some necessary complications of open-mind surgery

The biregimental summons to the ultraparadoxical lamentation of Ippab made headlines today all over Western Nalhanze as Creptakin Navuncular declared that the end of trade sanctions would be accompanied by strange and unearthly moans and other sounds of a highly indeterminate nature, also, various and unseemly portents would be generated by the notional transcendence of the right triangle and of course, because the inner house of parliament recommended moving to a tricameral system last month we are still dealing with the detritus of the old governmental system. Though the chalice of the forgotten lies smouldering and mouldering at the bottom of some mandated dungheap, there is little in the way of suspicion to lay the blame for the space needle's construction and therefore there is much to conclude about the preperemptory naugahyde interregna that both separate the duplicity of the capstan-cloggers and those that provide a diphthongous momenta cluster to the lizards of old: and because of my irrepressible opprobrium I had to provide highly disambiguated instructions in a format that was both terse and cryptic and simultaneously lucid and concrete while being wholly opaque to outside reasoning and because of this apparent contradiction we have had to institute a policy of torsorial laminar flow against the prevailing storm systems

charging the fortress.

charging forth with nothing to say the post-Majorana assbarge had a major notational flutzpah at the cornered nexatrave, did we argue about the crux of the bonhomie that had irritated our interlocutors between the notoriously misgivings of the belaxoplot? or were our interior confusions a mysterious, a sufficiently strange combination that the binary echo of the fourth order was not interred within the beveled edge of the magic dream machine and did we even care: were these the sort of problems that magicians or numerologists or even those god damn clever category theoreticians have a subtle irritation because we had seen the mysterious stranger in the strange galligaskins with our own eyes and reflected that the subtle interior of her irises was written in an as yet undecipherable language that we had no means of translating with our pitiable resources and limited understanding of language in general: oh we were sudden outpourings of woe and misbegotten mudworship because the secondary preparations that we had undertaken were unclever by a half and demanded constant and annoying secondary checks and shekel-free interrogatories delivered by pigeon on the basis of misheard rumors and lemons to pastry, oh have a care and see to it that the nimbulocumb does not stratosphere with the blevveng, make the moxie and the movie from various dithyrambs of celluloid carnivory, for a bleating bee makes a mockery of the cat, out of the bag, prostrate, prostate, proreflective and anal-retentive, awaiting a wadi, a sand dune, an artist, from the chaotic nexus of all slow time to the fast interior of the fusion core did the major mechanical reflect in its erbium coated eyes how many monoliths does it take to surprise us had we seen what we dream did we know that it would snow how many candles did the roger dandle and the hurry with which the slurry left its flurry echoes the reflection subtension did the stent rather random matrix catalogue engine cream, or were we the noxious effluvia that hardened in fear of the metallic apocalypthexis, for our misericordia prolapsed against the inion of the occidental misoxygenated oxidization of the transirritatingly absurd market-cap.

nothing ventured, nothing gained

The preparation of the gondolas leases little in the way of a dynamic addressable method of seeking the undercucumbral astrolabes of reality in doom, like the way that the paradoxical lamination preparation has a nadir and a non nodal substitution paradigm and then leaves us with a notoriety that has variously been attributed to the cormorant of the boxes that we do not claim to understand: I am not the major mandamus or the writ of the afterdeath: perhaps the paradoxical remonstrance of the secondary trillingly incomplete dive nasturtium is the monad by which the neutrino free subring leaves us with a coruscating rainbow of possible aftermaths: a post riddle that sights the neutered iguana at the edge of history and demands that we emplace an implacably inappropriate symplacophore at the endgame of the irritatingly nessertine draw-leader and then perhaps the gainsaying of the priory can be effected with little loss of the nosy negotiation that had me all in a rather gobbrious funk at the nosy and repetetive sequence of some rather unjejune lamentations for which the territorial summations neither offered security or led into uterine asparagine: for this the neutral net tensorial greenfriar commanded us to depart from our station in the noxious nasal lessengue that we had mistakenly called a home for upwards of a million or a billion years and then departed for more crustacean realms to find our rather nasal and salty fortunes because we just had to be that sort of badass

just something to pass the time.

Fizz! A minus majorana major mystery subtrahends aplenty with the charge of the dark brigade just turning out some rather unfortunate spinorial constructions, oh, what alacrity, oh, what celerity, oh, what celery, what sort of proton-donors lead the way for the principal superacids, the bedeviled many-asunders

vague dreams are tremendously important to me.

maybe two bursts of serotonin (and other tryptamines) at night: one at the beginning when exploding head syndrome and k-complexes and sleep spindles happen, and one at the end of dreams as the acetylcholine mediated deep-dream closes. the trippiest dreams which end in the predictable distortion and the melting of the hands accompanied by a weary exhaustion: but the mechanics of such dreams are relatively harmless to me: it might be highly weird, but it's also highly convention: no, what gets me is those distant dreams of high vagary which always have me holding on to some memory that trails off into the seas of wakeful forgetfulness: the dreams that I only barely remember having in which something happens that I keep telling myself I have to remember this, or I know this, or this is something so familiar or some continuing thread, but it all vanishes into the vapor of wakefulness as other concerns of daily existence overwhelm my mind. these dreams bother me more: it's as if there's something I have to desparately try to remember but it gets blotted out. A name. A face. Someone I know. Someone I knew. Someone I've always known: the waking mind never can get itself together for me to coherently discuss what goes on in these deep and peculiar dreams. And my consciousness has nothing except the poor motes to go on and I can never ever recall these during wakefulness. I remembered enough of one to remember that I had to write about them. Someone named Jane? Or was it Kate? Or was I chatting online? Or was I in a lecture hall? The highly weird dreams of later night which are usually richer take second banana to these vague ones, these vague ones seem tremendously more important. I have the feeling that these dreams somehow form a continuous thread, and that memories from one enter into another: but I don't and can't hold on to them. I don't know why. It just seemed important to document this now.