charging the oeuvre d'Lopsiquunt

Effars, we normally figure that those who live are the result of the ever so hard struggle to procreate, and so forth. Effars, the Te of Rehallaglot believe that those who exist are those who have, by their own carelessness, have failed to nonexist: for those that nonexist merry-go-round happily seem to be in a state of continual worship by those who have failed to nonexist. The nonexistent are innumerable, perhaps uncountably so, but that depends on how many quantum states various inscrutably tiny things can possess. The extant (or those who have failed to nonexist), well, they don't get the cake.

deengineering the escafnunt: an apology

Look, the binary trophies which were awarded to the princes of persuasion were not in fact some off the shelf doohickeys principled in the miserrors of the past: they were full blooded artificers with imperial signatures corroborating their tales and confirming their good standing in the metaconsortium's common weal: these farctators have imbued their filigrees with fine silver, fine gold, fine electrogyromagnetized elephantitis modules so carefully wrought by master Ballyrinthian craftsmen. Their work was unimpugnable and glistened with a two day accretion of Ven Lenxshmire's Exotic Fluorescent Purple Fungus.

Strange vavixules

herbs to counteract cyborg boot loading techniques

avasset! dzincua in major. barstalks charred and battenstaffed. Oh, catch me a drudgery, why wouldn't you? Vertiginously balanced on a cone in a force-potential precipice. Is it so swermy to wander acreages and villeponts on the undermoon? Pray tell me, what news of the schweiffplume? Are the Cheese Wars still being waged? Is Drontifet Mulvinsky still Vice-Arbasset of Foofaraw Junction? I have been out of the loop for so very long and my brain is so very soggy, probably a neurofluorofungus, so says my physiologist. But enough about Franklin Delano Roosevelt! Tell me about the initialization routines of a factory standard Blutveneer Cyborgus? Are the ram lacings straight and voombescent? Does the boot loader arrive at the key addresses in reverse lexicographic order or in hemialphanumeric order! I must know: for if we are to defeat the Flungian Laundry-Artists I must know these things so that in my Alchemy I can prepare a remedy, for perhaps some of these herbs I have stolen from the Scriveners of Yelvhreyl can counteract the bootloader. Perhaps some Yellow Orchidroot will interrupt phase IIA/4 of the principal kernel load, or some Oil of Zongsblossom will interrupt the device driver initialization, but I cannot predict which herb will have which effect if you remain silent, so speak!

and what was that counterexample?

Navhatthar Rethaghan travelled eighteen kempares to meet with the mathematican Zr. Zaktar Ralaquon to discuss a 2000 page proof on the Great Theorem of Tetraquiver Theory. In short, Rethagan pointed out, as succintly and lucidly as possible that the Great Theorem of Tetraquiver theory was in fact, false. “You say that this theory of yours is true, but there is a trivial and blatant counterexample -- one of many that I can easily pull out of my hat -- which renders most of this so called imperterbable theory of yours on very shaky ground: I can save it, yes, that's no problem, but I think that the consequences are some very disturbing ideas that run contrary to the major undercurrents of this proof that you've published. It's a phoenix that doesn't get all its feathers back, sadly. What it does get is worth mentioning, and I'll think you'll find that what results is worth talking about and discussing. While Tetraquiver theory might just be a walk in the park, and certainly an entertaining delusion for a Sunday afternoon or a waltz down by the park, it's nothing compared to the behemoth that logically follows from the smorgasbord of counterexamples I can pull out of my hat.” -- Navhatthar Rethaghan, Chief Imperial Mathemagician, Empire of the Lurid Goat.

beware the chance eater

Scessilauris Norhaia Avellevetrevan recieved the highest honors from the Davanne Institute of Nociception today: A Hh.D. Meta Cum Laude, the Pharipsees Prize, the Trellingtonian medal (amazingly earning both the bismuth and germanium coated versions). He studied polychthonovores in millivoids, which is apparently a hot topic amongst thanatobiologists these days, and his specialty was in the Ashayette chondruloplasmotopsian, which is apparently the freak of all freaks of all thanatobacteria: apparently it lives on the undigested et cetera of probability-based life forms: all those unchewable chances and transfinitesimal probabilities that Saint Vornian's Arch-Turnip and the Hasseliopsis syntugkhavore find indigestible are readily and eagerly digested, and thus attract colonies (thanatofilms) of Ashayette in their guttocks and gizzards.

be prepared.

The nightmare of the tonnage engines still lies deeply scathed in the iron-indium rods of the martindales and the gesschuts-vonglers of Vretnutnik. Translate the choo-choo sounds from Vattanagale to Prosperonian? Unhand me, thy revolverule! I say, it is a most pretuntimentious thing, a bar-stalk of a cavernosa, an antennule of a wovvodge-kermoiler. I, like most gentleflvranks of my trempmonkey, carry both stithers and varrumpstent in my broddage-bus, and a small supply of unfrundled mavverwoorts, each with ignition octonule and crupzaziole, ready for use during the craziest of follieres! So despair not with worries of whitherings and plask-harrangues, of jirrup-vovongules and dirripfengles: preparation is the key! I keep a frosted ontwornch with me at all times, its krepflascar steadied in Occam-fashion, and when a Lromaceous Krobbage interferes with my lunkvrooding, I can detach the rulling spoke and throw it at the Krobbage, the krepflascar volatilising instantly, defrosting the ontwornch, and with the nacreous, vaporescent clouds of ontwornch confusing the Krobbage, I can easily make my escape. Or, I could find myself in a Fluvium and accosted by a Starrapteous Closyvlocht: it is simply distracted by a flung stither. The point is that my seemingly obstreperous hyperpreparation protects me in these circumstances, and thusly I advise you to lean towards carrying an unscarred Apothripteon, a pillanied Gatheptika, and at least a brinning kit wherever you go.

