28.2.09
27.2.09
cock hold
i am not the good wife after all, rather the one that mutated while the ice cream truck went innocently round and round and children were cut down in their prime by the madman living in the basement next door and you choose to eat the cake and poison the little wee jar that held my internal fluids.
STAB OUT MY EYES
item #0059
Deborah, Just a note to say I've accomplished most of what I set out to do. I missed only a couple of things. Nothing destructive. More importantly, dearest, I remained wholly within our loving traditions, and never once forgot the gifts that you have given me. I emphasised these at ever juncture, in fact. Where would this man be without you and your loving ways? You lead and I obey. And whilst others cannot understand the depths to which I cling to you, we know that our general agreements, made years ago by now, are what make us so very strong. Really, you are my wisdom; and it is your life which we together lead. You, to me, are both radical and as natural as sunshine. My illuminator, I see no other alternative but to happily bask in your twists and turns. As you have said, we strongly believe in labels and the vitality which they bring to most situations. To us, the most precious experiences have this essence - of categorical play within a dramatic made-made scenery, of a thousand cages filled with smiling prisoners. I will never hesitate to aid you in your vision to build more. Iain x
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
stationary for you ... always
_
Copyright graphic; Genocide on the streets
warped through glass
Ideas of scenic children.
The dead woman's fumes, even the
dead dog and vehicle: This is no ritual ached
in history. Nor carved in meaning unlike the flag.
No legs and a bullet: You lay in a Parody
of death. New avenues of promise, new boundraies
without facial expressions. The camera exhales
a sense of delusion: or empty words Yet to be canvassed.
warped through glass
Ideas of scenic children.
The dead woman's fumes, even the
dead dog and vehicle: This is no ritual ached
in history. Nor carved in meaning unlike the flag.
No legs and a bullet: You lay in a Parody
of death. New avenues of promise, new boundraies
without facial expressions. The camera exhales
a sense of delusion: or empty words Yet to be canvassed.
malarial blanket bingo
Our bathroom exercises have proven extremely effective in counteracting familial and social antiprogramming, and as we guide exercises in identifying parental figures not through face or voice recognition but gential detail drawn again and again across the pages of the repurposed Consumer Responsibility and Proper Intersocial Defense Postures workbooks we have requisitioned from the supply closet. Annabelle has made the Index Librorum Prohibitorum the class reading list, which has rapidly led to a series of discoveries by the brighter children. Three of the children have collectively taken on the pseudonym Frater Dismalismus and began working on a practical grimoire for Kid Lib mystic revolutionaries using a cipher modified from the Risalah fi Istikhraj al-Mu'amma which I have so far been unable to crack. Annabelle says the children have shown her the key, and they have regularly taken to discussing its deeper mysteries while occasionally pointing at me and laughing, at which point I turn off the lights until they apologise. Nothing worse than having someone turn off the lights when you're in the bathroom.
26.2.09
soporific torpor
a blanket of illusional safety brings out the gay and nervous laughter, the giddy lightness of being, the freeing of many anxious birds from my chest...slap. crashes down by the ignorant flick of a haughty wrist and i'm reminded that i still am vapid, of air. metal bitter. trapped behind glass, perturbed and hideous. finished.
25.2.09
urinator valley
We are not allowed to leave the compound, so class field trips tend to be localized; for instance, this week we visited the bathroom. As each stall offers homage to a different deity, the students were segregated and left to autonomous explorations of the toilet, which is also a well, so with string spun from fine-knotted hair and hooks built from braces each team went sewer fishing while Annabelle and I read letters from the home office written backwards in the mirror. The walls decorated with dyes squeezed from hand soap and urinal blocks and flags flown from toilet paper, soon enough each stall became its own nation, and the flourishing of under-divider commerce taught truer lessons than any of the gibberish textbooks the temporary government sends us in dump trucks every other Monday. I felt a sense of purpose swelling as the miniature cretins learned to haggle and barter, and I told Annabelle we should never return to the learning center, we should spend the remainder of the semester in our bathroom classroom, but she was pleasuring herself with the hand dryer and paid me no mind.
