have itself reflected and verified. the others exist. he knows that. but so do rocks.
    but on the plane where he perceives himself on he exists alone in an echoless void. all else is trouble with tribblesville. oh boy. ho-hum.
    he smokes a cigarette. he sits among the others. the others who are dead. the others who act out motions of life without a thought about it. the puppet show. he's a puppet too here with them. but he has cut his strings. this limits his ability to function along with the rest in this world but at least he controls himself. he sits up in a tree and causes this puppet of himself to act out its simple life of sitting in cafes and writing in notebooks and gazing out the window. he has his own motivations. he does not follow the motivations of the others which are based in a theme of greed. want want want. grab grab grab. defend defend defend. (repeat forever)

    click.
    another time. an obvious nature hidden in the other's eyes as they approach. the soft purr of the machine they radiate. a killing. they have returned. he turns another face toward them. he watches and waits. teeth.
    he adjusts the machine. a twitch of the lip. is this all it is? is this all that is left? is he alone against all that seeks his death? is it his death? why do they want him to die? why did they want him not to live? a box. a box of questions.
    and he was probably wrong. he was trained to think that he was probably wrong. this made him think that he was probably right. but there were more of them than there were of him. what was right for them was right for everyone. they waved their flag. a dark blue sky stained blood red and bleached white.
    damn. damn them all. they salute this thing on a stick. the public image. they march around like good little boys and girls. wind up toys. off to war.
    meanwhile he was someone not to love. someone to be afraid of. someone who was not beaten down into submission. someone who is still angry. someone whose heart has turned stone cold against them but still glowing warm and feeding him with life.
    it's always been his mind. his body they can have to use as they will. it's his knowing mind that is his treasure he will never surrender and he will keep silent from them and leave them guessing and wondering and making up stories about what's in his mind that sets the stars in motion.
    and they have pronounced him dead. and they have raised their flags and cheered. and the march around in circles beating drums and blowing trumpets.
    he is not dead and he watches them and he laughs. they do not see the strings attached to zarathustra that lead to his hand. zarathustra the hollow-headed obedient puppet who went to the mountain, who went to the wilderness, who looked into the still pool of reflection and came back to report that he saw only one who was dead who he pronounced as being god.
    yes, god is dead. dead to those who are not living. those who do not experience. is what zarathustra says news? one has known that god is dead before this. god is dead to rituals and incense and prescribed prayers and idols and symbols and to the names they want god to answer to. this is what god has said from the beginning. why should it be any surprise that god is dead? do not blame god that one has not found it.
    they keep throwing their images of fear and desire into it. the big daddy beating them with a stick they have to grovel before to appease. when god has only asked for love and respect. they only respect what they fear and love only what they desire. and they feel themselves enlightened.
    what other choice do they have but to kill it?
    and so on like that.

    god recognizes none of them who say it is dead. it is glad that they think it is dead. it no longer has to bother with them and they no longer bother with it. god sees through them. they are deformed and twisted. not of body or of mind but of soul. all they have knowledge of are the images they place before themselves of what they imagine god to be.
    oh well ho-hum.
    he laughs because there is no god either alive or dead.
    all the others are nothing but a bunch of trouble. always whining and complaining about everything. let them deal with all of that themselves. all he wants is quiet and peace. let them make noise and war as long as he doesn't have to listen to it anymore. he has want he wants. fuck the rest.

    clear as a bell. his life as decoy. something he's not. something the others want and think he is and he's not. but this is all whatever.
    the game.
    there is the machine. there is not the machine. there is him. there is not him. there is them. there is not them. there is us. there is not us.
 
    5/12
    a principle of something diamond cutting glass sharpness in a state of an edge of being aware but more than likely not.
    he was becoming more tuned. a vague exactness or an exact vagueness. now one sees it and now one doesn't sort of thing.
    he was armored but the armor was neither heavy nor confining. a shield of energy sort of thing. inside he was he was not who he was outside. he had many thoughts that were many doubts and questions. if one was to have victory one could not doubt and question. was victory worth it if such were the case? up until recently he hadn't believed that it was. he would rather doubt and question than have victory. he would rather think.
    but this was changing. he was transforming into something he did not doubt or question or even have to think about. this was also the machine. it was an integral component though it could be seen that the machine had no components.
    he saw the machine.
    there was a plan though it wasn't a plan exactly planned though there was planning in it. the understanding of it is through not exactly understanding it. one cannot understand it by exact means. the more one becomes exact the further one moves from understanding.
    but there is exactness that is not exacting. this is the subtle difference few understand. or allow themselves the time to understand. but that understanding is the exactness that is not exacting.
    dreamland. what we are told and are telling ourselves. the judgment. the devices.
    he observes. he sets it at zero.
    a dog. a cat. a diagnosis.
    beneath some diamond sky beyond some cracked mirror. a reaching upside down sideways. a twist. a shout. to remember what it is. to become what it is. what it is is what one is. is there any goal worth striving for than this? what other is anything more than distraction? a forgetting? a becoming less than what one is?
    to say yes.
    and he's watching and he is waiting. an intelligent monkey. a created image of a dog.
 
    5/14
    a tick-tock face eyes glancing down at wrist staying on schedule straight and narrow.
    but that's not it. that is not important.
    x - a god thing perhaps. not even. not really. but something always unknown that is the guiding force - but sort of anti-force - as all else follows.
    but that's obvious. if he could think of it then anyone could. but they don't. so this is left to him. maybe. maybe not. nothing is left to him. he didn't need that much. just enough food to eat and someplace warm and dry to sleep. for himself. for anyone. what more is there than that besides all the time in the world? but we fight about what we want more than that forever.
    forever.