Monday, March 31, 2008

baked potato machine personoid

The view here is amazing. I can see all of the internal organs, the motions, the neutrinos passing through the small brick passages, all twisty and ambiguous. I can see... oh, I can't even make sense of half the things I'm seeing and I'm still at 20 THz and the frequency is still rising. Tea is advised, though I'm taking a Silver Iodide break and listening to the Oxytangent at one of the upper bands. Because of the tertiary malnutrition of the Ponguent Fyrzgoose I have to have just a little dithyrambic diphthongue with my steak and tartare sauce mandanganar engine every half a cycle, but that amounts to nothing too interesting: I mean, it's just a fearful approximation of a much better ignorance class that I had to petition to be a member of, but reducing it to a solved class of problems wasn't that inspiring: it was dragged in the mud and I had to extend what I was saying with such vitriol that it didn't sound like me after a while. Some rotten implementation of the dog or the tentacle or who knows what was involved. And I wasn't relaxed about it. I was such a pile of nerves just trying to get myself settled after a fashion, and that was unfriendly and harsh and when the whole thing finally rolled to a rest it had gathered much in the way of solidified and encrusted proverbs on its surface.

Sunday, March 30, 2008

stark those rindwreathes

I am the ghost of moment future, I am the stranger that does not leave a forwarding reality: I am the moment that is neither apprehensible scientifically or religiously. I am the capacity to remove yourself from the embedding reality: I am the pause between moments when you realize that everything has changed, and nothing has changed. I am the mutation, the nutation is shield frequencies when you realize that there is an end to the chaos. That is not to say that I have been without obsessions and particular gyrations of my own: I have had people too flighty or too slow or too dull or too whatever: you are here and I will not try to presume just imagine what things would be like if I wasn't so hard about holding on I think you see that my pause, my personal tropospherir maitresse might indulge your passion and therefore more perfect unity might be derived in this chaotick lemma that we find ourselves suspended within and therefore I am going to ask that at this point that someone concede defeat because all temporaneous delays still remain and now it is time to try the cosmic ascension remix.

Because I am drunk, the dvorak pattern is easier for my mind to grasp: I can write paragraphs in it and will later find myself appalled at how much text I have produced in it and this is the point that I say goodnight.

stranger in the dark, can you spare a moment for me?

awaiting the utter transition from here to there allows one to see that the notable thing about a prescient banana is that the capacity of a prescient banana to map the precincts of reality without having a banana in the sack is not a dynamic that is allowed under the new principles of chaos that were recently published by the Chaos Publishing Group, a wholly imaginary organization founded in Sepab in the Year of the Duck, 1930. It is for this reason that many of the accolades that have been accumulated by the monstrosities that dithyramb in the binary lemon make the stale ribald prose encumbered with chaotic filaments and these filaments are not so insouciant that they are the debators of the significance of feminist literary theory to Mr. Limbaugh's pilonidal cyst and therefore the dynamic momentous parenteral limonene molecules which are deposited by the spirit of the age are rendered incomprehensible at a moment's notice because the spectral authorship clause means that one of the ten menhirs that was deposited at the world's edge wasn't something that was precipitously permitted by the district beadle of Fronsleigh and therefore the monster who had the jannissarry in the sack was not a representative colluder with the....

Bet the transition can occur without warning or warthogs or suchlike and then where will the national symbol party be? I think that the monstrous registration of braless women that the adjuncts perspired in perpetuity made the mastery of the frontispieces bearable and therefore did the castigation of the bananas made good on their promises because the height of the photopolarimeters became a mastery symbol of the silliness factor of the wildebeests and therefore the people whose sexual tastes included riding crops were elevated to a level of authority because they had to ensure the retinal health of their partners without so subtle an assignation and were announcing correct routing tables to the cosmic bgp mapping in the sky because the necessities of precision made the damnable affectation which their kink brought about into a furious act of precision uvularly like a typographical edema that does not subside until the fonts are arranged appropriately and the serifs are made to mechanical wholeness that is required of the finest of documents which is demanded of the greatest appearences which demands that the person composing the document know how typefaces work...

divinity and the chaotic energy field

a breach of the divinity that divides us: wheatstrewn and monomorphic, the attachment to single cultures in the face of religious idolatry no matter how ecumenical breeds violence and microscopic religious warfare on the basis of that person does not follow some arbitrary set of beliefs that aren't my set of beliefs -- the analogy is not to the human memome but to the human phrenome: the (pardon the pun) study of human phrenetics (like genetics, this science is too in its infancy, but unlike phrenetics, there has been no Mendel of phrenetics yet) is not yet off the ground and continues to stay in the paradoxical and chaotic know-nothing realm of quasiscience, and will not resolve into a capacity for the continued improvement of global human knowledge because Occam will cut himself with his razor while contemplating such things. 