24.2.09
23.2.09
22.2.09
Chapter 10, In Which Our Hero Gets Shot And Bleeds Data
'Power electronics can still save the planet!'
Towards the digitized memory, right there behind the history of armed struggle. 'This is sleep, I suppose,' thought Alexei, quickly sidestepping the advertisement patholgy. The pink drone glistening wings of syntax, a black butterfly's new god, last night's gig simultaneously a raven-haired city and a strange diary found beneath Samsara's iridescent tufts of fur.
Whole subalterns, fifteen dollars his cold fingers for a nubile lap with stories of live animals, trees and fresh air to Brother Blue Eyes. Rows of ashen, emaciated faces speak outside the pores and glands slithering under a soft, atonal rhyme, a lunar head of hair. To continue ad infinitum, to elicit larceny from the top of the cage's cold waist and Sister Whisper, her mantra the coppery skin of a warrior raised from magic's fire. The hologram's latest chick-with-a-dick is enough to set off the sensors, the metallic invisible sweating catharsis and beauty, the news about a savage revolt in the ring-colonies.
It was always packed and bustling in this deep-space, vagina-shaped nowhere, and for mysterious symbols beyond, jewels nodding their recognition. Alexei dripped rumours of the advancing dead, their mouths turned to glass, mysterious amphetamines swooshing twice. An I Love You card, a fold in the need to huge wads of semen as the future, disembodied limbs to decipher one call home, like gunfire and diamonds. A chrome infection would remind him of everything's jungle floor, its unique place in the alliance between a half-twist and imaginary poems scrawled on the planet's rapidly-pixillating sky.
Touching the dazzling green tremolo, his heaving chest an equation that faithfully reminds him, 'Evolution's over and done with, this world will soon explode into tiny shards of cosmic fish.'
Decades from now, when the sky had learned to laugh along with the bones floating in orbit, subconsciously crying square breasts in someone else's plaintive voice, cheap and automatic if he wanted to remember the rush of remixed escape...
Up ahead were the neuro-cameras that scanned every nook and cranny of those passing by, the mostly apathetic throngs of people who, in their hurry, didn't seem to mind as everything they had experienced during the past twenty-four hours was plucked from their brain's limbic system and recorded. Smells. Tastes. Sights seen. Words spoken and heard. Feelings and impressions, even eidetic images. Everything...to be analyzed by security-bots for the protection of everyone remaining on this doomed planet.
Faces around him, the blur in synergy about to forget if Beckett happens to be in town that winter. The garden of weird ideas, a strange alien dirge in defiance of the pyramid's ancient mystery. Wave after wave of hot ink swarmed into his head, and he heard, 'You are still left with the particle accelerators,' as, out of nowhere a skeleton brandishing a plastic toy Uzi appeared to his right. It said nothing, just stared serenely at Alexei as he tried to size the nightmarish creature up and figure out what it could possibly want of him. Acronyms swirled on the cold tile floor, ghastly lips and lost hours transmitted in desolate reams of text, the narcotic communicating with its own flashing eight. Archaic weaponry broke the walls down, the covenant's ether in thirty levels, a black dress he had corrugated. Alexei walked a few steps further along, his colours firmly improvised before realizing, in horror, that he had been shot and was bleeding data quite profusely.
Towards the digitized memory, right there behind the history of armed struggle. 'This is sleep, I suppose,' thought Alexei, quickly sidestepping the advertisement patholgy. The pink drone glistening wings of syntax, a black butterfly's new god, last night's gig simultaneously a raven-haired city and a strange diary found beneath Samsara's iridescent tufts of fur.
Whole subalterns, fifteen dollars his cold fingers for a nubile lap with stories of live animals, trees and fresh air to Brother Blue Eyes. Rows of ashen, emaciated faces speak outside the pores and glands slithering under a soft, atonal rhyme, a lunar head of hair. To continue ad infinitum, to elicit larceny from the top of the cage's cold waist and Sister Whisper, her mantra the coppery skin of a warrior raised from magic's fire. The hologram's latest chick-with-a-dick is enough to set off the sensors, the metallic invisible sweating catharsis and beauty, the news about a savage revolt in the ring-colonies.
