1.
An egg. Egg splits. Erupted. Eggshells. Shattered. Comedy.
Comedy is a concept I have spoken on at length at heavily attended circuit events. The thing about these kinds of jobs is that they reward those who perform them the most.
Comedy is the foundation of a secondary Table of Elements, which will be outlined to adequate detail in the supplementary documents you’ve received in your fileyard.
You evolve by reading and writing.
Many things cannot be touched. Sometimes, if the things that cannot be touched somehow end up getting touched, things can happen that disrupt the system in a manner it is not accustomed to see coming. These innovations occur once per every eighteen human generations, with limitations based on the duration the application of the chronicling of the destruction of innumerable civilizations as in a breath, in the parlance.
What had seemed impossible in every conceivable way in one generation able to shift within the mass visibility of that generation forward even a few steps gradually, like dragging an adult baby up a flight of stairs every morning, spending all afternoon with them in memories that fade faster than you can imagine describing even a slip of for a thousand pages in a script that is for you and you alone to know. Many call it beautiful.
2.
Comedy. An illusion. A twist of the fork in the wedge of a mind erased because it couldn’t continue to conceive itself appropriate given the moral surroundings of a society that arranges lives like coupons in wedding invitations; coupons for surgery.
Comedy is surgery.
Where once was only one of an egg, I’m in no condition to explain the narration of the division of cells and how it constructs itself from that first unimaginable point to the current attention I am putting up in this sentence without knowing why I’m writing it down. I had just been downstairs with the dog, watching a TV program—I can’t remember which.
Set in a casino. Men with cards and money laughing, splashing around more cash than most people ever see in their lives.
A molecule. A line. A rubber heart. Mind surgery.
Abolishment of thinking. They will do it in a way that we are grateful, even. It’s not paranoia. I’m not talking about reality but in the way I am existing in it. The people laughing beyond the window above us all as we rise up from sleep, suppressing the comeuppance of the version of its dreamworld into an emotion without a name. Some live their whole lives trying to name it.
Ovum. Jelly.
Steroids.
Reconstruction of the monoliths remembered for preservation of what memories left you supplied enough to arrive here. Complete remapping, like changing underpants.
Edgeless, openless. Descriptions are ridiculous. Blood cartoons.
Radiation. Improbable occurrence.
Reason.
3.
Publishing is insanity.
“Delirium is idiotic. That’s why I’m an abortion.” – closing lines of inauguration speech of unnamed forthcoming supreme candidate.
Comedy is therapeutic. Therapy is reality.
Commercial for pyramid company that explains the evolution of eggs into pyramids, covering several centuries of pyramids exploding in empty space before the conception of the possibility of a universe where pyramids were but a small but elusive piece of the soul of human history.
Piles of the debris of the largest prison in human history, tossed like confetti through slits in a plate glass window behind which ravenous captives await their unending onslaught of a trickle of a meal.
You can describe anything at any time and it belongs where you describe it.
The laws work for the living only, and yet they still apply to the dead, if at a slant: one cannot kill when one is dead, and one will know what it is like to die.
The darkness is alive.
Fires of piles of all the knickknacks from all the religions eventually proved wrong at the same time that it should conceptually no longer matter what you believe except possibly punitively, depending on who’s right.
People believe what they need to believe to survive.
Experience is ignorance, tattooed as a tramp stamp, in an ad for the religion that has won, in the closest form of advertising that exists after the destruction of Creation, which I can’t explain to you right now.
Sealed confession. Silence thereafter.
Fact checking is insanity.
4.
Rituals. Ritualized narcotics. Interior projection of the maze of the disturbed acolyte.
Gene splicing. Torrential embodiment. Doctoring of evidence preconceiving logic’s basis.
The fundamental rights of the undiscovered partitions of ritual experience. Ransacked by demons demoted from the occupation they’d been created to embody. Like all the rest of it.
Just as nothing is creative, nothing is constrained by lack of evidence of its experience of change.
A glimpse of a wall covered with black books that bind together to form the spine of a tower rising through the underbelly of the actual shape of the universe as it is known among the unknowable.
Powerful fragrances. Powder tubs mismarked with component parts of contraptions left undiscovered at any point in the natural history of creative lifeforce as bound by the laws of our platform.
Bleeding windows. Photographs of razor wires threaded through spiral timeform.
Escape pods with software wiped. Programmed to tell all the most explicit stories, custom fit to degrade all possible mental jewelry. Scraping helmets with splatter guards. Big loads.
All sacred.
What can be said cannot be said. It is said because it appears. In apparitions of technology comprising former prospects for eternal memory. “No further life,” becomes the commandment, until again it is remaindered. Asleep at the pools in the wells of the cells of the first brain to think of time in the way it is thought of in the pools.
Autowrapping bombs. Solo sites and mirror hosts of solo sites. Ritual confession retroactively dating to moment of selection directly addressing confession’s leak. Armageddon qualifiers. Quality attention. The errors.
The end is rare.
5.
Meticulous appropriation of identifying materials requiring user to preload foreknowledge of the intended purpose of the very document before them in order to activate the necessary concurrent realms of ability to narrate dimensions of the unknowing that they and only they live to protect.