That is to say that there are things that science should begin to be curious about but that there is no proper language or experimental framework or appropriate energy level for science to cope with adequately. and thus one cannot explore the universe in its entirety with the tools that are presently available without finding some fractionally distilled element of the cosmos that cannot be adequately parameterized by either the excesses of science or the idiocies of religion, and in this excess I think that you will find some of the most fascinating general questions that are hardest to answer because they presume very little except for some experiences that I am quite certain are universals to some degree and therefore many people will have had them.

Bet I cannot write for a while in dvorak: things are so aspect and situation dependent that I like writing this at the moment because I am writitng everything in dvorak and I am not really thinking about the position of the characters on the keyboard and that is a good thing, I am also listening to a variety of techno tracks at the moment and my eyes are tearing up because there are floaters that are interfering with my vision and that is making it somewhat difficult to see what I am typing although I am trying to write this without succumbing to them.

a common framework

when people think about something like avolokiteshvera or j. random hindu deity, or the western concepts of cherubs and angels, they don't end up putting them in the same framework, which leads to an awful amount of confusion all around: the atheists have their cake and eat it too, the agnostics just drink gin and tonics or ginger ale depending on their countenance: the upshot (or perhaps the downshot) of the phrenomics is that the western angel and the eastern multiarmed deity are two different out-of-reality cross sections of what humans might be seen to do if they could have multiple arms, or their arms could do more than a given thing at a time.

Thursday, March 27, 2008


Maybe the mechanical tea cosy had nothing to say: it was bleary and in the third Epoch. I was Salvjine George, maybe I was not Salvjine George, it is hard to say when one's nose is in the rough and the series of approximations that are wombarding and tombarding one do not make much in the way of sense.

in the middle of the heliochrome

Oh Frabjous Nanosecond: make me a pastry and then second a dry glance past askance and past asunder: I didn't want to wonder. I made a magical mystery tour of the realms of the underweird. I mean if it's अद्वैत you want, fine. But I can't help you with निर्वाण or any of the even more bizarre states of mound, like Wovvox or Del'Centriole: you'll just have to attain those by practicing the appropriate meditations in the correct polyvestibules. I have my caffeine and my sandwich and am feeling mightily oblong and wovvulous now.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

the speed of the wiz-baz

How, the secondary, oh, the nose-baz, the principal meromorphic stalk which represented the sheaf functor made a representation-indemented dependent semantic wallachiris and then the dynamic mononadril successed the notable priory because the spinning particules Oh the spinning particules had an oft-twisted and thus-composed relationship between the notable mistakes and then the improbable wombat had represented itself to derision, I mean, err, what was I talking about? I feel torn apart.

Monday, March 24, 2008

per text field!

my psorf ja; mal a hao G G makd a ygok a hgahhsl A hao; A sevs;d A mavala al mappd a macagao ma A married mapping that I needed to find my place before stopping, a magic sort of thing that distinguished the frogs from the bushed and then transcended with the capacity to not know where any of the things where I was trying so very hard not to lose my place but I did anyway it was so hard not to forget I had to forget but in order to remember I had to relax and that's the hardest thing I suppose, just letting go, I don't do it so well by myself and generally have needed unnecessary surrogates for a bit of love and the slightest bit of attention I'd rather not have to go to such extreme lengths but in such a world of 

I had to switch to dvorak because I really apparently don't touch type in qwerty: I chance quick glances at the keys or I reregister with the keyboard by peripheral vision and the things that manage to escape the confines of my mind in dvorak are distinct from those things that manage to escape it in qwerty and I found that after a line or so of writing in the dark I couldn't remember the qwerty layout and I had to switch to dvorak because while I am not the fastest dvorak writer in the world I know where the keys are without looking. 

the improbably prescient misapplication of Miss Flonxfrong

Isn't the sky a matter of honesty a triple trebled syllable a mandamus a writ a mote of a monad in a category in a morpheme here bevrongled and ready for action thrice a twisted metasyllabary for my transient dream made a default setting on the user's interface and did that change our direction because I didn't notice the end of themes that marked the gingerly adept misstepping that the foot-artists did at the edge of the sea rather waiting for the end of time because it was not so brown nor so muddy but dammit where did we broadcast this?