It was always packed and bustling in this deep-space, vagina-shaped nowhere, and for mysterious symbols beyond, jewels nodding their recognition. Alexei dripped rumours of the advancing dead, their mouths turned to glass, mysterious amphetamines swooshing twice. An I Love You card, a fold in the need to huge wads of semen as the future, disembodied limbs to decipher one call home, like gunfire and diamonds. A chrome infection would remind him of everything's jungle floor, its unique place in the alliance between a half-twist and imaginary poems scrawled on the planet's rapidly-pixillating sky.
Touching the dazzling green tremolo, his heaving chest an equation that faithfully reminds him, 'Evolution's over and done with, this world will soon explode into tiny shards of cosmic fish.'
Decades from now, when the sky had learned to laugh along with the bones floating in orbit, subconsciously crying square breasts in someone else's plaintive voice, cheap and automatic if he wanted to remember the rush of remixed escape...
Up ahead were the neuro-cameras that scanned every nook and cranny of those passing by, the mostly apathetic throngs of people who, in their hurry, didn't seem to mind as everything they had experienced during the past twenty-four hours was plucked from their brain's limbic system and recorded. Smells. Tastes. Sights seen. Words spoken and heard. Feelings and impressions, even eidetic images. Everything...to be analyzed by security-bots for the protection of everyone remaining on this doomed planet.
Faces around him, the blur in synergy about to forget if Beckett happens to be in town that winter. The garden of weird ideas, a strange alien dirge in defiance of the pyramid's ancient mystery. Wave after wave of hot ink swarmed into his head, and he heard, 'You are still left with the particle accelerators,' as, out of nowhere a skeleton brandishing a plastic toy Uzi appeared to his right. It said nothing, just stared serenely at Alexei as he tried to size the nightmarish creature up and figure out what it could possibly want of him. Acronyms swirled on the cold tile floor, ghastly lips and lost hours transmitted in desolate reams of text, the narcotic communicating with its own flashing eight. Archaic weaponry broke the walls down, the covenant's ether in thirty levels, a black dress he had corrugated. Alexei walked a few steps further along, his colours firmly improvised before realizing, in horror, that he had been shot and was bleeding data quite profusely.
21.2.09
20.2.09
EXP
"EXP" redirects here; for other uses, see exp.
In computational complexity theory, the complexity class EXPTIME (sometimes called EXP) is the set of all decision problems solvable by a deterministic Turing machine in O(2p(n)) time, where p(n) is a polynomial function of n.
In terms of DTIME,
We know
P NP PSPACE EXPTIME NEXPTIME EXPSPACE
and also, by the time hierarchy theorem and the space hierarchy theorem, that
P EXPTIME and NP NEXPTIME and PSPACE EXPSPACE
so at least one of the first three inclusions and at least one of the last three inclusions must be proper, but it is not known which ones are. Most experts believe all the inclusions are proper. It's also known that if P = NP, then EXPTIME = NEXPTIME, the class of problems solvable in exponential time by a nondeterministic Turing machine.[1] More precisely, EXPTIME ≠ NEXPTIME if and only if there exist sparse languages in NP that are not in P.[2]
EXPTIME can also be reformulated as the space class APSPACE, the problems that can be solved by an alternating Turing machine in polynomial space. This is one way to see that PSPACE EXPTIME, since an alternating Turing machine is at least as powerful as a deterministic Turing machine.[3]
EXPTIME is one class in a hierarchy of complexity classes with increasingly higher time bounds. The class 2-EXPTIME is defined similarly to EXPTIME but with a doubly-exponential time bound . This can be generalized to higher and higher time bounds.
[edit] EXPTIME-complete
In computational complexity theory, the complexity class EXPTIME (sometimes called EXP) is the set of all decision problems solvable by a deterministic Turing machine in O(2p(n)) time, where p(n) is a polynomial function of n.
