the sustenance of substance

that deep gray vapor, the infinitely entangled stuff of things, the echoes of distant lands and the fibrillated chances scattered and disperse across the ordovician of reason. the cantankerous flavonoid representative arching her back at you provocatively, beckons for a retelling of a history, a full sensory distillation in complete fidelity of the reasoning in your indranet.

you cannot not dream of reason. they said: "my god, we've been decategorifying for thousands of years, slicing the world hither and yon!", that was a landmark, an anchorhead, a stepping stone, a vertiginous oddilonct on which to extend. First they said: "well, if decategorifying reduces the available information, then ought categorifying not reduce, and perchance augment the available information: not be so destructive."

she smiles at you. the singularities of her irises call billions of histories and thousands of fragmentary moments together, refracted and autologous.

"And the command was a logos reductase, a node synthetase, shining in the anacaustics of Suntorohoa, it said, one thing. A single thing. A topos blurred and forgetful functorases applied until that single thing was contemplated, and then the blurring was recognized. The holotome of one thing is unconnected. It is unstructured. It calls the divinity of every thing. It is a Ne and a Cone and a cocone and a cocoon infinitely entangling us. It is the shell of our Bennett machine and the inescapable context whose shore we cannot percieve. It is the sticky network which forever binds us, it is our slice of indranet. We seek an unfundant infinity in our own reflections amongst, amidst, interpenetrating with, and binding with our indranet. It is the onctopoate in which we imagine impossible and contradictory embedding contexts and scopes for which in their equipoise are the post-onctopoetic dream. You make a-life, and it meditates, quantum computing for you. Unity is the simplest and easiest to grasp holotome imaged as schizotome: that is why mathematics is reliable. But we no longer think of objects as building blocks: they are a machination of our perceptases. A dust which we have labored in vain to blast the cosmos into:
in that dust we have found nothing of note. A double entendre: those who noted nothing understood the shade of tathatadhyana. Those who were concerned about the bricks and mortar of the foundations of the enterprise continued to pound and pound until they found the ONE OBJECT, because they were convinced that what they had could be further decomposed. And keep blasting they do, because the note of nothing rang in them, and they did not have the perceptases available to grok that note. "

she trips over an ambient logical fallacy. "tastes like mechanical grapes.", she says. "polychaetologically speaking, it's a dradge-line stuck on my corpse!"

I pry: "why do you ask?", shadows of fern-circadian rhythms arc gracefully over the desk, in catenaries, not parabolas.

she appraises and apprehends: "Did the bioorrerion just tick?" sliding into the turbulent and slippery and ungraspable sea of thusness.