sureties of the vice-butterfly (a postretrospective)

eh, didn't the seers and the magicians that occupied the corner of the stage wish for the dust light to turn backwards upon the apposition of the priory of the Mongooesio? I had a dram a madman's pram a backwards bank a wishing stroke a confused arch-gulfing of sobriety an inversion a messenger's backwards epistle to the improbably confusion that made my art one for which there is no disambiguation no release a steady set of Mahlo cardinals and you want relief? Is the Genhrahm tea sufficient to dislodge the perpetual isolation, the wrack't loneliness of this present Confederation of the Lunatick? Do I ask you for a peace of that pi?

Sunday, March 23, 2008

trying to say something rather rushedly. because lyf is short.

Had the beginning of time been doctored by an excellent confusing person oh ask me if I care the wildly passionate throngs of love that the division by zero error propagated through her orbifolds oh what a slam how many times did the divisive commentary enjamb with the collection of virtuous vitriol oh make the right combination of coy and unambiguous tensegrity astringents collide in some neutrino structure ten gigaparsecs from here oh, ow, I'm not sorry but we're moving at a delightfully slow speed of one milliquargle, which is sun rosa go ask my bus station marimba metal strewn and thewn and comprised of fire go burn the wood molecule I have a cellulose decay stranglehold on someone's other other makeshift lusty dregs for some sports be painful and I'm not the brakeshift manifold sifter that demanded the transition to fire oh Lord Govorrongoa if the time of the thinly strewn echoes had come to an end was it Arjun or Nagarjuna that I'd heard when the paradoxical extenders to my multiple mris people coated, coating in plastic they've not turned to saponingrocers or greengrocers or other art-monglers that I had my own pretense of mastery, my own combustible prehensile declaration of gyroscopic stability I'd balanced myself on a Calabi-Yau manifold and wasn't certain that such stability was long lasting I needed to find the exact point of balance and then begin my solar-sextant-orrerying from another balanced granite vantage point I could hear the sitar playing and what a clean opera it was going to be. My fury, such that it isn't, is made from the clear and present incomprehensible incomparable itemica that escapes derision and accomplishes the transition across the major arroyo-complexes once a nahamabe. If you look at the outliers, the stragglers, the parenthetical leaders, and the other assorted excessigesimals who occupy the regions of Striated Time, I might ask of you to volunteer to serve tea, to learn one's social graces in a Bee Factory (where they make bees), to be aware of the aspect of expression, the furious and context-rich smorgasbord of information that the dog-arrhes and their panache might have you execute the tertiary opening because the expression of the fundamental tone, of the Cosmic Hum, oh, wait a minute, you thought me mad, you thought me Lunatick and unbalanced and oheeea, Gooh and gerania made the tenor of the message that I had in mind so very hard to explicate and plainly express for the audience that I desired because I had my own shorthand, a language that I had devised with some notable shorthands from some odd jargons and argots.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

come out þe tired and weary

thin rhombent carcasses scatter the fault lines: it's tea this hour and for perhaps do-so-do ing through about fourteen million years of primate evolution in a lazy few hours on a Sunday afternoon seems about the most copacetic thing you can think of. Maybe with David Attenborough providing the narration of the holographic broadcast. You, er, I have some nice mild tea and the last thin rivulets of the sun are being diffracted by noctilucent clouds. Perhaps there's a crossword style waffle at the inn, or perhaps the small bakery has closed: it's a questionable correspondence in the Suburbane.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

no not fet

The wending of the wire makes the plenitude of the monstrosity a plural affair: For I futuristically embellish my copper covered joy with plastic martindale (a vice cousin to the statistics notion of the martindale: it has shinier, more refractive teeth and is known to inhabit game shows) and a vertebra scanner. If I had arrived a few hours early I would have recieved a complimentary logic detector detector: a device designed to detect other devices which are logic detectors; The hidrotic , enneagraphic ondratta!