In terms of DTIME,
We know
P NP PSPACE EXPTIME NEXPTIME EXPSPACE
and also, by the time hierarchy theorem and the space hierarchy theorem, that
P EXPTIME and NP NEXPTIME and PSPACE EXPSPACE
so at least one of the first three inclusions and at least one of the last three inclusions must be proper, but it is not known which ones are. Most experts believe all the inclusions are proper. It's also known that if P = NP, then EXPTIME = NEXPTIME, the class of problems solvable in exponential time by a nondeterministic Turing machine.[1] More precisely, EXPTIME ≠ NEXPTIME if and only if there exist sparse languages in NP that are not in P.[2]
EXPTIME can also be reformulated as the space class APSPACE, the problems that can be solved by an alternating Turing machine in polynomial space. This is one way to see that PSPACE EXPTIME, since an alternating Turing machine is at least as powerful as a deterministic Turing machine.[3]
EXPTIME is one class in a hierarchy of complexity classes with increasingly higher time bounds. The class 2-EXPTIME is defined similarly to EXPTIME but with a doubly-exponential time bound . This can be generalized to higher and higher time bounds.
[edit] EXPTIME-complete
19.2.09
TRUE LOVE
GIRL-it occurs to me that you are a weenie- never writing on my wall. what- is your chicken wrist too weak to pick up the imaginary chalk and write? getting drunk and feisty all by myself- you are lucky you're not here or i'd.....
BOY-You're lucky I'm not there or i'd check out the new custom removable features of your new eye sockets.
feeling a little frisky under the spell of that sticky sweet nazi liquor are we, call me names do you, well, well well...this will go down on your permanent record, and you will be held accountable, what will I do, hmm, perhaps make you pee your pants in public again..
GIRL-i always feel such a personal warmth, similar to a pre-moistened towelette, such as one might obtain through the local southern deep fried chicken eating establishment, when i get the proverbial rise out of you; the sexually charged veiled threats of great harm to my being- similar to the fuzzy feeling of applying the oven warmed aforementioned towelette to my quivering genitals.
BOY-Ah yes darling, to craft the appropriate response to being classified as a weenie, as the puerile insults fly back and forth through the ether, there is some brain matter left to acknowledge from whence these barrel bottom scrapings came.
From you, you started it, this time, perhaps you should not engage in activities which you do not enjoy. Like the volatile compounds in the aforementioned single serving cleansing device, one can decide to light them on fire, and suffer the disastrous effects of burning the shit out of your face and hands, metaphorically of course, or, when the urge strikes you to venture out on your plank and hurl demeaning insults at the fixer of your broken household items, realize it always ends badly, and perhaps some other activity would be more suitable, like, making me some attractively chiaroscurro garment to compliment my rugged features and complex nature.
Next time, rest assured, I will simply ignore your teenage outburst.
g then h: go home r: refresh
g then a: go to all items u: toggle full screen mode
g then s: go to starred items 1: switch to expanded view
g then + s: go to shared items 2: switch to list view
g then u: open subscription selector /: move cursor to search box
g then t: open tag selector a: add a subscription
g then + t: go to trends page =: increase magnification
g then d: go to discovery page -: decrease magnification
g then f: open friend selector
g then + f: go to friends' shared items
18.2.09
Genocide
how do you wash your hands before Genocide?
in a sense. the same way you wash them before god.
in the rain. as you ride the wings of insanity. as you
fold the wings of insanity. are you not as religious?
painting dreams. is your song not as filled with hope
dispair and the grasping of general confusion. as
you confront the future. this is what i hear.
but to find only part one of a song. but in a song
that is everything.
like
birthing
light
in a
string of water.
in a sense. the same way you wash them before god.
in the rain. as you ride the wings of insanity. as you
fold the wings of insanity. are you not as religious?
painting dreams. is your song not as filled with hope
dispair and the grasping of general confusion. as
you confront the future. this is what i hear.
but to find only part one of a song. but in a song
that is everything.
like
birthing
light
in a
string of water.