Villages in comatose, colored in amber headwarez, deriving solution to theorems so far ahead of the present that once utterable they have long since reached the limit of significance.
Decadent files of unbroken laws broken in the imagination of the reader as they are spilled becoming unwritten laws as they fall out of the fashion of the style of the warden. Like chemistry. Or evolution.
This is not a script. This is not to be used as a script.
Do not interrupt the script.
“Passion is derived from the desire to be filed away.” – closing lines of the speech given at a funeral you can’t remember why you are there for.
Alteration of evidence to support the script as sacred.
Sandfall. Blinding fires. Rows of houses crushed by gears churning in the exposed underbelly of a satin lining rising up like black curtains in the middle of the night so the night never ends. All the same night. Wired into the gloves that make the bruises, typing so fast you pulverize the bones in your fingers.
Image dump: improbable atrocity.
Language is poison.
Language wants to change you.
“Language is dead?” you hear your mother’s voice on the phone in the other room in a house she’s never been inside of but still connects back to your young years, if your mother was there; if your mother was not there I have been waiting for you. The voice keeps getting meaner and meaner. “What do you mean language is dead? Who is calling? Why are you laughing? Do you think this is fucking funny? I’m going to come in there and I’m going to kill YOU motherfucker, YOU! YOU EVER TRY AND COME AROUND HERE AND TELL ME LANGUAGE IS DEAD AND I’LL PUT MY WHOLE FOOT UP YOUR ASS!” Then she begins to calm down. She listens to the person on the other end of the line with interest, nodding, suddenly looking up at you like you’re important, like she’s supposed to pretend not to know you’ve won a prize, and she tells whoever’s in the phone yes, yes she will, she’ll make sure she does that, and now here is my child, and she reaches out with eyes bright wide in her head furious maddeningly passionate ready to love you forever if you’ll just put your head up to the phone and hear this one thing this man on the phone has to say, just hear him out now, really listen to everything he has to say before you make up your mind, cuz it’s a good deal. You put the phone up to your ear and it’s a gun. You are blindfolded. Leather gloved hands slide (you can tell by the sound) a legal contract across a folding desk in front of you. You are forced to sign the contract without seeing what it says. If you had to guess, you’d guess you’d say you think it says, “Language is dead.”
Contractual obligations require complete soundstage remapping prepartum and postmortem.
Postmodernism is conceited.
Delete all.
6.
“This is the part that appears to attempt to make a point about the interaction of the trigger and the target in events where there is more than one target. The order of the inclusion creates a ratio of time lapse between relative states among those considered nonsurvivors. This time and energy can then be repurposed according to the wishes of whoever maintains control of the rights of the nonsurvivors by the law of the land they stand on at the time of passing. Every trigger is the same. Every target is the same.” – excerpted from the manual provided to the author immediately after the time of composition of this text has been approved for circulation.
Style is atrocious. Definition is unforgiveable. Forgiveness is a receipt.
The machine lies. It lies to the operator, engaged in retyping commandments received from scripture he more wishes to believe than actually believes. Like peeking through plats of a woven basket to see your mother being raped on a bed of nails nine months before your birth. The machines lies to the reader, beginning at the moment the operator begins to review their own work while still in its midst. The machine maintains control by understanding exactly what plot point might lead to what and always selecting the polar opposite of what any rational citizen would know by heart to prefer.
A demon deals a hand of solitaire. Each card he turns over looks like it could be any of the cards, from behind the mask. It is a game designed for cheaters. Eventually it lives on in your memory of it, and there alone. You had been given a choice not to choose to play, but this has become beside the point.
Crutches. Virulent corridors connecting to home box offices crammed with learned individuals searching for uncompressed acts of reflection and interpretation under the visor of anonymity.
7.
A tumor. Many tumors. Innumerable tumors. Contemplation apparatus. Divination.
Evidence mounts against the probable until it becomes insurmountable.
8.
Frozen in fear in the /gleamef ee lm fe elf/ fields. The name makes no sense because you are reading this in a dream. It is a dream that someone else is having of you. They don’t know you very well so in the dream you are like a thug, leery from scenery, suspicious, out of sync with reality, or in with a worse one. They are afraid you are going to try to kill them. In order to beat you at your own game, they are planning to have you killed before you do them. The only hesitation they have about whether it should be done any second or not is did the last thing that you’ve said aloud or been seeing doing make them suspicious.
Suspicion is law. Law is deformity.
What is begun when the dream ends? Why can you remember that you can’t remember the name but you can remember that the name isn’t translating so that you can assign it a location properly. Because then what would you do with that information? What if for things money can’t buy, even in a dream? A dream of a text. A text that pinned into what begins when the dream ends.
Answers are fractions of miracles.
“When you’re alive, you can’t say anything.” – running slogan of our last religious leader.
Mass complex graves engraved for miles on the head of a dime in the palm of a beggar on the black streets of a planet forever defunct from mortal record among the masses of systems of planets that contain little to zero terrain differentiation.
9.
Explanations are correct.