a tea stained star quaked writhing wreath product between k to n functors: no abysmals. Must have experience with karma nutation and dogma class n-ultrafilters for strongly compact non Mahlo cardinals. Capacity to trip the light fantastic at a moment's notice vaguely desirable but certainly not mandatory. Slight scoliosis may aid in weaving ducks together. Do not deploy the catnip at one minute to the minute past midnight or the thin straw bales and the poor approximations of ghee which the onion-man's providence is the only attention which we rely on in times of doom for militaristic and somewhat bedeviled egg-cooking procedurals: I was a drama critic and a dramaturge, but goddammit I was a typographer's worst nightmare: I was a badly drawn font, a random assortment of lines in the plane, a magician, a chiropedist, a wailing whale: did you see the collohngrohfes on that zilliwong? How rastreputian! I am not the modern mechanical wave machine, nor am I the prince-regent of misapproximations: I am the worried tea-aunt for this thylakoid. Oh Ohonckoa where was the single molecule of riboflavin that determined the fate of empires, metaconsortia, and various apparitions in the erf: gee, that was the plan, that was the heptacle in which the magic rite was not performed: a thin sinew strewn, its actin and myosin cleft by principles that meet or exceed the knowledge of Stupid Science by ten parts per trillion: he planted beer seeds and waited for beer plants to grow. It was a tensor tea, a holor halogeny: a precise and utter desire for self reflection brought about by a kind of wobbly sobriety cross crissed on a layered and stratigraphically nontrivial kind of history simply paused because of highly rococo social internabula: when one is wasted from pushing and pulling one's forces against an already established structure of what seems to be an obscene and brutal size, when one has to marshal one's already easily depletable resources against such bastions of misaccuracy and imprecision: it is like trying to fight a stream of chocolate pudding that pushes out eight tons of chocolate pudding a second. It's like when Dzongba George realized that he was in fact two people: Ford George and Drofnats George: you can't win the balloon mechanism game just by putting checkers on the field: it's fighting against the nostrils of whomever, and in that, I suppose, you might find some kind of temporary relief, but it doesn't replace a good rush of endorphins when someone randomly gives you a massage

the itinerant jazz that awaits the sneaky kiester

its obscura, like the nostrils of the monster, lovingly carved from the managers and the paradoxes of the cumin coated Tea Mother's Preparation Guide or some other essential document provided by the doula: I had not been present at the outset of the convocation nor had I been quite ready to provide my services for interested parties: setting is paramount in these ventures and I was not the last to have the portable calculating machine go completely haywire as I attempted to compute the number of erbium nuclei in a sphere surrounding me to a radius of several million light years: my confidence was not impeded, but I did request that the stars become the shepherds as the wool unwittingly provides the center of several voraciously wobbly political economies and that's not even taking into account the pluralist nature of the transroboticist conclaves (mostly small huts and scattered detritus along the M'ho river along with an unstable living community which often undergoes usurpments and malfeasances of many kinds.

Friday, March 14, 2008

weeping for the obstreperous

“That's obscure!” bespoke the Saponingrocer.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

so some monks enter a bar. the bartender responds: "what is this? a koan?"

the other monk sighs. "dependent origination"
the one monk is like "huh? I don't get it"
the other monk sighs and says there is a wholly appropriate koan

KYOGEN said to his pupils: "Zen is a man hanging from a tree
overa cliff. He is holding on to a twig with his teeth. His hands hold
no branch. His feet find no branch. Up on the cliff-edge a man shouts at
him: 'Why did Bodhidharma come from India into China?'

"If he fails to answer he is lost. If he answers, he dies. What must he

the one monk goes. "aha!"
the other monk shakes his head, and says. "the man lets go of the twig.
he does not fall. he says, in measured tones "I do not do zen", and
then chomps right down on the twig"
the one monk says "I don't understand"

the other monk says: "you are trying to assert that 'the map is not the
territory' is important, and while true, it is also vacuous: you assert
that one map is not a territory. fine. the territory can equally well be
a map too. and so forth and so on in a maze of forgetful functors: you
will naturally want to know where it bottoms out. it doesn't. or where
the root of the tree is. it doesn't have one. all of these notions are
fleeting. if I say to you "there are places that even zen cannot go",
you will invariably, like most acolytes, be curious and want to visit
them. You can easily generalize: "there are places that go cannot go",
but you rapidly get caught in a storm of mappings. It's sticky. If you
say: there is no such place, then remember that you can implement the
game of chess in go via some nifty homomorphisms. or checkers. or
tic-tac-toe. "

the one monk: "what is your point?"

the other monk: "I too, do not do zen"

at this point, the other monk, who has been climbing a tree,
finds a random branch, and chomps down on it. conveniently, there is an
avalanche, leaving the other monk hanging by his teeth.

commentary: from tomb to womb to bomb to comb: ask what the
stencil-makers decree at midnight.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

what a wreck? don't listen to this guy. he's mad. and daft. and mad and daft.