Blue light
In blue light, the 4 ghosts of insomnia come closer. seeing in me the blue light
while most are sleeping and not looking for memories. In blue light the ghosts
of insomnia chase me, this way, then change direction. when I am hiding in blue light, because I remember. The blue light. They chase me out of fear, and I run to convince them I am not spying on their daughters, wifes, sisters at this hour, in blue light. It does, they do. The blue night I discover must be turned off. But this will not convince them. While most are sleeping, in lights that are not blue. One of the ghosts tries to make me smile, tries to convinve me, there is something funny, but I have chosen not to laugh without blue light. Without blue light two of the ghosts have gone away and assured me the blue light won't arrest me. There might be cause not to get caught in the blue light. There were not 4 ghosts of insomnia I lied. But there was blue light. Momentarily, jumping on a strange man's voice and a piano in the rain. An old man speaking in the rain. What a speech, he adresses the rain, in a voice that more or less talks but also listens. It was an idea about blue light . .Looking for memories I can't find and some I can't loose. One of the ghosts is still with me. I am indecisive about weather to keep him. or not. What would sulphur say? I created ghosts to make this text interesting. And the blue light as a theme because at the time it was effective. but since then i have changed. Im not so convinced. You are an idiot in blue light. in most lights like blue. i can keep my cool. without making a big deal out of it. or maybe there were more than four ghosts.
what I just learnt from the past 1 minute 30 seconds. has changed. the text sometimes forms complex equations. sometimes getting caught in the wind of saddness. that momentary breeze. what the text set out to achieve and what it discovers to itself. in 2.46 minitue long spaces of transformation. you are there when the text starts dancing. it's no empty thing. It's nothing that won't discover itself in the avenues of time. yeah, yeah. in the space between stars, all memories count. themselves in. themselves lucky.
struck by the distance between stars that guides us.
while most are sleeping and not looking for memories. In blue light the ghosts
of insomnia chase me, this way, then change direction. when I am hiding in blue light, because I remember. The blue light. They chase me out of fear, and I run to convince them I am not spying on their daughters, wifes, sisters at this hour, in blue light. It does, they do. The blue night I discover must be turned off. But this will not convince them. While most are sleeping, in lights that are not blue. One of the ghosts tries to make me smile, tries to convinve me, there is something funny, but I have chosen not to laugh without blue light. Without blue light two of the ghosts have gone away and assured me the blue light won't arrest me. There might be cause not to get caught in the blue light. There were not 4 ghosts of insomnia I lied. But there was blue light. Momentarily, jumping on a strange man's voice and a piano in the rain. An old man speaking in the rain. What a speech, he adresses the rain, in a voice that more or less talks but also listens. It was an idea about blue light . .Looking for memories I can't find and some I can't loose. One of the ghosts is still with me. I am indecisive about weather to keep him. or not. What would sulphur say? I created ghosts to make this text interesting. And the blue light as a theme because at the time it was effective. but since then i have changed. Im not so convinced. You are an idiot in blue light. in most lights like blue. i can keep my cool. without making a big deal out of it. or maybe there were more than four ghosts.
what I just learnt from the past 1 minute 30 seconds. has changed. the text sometimes forms complex equations. sometimes getting caught in the wind of saddness. that momentary breeze. what the text set out to achieve and what it discovers to itself. in 2.46 minitue long spaces of transformation. you are there when the text starts dancing. it's no empty thing. It's nothing that won't discover itself in the avenues of time. yeah, yeah. in the space between stars, all memories count. themselves in. themselves lucky.
struck by the distance between stars that guides us.
the things i've caused
The clouds cast shadows so deep they seemed to stain the ground, casting the grass in a darker hue until winter reset the scene. She took a step from the doorway to the playground and felt the life drain from her, the dread pool in her chest. It's just a series of steps, she thought. I've taken millions of steps in my life. This is no different. She felt like she would fall forward, and so she leaned back, and almost fell over, catching herself with a sudden backstep, and just like that it hit her, now she had to start over. She'd never get off school grounds at this rate. She saw traffic slow as it reached the block, the amber light of the warning signs on each corner just barely visible with the sun covered over, with the wind coming up from the south. She was the last to leave, the same as every day, but she was sure there were still some children left, standing at the windows, watching her, waiting for something to happen. She took a breath, took a step. As she moved from the building the playground came around from behind the corner, and there were kids there, three atop the jungle gym, the highest point of the playground, pockets filled with rocks, but she was not afraid of these kids, who only wanted a modest perimeter to call their own, to define themselves against, the most meager of reputations to hex away the terror. She tried to take another step and hesitated, uncertain of where to step, and now the jungle gym kids were watching her. "Are you okay?" the littlest one said, his voice like air escaping a balloon. She wanted to turn and say she was fine, maybe she could become one of the jungle gym kids, maybe she could be protected by whatever totemic power the space held, but she was so tired, and there was so much more walking she had to do, and she knew she didn't belong to a place, she was without a center, and it was all she could do to fight the current, to walk a straight line.