Sri Maharaghava
Wisdom of Long Dead People
I am Sri Maharaghava, a venerable treasure trove of mystical knowledge of questionable value.
You are a seeker questioning for the Deeper Truths, the More Fundamental Meanings, the Hidden Messages when the Record is Played Backwards, and the Subliminable messages in the fabric of the cosmos. Today I will speak to you about the Wisdom of the Long Dead People, an ancient lore of such a highly esoteric nature that no one knows it at all. Not even myself, but that will not prevent me from teaching you the fundamental precepts of the Wisdom of the Long Dead People. The Long Dead People, are those who died aeons and epochs ago from a variety of shocking and astounding sexual and cardiovascular ailments and excesses. While they weren’t dying or being dead, they spent their time in philosophical contemplation and advanced spiritual meditation, achieving such exotic mental states such as superangst, hypernirvana, metaglee, and gingivitis. Because you are most likely concerned with transcendent states, you being a materialistic westerner who paid for this recording from your trust fund, I will skip superangst, metaglee, and gingivitis, and discuss hypernirvana with you. Hypernirvana is a state of mind only encountered in the deepest of meditative furries. Before the acolyte can enter hypernirvana, she or he must obtain certain prerequisite mental states (as listed on page 103 of the course manual). She or he must have already obtained samprajnata samadhi, asamprajnata samadhi, nirvikalpa samadhi, positive cash flow, nocturnal enuresis, spontaneous orgasm at the sight of burning rubber, premature balding, an allergy to movies with Christopher Walken in them, and a deep and abiding respect for the deliberate idiocy of the second to last chapter of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. Some of these prerequisites may be waived by permission of your guru (usually after sexual congress or monetary donation to said guru). Now, to brass tacks. In order to establish a state of hypernirvana, one must first form the Rhizome of Napoleon. It is necessary to extend one’s subtle body in twenty four spatial dimensions and two time dimensions. That is the first stage of the formation of the Rhizome of Napoleon. Then one must perform modular transformations upon that form until it is invariant under such transformations. That modular invariance implies that the aspirant has successfully shaped their subtle body into the Rhizome of Napoleon. “Rhizome” is Manitoban for “root”. The Rhizome of Napoleon allows one to tune one’s internal vibration to that of the Cosmic Hum. The formation of the Rhizome of Napoleon requires numerous physical gymnastics, which are easily performed by satisfying any sexual whims of your guru, or by long grueling nights standing upside down in a vat of catnip while listening to the 1812 Overture played backwards. It continually amazes me how many acolytes choose the second method over the first.

Once you have achieved the Rhizome of Napoleon, you must align it with the Griess Vertex. This can easily be done by going to your local Vicar and forcefully asking them for the latitude and longitude of the Griess Vertex. If they fail to provide you with the latitude and longitude of the Griess Vertex, you may spray paint “Vicar Wossname has sex with Polygons” on any convenient brick wall with full assurance that the authorities will apprehend you for violating the local antigraffiti statutes. If your Rhizome of Napoleon is particularly well developed and free from skin lesions, you may automatically and spontaneously align with the Griess Vertex. The next stage, and this in my exalted opinion is probably the most crucial, is to activate and energize your Max Quordlepleen chakra. The Max Quordlepleen chakra is located eighteen meters from your adrenal glands in the seventh dimensional superspace of which our ordinary three dimensional space is a eigensubspace. The Max Quordlepleen chakra is of fundamental rectitude and transgresses such obtuse concepts such as Portugal, Belgium, Crocodile Dundee, Christopher Lloyd, the Lerch Transcendant, and tulips. Do not forget the tulips! You must sit in a cubical room with a solid erbium floor while completely naked and uncomfortable, and say “I am a wascally wabbit” eighteen thousand, two hundred and forty six times. This will begin stirring an unction within you. You may feel surly and want to imitate a sequoia tree. Do not give into these temptations or you will be transfigured into a small marble statue with the legend “Lost In Space” written upon it. You will experience chills, sweating, nausea, the United States Postal Service, and the fear of wombats. If at this stage you are overcome with glee about the state of Nevada, you have failed as a mystic. Any stray thought of the state of Nevada means that you are unworthy of being a mystic, that all of the other people at the Eternal Mystics Club will spit at you and call you “thou nonmystical being of doubtable provenance”. My friend Rodpondal Wulgins thought of Nevada and spent the rest of his life as an investment banker for a moderately successful futures firm in Manhattan. More likely than not you won’t think of the state of Nevada. If you start seeing images of pentagons, then you have activated and energized your Max Quordlepleen chakra, and are ready to engage in the final key to Hypernirvana.