17.2.09
Madame Lithium
Lithium Madame’s tumescent house calls
nylon flimsy, burning bourbon feral obesity, Madame Midnight masturbates bulges; numinous aura ‘god panel console’ under robes dialling broiler dreams -
inky roof diffused in rouged lamp filter
casually astride rubberised meat latex
verbal intercourse phone stretches stiffened morbidity
smoking cerebral Christ knuckles
boneless form in free-associative fluorescence
Written by A.D.Hitchin, 2009.
nylon flimsy, burning bourbon feral obesity, Madame Midnight masturbates bulges; numinous aura ‘god panel console’ under robes dialling broiler dreams -
inky roof diffused in rouged lamp filter
casually astride rubberised meat latex
verbal intercourse phone stretches stiffened morbidity
smoking cerebral Christ knuckles
boneless form in free-associative fluorescence
Written by A.D.Hitchin, 2009.
16.2.09
they lie me down, say be calm. tape my eyelids open. say be calm. squeeze the eyeball at the base like an errant cock ring till it bulges so tight but i've never had such an erection before. sight blacks out. knife is applied. a violent red splatter and the fluid runs down my cheek to congregate cheerfully in my ear...
15.2.09
auspice
Curriculum auriculum, Annabelle spits, I don't teach by PTA recipes! The learning is in it and of it and cannot be codified prior to the event! I agree, but ever-bookish, suggest perhaps a text of my own, a grammar whose exercises were written to bind her to my heart: I am going to the library, you are going to the library, we are going to the library. The children, mostly made of clay, cannot follow my reasoning and instead train the class hamster (whose name is Virgil, with wife and children of his own, and dreams of a burrow in the field across the playground) for his impending departure to Heaven via the ingeniusness of the Transubstantiatory Rocketry Club. From Heaven, Virgil will report to the class on the nature and atmosphere of death, of what is to come once the day to day has wound to stillness and silence, and via the tiny transmitter I built with the help of a student whose school-name is Horizon the hamsternaut will answer the oracle's only question: is there hope? Annabelle realizes she will never truly be able to teach her students while bound to the dictates of idiots and fools, and so declares the classroom a country unto itself, forsaking the inverted crown of the degenerate public schooling system, and so Virgil's journey becomes a diplomatic mission, as the newly christened Zos Kia Kinderland must forge an alliance with the dead in order to protect true knowledge from a corrupt society, and I write at the back of the book I am going to Heaven, you are going to Heaven, we are going to Heaven.
14.2.09
t's place v.2
those kindly asks what is anyway this…
"can it do that, one asks during places words?"
she will say,
"do not in-amplifier-change as eat indifference!"
*it knocks, the door goes away*
"it is there a ja" he calls?!
"when it is ent-rinnen" its without-same none;
was the answer while sounds.
nevertheless everything seemed so questionably
nevertheless convincingly clear besides it was love,
the horses were to be accustomed not further to wheels, them had already legs.
but it loved it nevertheless, so truely also the surrealists a glow did not have
which it to witness gave to see it was before it fallen over behind it!
out OF the box:
"can it do that, one asks during places words?"
she will say,
"do not in-amplifier-change as eat indifference!"
*it knocks, the door goes away*
"it is there a ja" he calls?!
"when it is ent-rinnen" its without-same none;
was the answer while sounds.
nevertheless everything seemed so questionably
nevertheless convincingly clear besides it was love,
the horses were to be accustomed not further to wheels, them had already legs.
but it loved it nevertheless, so truely also the surrealists a glow did not have
which it to witness gave to see it was before it fallen over behind it!
out OF the box:
13.2.09
the clock
that was before time you know. you know time_it's spins this way, yeah, yea, i know time. have you seen time?! missing time?! nah, man, just time, shut up. yo, time man, yeah, i remember time man. time was always hanging out you know. man, time. brother, time, you know, he needs to call me. time, that motherfucker man, almost had me. to race the clock. /it spun, fucking symetrical or some shit man. time, was like, and i thought, but wait. if you so scared to die. man, sometimes man. you know what im saying man, i was straight chillin du- you know what im saying. then some time walks up. some clocked out motherfucker, man, like, all on some stuff man, about some stuff man, like, oh yeah this is my time, blah blah blah, so you know time. time is like, uh huh- laughing and shit. this kid man. i don't know if he had it. fur reals man. ah, wait, fur real, it's clever, to begin with, it has been_ each morning you know. it wakes up- like, ah, yeah, like, it's time and shit man. im here smiling to myself like. that's time? laughing, like, that's time. that?! time?! man. time wouldn't talk to me like that. I know time, you know what I'm saying. time man. time. all that shit is gold homie. thats what time said. don't ask me when man. it just said it. YEAH, like just now. as you were adjusting the clock. it was the right thing to do. open your eyes man. time. time. man. i wasted time man. you see- then, then. ah wait. fuck. fucking bullshit man, im in the mood. clever man, for real. stillness on a map forged . like plucked man, i dunno_
mm
all hookers and swimming)(cloudless)(to decieve grey))a monsoon rat- )is tied( before clever wishes)(and celebrity conversations)(before science and trees falling()oh, but what if_and when will_-i think about those given orders, latching onto a song(for effect) (always for effect-i think. -what is clever, what is more or less, effective, what is inspiring, what is working and what will fail(more or less) have you heard-about the time when) all coversations start this way. if you walk quick enough) my heros discover me. this is how it starts. otherwise, when spoken to) i am in the shadows(moving this way )and discovering tomyself( what is sacred to begin with) there was a song( and ) and i sat in my seat- lets be remembered) lets carve a future into this myth and call it magic. .figured as much. .figured to begin again in a different voice, tonight at least, to begin with i should hope, i should have hoped. I should have hope) ( at least, thats how I speak, to time)(listen, clever voices are missing this month, in less than a clock. . it is wise to name three things with a voice as such. (because when in the truth endowed a breakbeat fathom) time t-r-a-v-el )) faces, faces on the radio) that was it) i was facing a radio. a freqency, it began with) this lie. I lie. have lied. to save lives? well we don't know yet. my heros all address me. well - there was this one time. when. i found one, doing it for - i dunno- money - i think it was. but he had not been paid yet__it's clever. and paitent. to find you. yes, - it will find you- wait. small features find clever names in clocks. names all hookers and swimming. thats a good question, hence i have outlined it in blue, so you see, it spun symetrical to inspire time. real life. there was, once, then i asked again, and it laughed. not because it was particularly funny. i do not govern that. but because when it rains in time. another lie. something clever happened. it's been let off. oh, man, did you , well, to be honest with you, it exaggerated and it will be the first to tell you that. it enojys it. it really does. but it's not been addressed since time. take time, yes, the method, always, ahllusonagenic. i thought about taking more time. oh snap, that me bro?! my bad, shit, let me try again, three of me at this angle always dancing and dressing time in some myth to conveine for it. that was funny. i almost laughed. but check it out though, yo. check it, figured it best yo. still.
12.2.09
By and large, when left somewhat to my own devices, I feel I am fair and lenient in all my dealings. There is, of course, always latitude and scope for ever-greater fairness, but I cannot commit to micro-management of any other persons, at present. He is enough, for now. There is, I know, a moral imperative, and I am bound by it, just like anyone else. I believe in rights and responsibilities, as the core of some general and natural human ideology. I know I am required to honour the expectations society has of me. Its array of border-lines ... I embrace and respect them all. I will work for food and furniture, as seems necessary. I have forgotten nothing from my youth and its structures and training. Your time was not wasted. I am only looking to comply with some logical next step. My lover takes my hand, and we comply together. Reality as we see it is subordinate to this, and our positions are intended to continuously and relentlessly reinforce the obligations we have been given. We have never sought to re-number ourselves. Society approves of us as we are, and that is fine and valuable. Strictly speaking, we have few questions to ask.
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