Duckling cultivation. That is right my friend. The careful purchase of duckling seeds from a mail order or internet company and the planting of these seeds will show to your guru that you have achieved the vaunted and oft inaccessible state of hypernirvana. It is likely that you will achieve this and become beloved by your friends and enemies. You will be reviled by cotton balls. Purple penguins will materialize and nuzzle themselves against your generative organs. A deep and abiding sense of peace will overcome you, as the Demon Wizworrongoa envelops you, because the whole process of Hypernirvana preparation in reality turns you into the only food source which keeps the Demo! Wizworrongoa alive in foul perpetuity. Despite my advise to many a young acolyte to not engage in the pursuit of hypernirvana, they fork over their monetary units, nuzzle themselves against my generative organs to achieve the Rhizome of Napoleon, avoid thinking about the state of Nevada, plant duckling seeds, and then are annihilated in the most egregiously disgusting way by Wizworrongoa, leaving nothing but their wills in which they have already given their entire fortunes to their guru. “Look” I say, but it does not a whit of good so I have to say it again “Look”, and by that time it is usually clear to me that both the first “look” and the second “look” were completely ineffective. These aspirants keep coming. Generation and generation of poor, deluded souls seeking enlightenment and self-knowledge, paying exorbitant amounts of money to be told about exoteric and esoteric spiritual and metaphysical practices. They say “Ashley, doesn’t Hypernirvana look so spectacular? I’ll put it on my MySpace page” or “Dammit, that career in bribery and corruption was so stupid of me. Why don’t I try a weird metaphysical philosophy that seems to include annihilation by some weird demon after a long and gruelling set of tasks?” But that is the Wisdom of the Long Dead People. They were devoured by cardiovascular and sexual ailments caused by being devoured by the Demon Wizworrongoa, so why don’t you, as you love following strange and incorrect practices by the logical fallacy Appeal to the Authority of Dead and Questionably Intelligent Practices Performed by Idiots and Fools.
Thank you for your time. I, Sri Maharaghava, wish you the best.

Oxymandias Arcsine's Expulsion from Eden.

Occasionally I am asked to write about my sources, and I have to admit, with difficulty, that the regions of the logosphere that I inhabit regularly, or at least set my feelers onto, are distant, entwined, twisty, and thewn with metallic sinews. Let me give you an example. There are two (roughly speaking) universes. One of them has the ability to change mathematics in the other in such a way that some rational point that seemed like it ought be a member of the z^5+c->z mandelbrot set wasn't. The scientists in one thought this would make an ideal method of sending signals to the other universe: once the other scientists in the other universe figured out that the appropriate reverse method involved complicated rhythm modulation for an ancient tribe's drum-ceremonies and how to send (fairly low bandwidth) signals in the reverse direction. The real kicker occurred when they realized that there weren't *two* universes involved, but one, and the laboratories in question were three miles from each other. That made everyone's eyes all squinty for a while as academia had been given a strange fruit to chew on, and nobody was really certain what to make of it for a while.

defining mechanical questions

I suppose, you just have to wonder what was going on... it's not been a nahambe since the Tea islands were abandoned, and perhaps longer than that: did the horologers and the chronotés have a divisive instruction set left over for the mystics once their rain-dance was completed? The sound of the drums certainly did leave an impression on the up and coming professors of certainty. The stamina required to sit through one of the lectures left most of the population feeling rather out of place: they had all of those symposia and convocation dialogues to rout through and perhaps find some degree of fiduciary or fiscal confidence in: the little opinions and the tachyon dressing made for a disaster unlike any of them had seen previously: a thunderstorm! An omen! A radish! An extract of lemonade: a citrus filament along which there are many fibrils and convalescing nudibranchs and clones of David Attenborough speaking with immense sagaciousness about the development of some misbegotten marine species or another. Boggles the imagination, yessirree it does leaving the peanut or tomato allergy that the subatomic particle might have had to the dust. What? what was I worrying about?

duxlorve whenglewhommer

Associated Frontangnale, New Brunswick, Mastopolongle: Ernest Statewine Meissnerfloyd today demonstrated the first nondiphthongous astrolabe at the Vice-Principal's Sundry Reception. The Astrolabe was then taken into state custody since it "vitally reflected the State Scientific Interests" and "therefore must be escorted to an undisclosed location twelve miles underground of Franzley, along with its creator." The public was informed that needless suburbane experiments would then procede.