behold the mad cheesewright

The ascidiomyceles did it's job: not a single cheesemonger in all ten boroughs of Caledon Te Tannoc woke on the ninth morning of the Lirobolatt cycle not unaware of how to factor a multicomposite Gnampiere sum, or what the subprime numbers of Lenceslad Van Trengle happen to do in the midnight dew when the Geffers' star is fifteen degrees from the azimuth. Garagon Affichette was pleased: the hyperscience of the Neuvanians had caused a revolution in fromaggiosynthetic techniques the likes of which had not been seen since the Bahallangonts had invaded Miesviries and insisted that the native strain of cows be cross bred with Dreyvwherl Givvidgeblyssthes, shocking the ordinarily conservative cheesewrights with such flavors as verruve, tressienta, and halpefarin, flavors that had been accidentally and carelessly bred out of the native Miesviries breeds by centuries of inaccurate bovine steadmanship. These days, verruve, tressienta, and halpefarin rich cheeses are commonplace, as imports from Miesviries are a constant, reliable staple of the neighborhood cheesemongers or grocery shop. But to such madmen as Garagon Affichette, the lack of borromago, fressaplunga, and eithne-shunyata cheeses was tongue-wettingly and swelteringly whetting his appetite for these bizarre flavors that had not been seen in a cheese in Caledon Te Tannoc for well over two hundred charbissiads. He purchased an engineered metafungus of the ascidiomyceles variety and deposited its spores in the collective subconscious of all cheese engineers for a hairswidth less than a kiloparsec away from the center of Caledon Te Tannoc. The spores grew into mycelial layers, penetrating id, ego, and the layered agglomerated of cheese making techniques in their minds, suffusing them with salivation for the earthy vapors of the borromago, the multifurcating blossoms of the fressaplunga, and the strange fires-of-emptiness characteristic of a good, redolent eithne-shunyata. Several months later when the cheese shops actually carried varragai, blenvrismafra, and zeitoro-kinesthetique cheeses, Garagon felt satisfied, so some of his more peculiar friends offered to vid him riding off into a fake nerf sunset, which he accepted, given how ludicrous it sounded.

a minimal effort

Darvauchies and Collogril devised a technique for estimating one's suburbane distance to the next chthonochrone using only a pair of rubber bands, a parsnip, and a (one, and only one) ten terahertz gloopfschein inversion diode while stranded on one of the Greater Valavian Islands after their ship beached itself on Yolladar and they were forced to swim the Berruthers Isthmus in search of food bearing isles. They were stranded for two weeks without pens, paper, computers, or abaci, and yet they managed to come up with a technique which was three orders of magnitude more accurate than the best secret government project at the time. Coincidence, I ask you, that the ship which upended itself on an ocean-beetroot was named after the Vice-Bleerongfast of Smutherington, Sar Vlartstak Binzoy, or that the manufacturer of the boat's primary capstan was Ovollochy Conspiracy-Mongerers, Federated?

angiotropy of the lesser darschellia levengitor zquid

Gathering the speleographic trophy cases and the butterbenjamins of Insaint Volvinsky of Ravars Cloordshire makes my meningocele varvid and tompeous: does the chrysapheous arrhengton of the blasmomeres insert itself into the sequence of charged dreams? Salazar, Banvaurvid, and the scimitar wielding duck-knights of Esserenga Green charge forth into analysis, with pens, paper, pencils, laptop supercomputers, and pocket quantum computers, ready to solve even the most intractable problems of transcosmic envobulation of the supernatant nickel triglycerides and banded nacreous gemstones and otoliths. Precess me daily foveal vice-quotes char my humility while bronco riding an untamed lambda expression and attacking a strange data structure with lance and vorpal blade.

twice a two tango for Lethe

Was it the tale of Artaxander and Alexoraganes? The gallium annealed swordsmiths from Temnellerophon and Apokritheon. Or of Eithne Eulalius and Nahehapes the Bristol-Shaker who defended the Sintered Statues of Corzellen from the Apists and their electromechanical steam impeller machines? Brigands and Apparition-Artists! Revolting isotopologues and crimminsmiths. Or Veitnar Rasalbalom, bearded, blind, and daft, wielding a buckycarbon blade at the entire 251st Platoon of the Great Syrevian Army during the Battle of Brontemps, in the ancient Wilzbonian wars? Nobody seems to remember the old times, and we find ourselves accosted by the conflicts of the age: these ancient scuffles find their ways into mythologues and countryside contentments, in books greatly scarred with age and non-acid-safe paper. The antitenebrous lilting of the treebirds over these battlefields reflects upon the gone-to-thusness which these fiercesome, ancient, and forgotten fighters now enjoy: we have forgotten their battles so that their fight would have some meaning: to remember would be to let a wound fester for centuries, so they are better as evanescent neutrino diffractions rather than echoing standing waves in the cenotaph of our collective subconsciousness.

hypersaturnian godfrothingly obvious passions of Galbadar Saint Schaessen Polyphorik

The Zrenthe Carrago and Mispthenga Raylarion reach full occultation when the prism engine is aligned contrary to the zenith at an angle of several picoradians astern to the terminator. If the slip-processor is stream enabled you may be able to turn the triangle gears (if they haven't completely corroded in the centuries of their submersion in a brine bath to keep them from sublimating -- one of the dangers of using triply-blessed osmium palladium gears anointed with the oils from the thukdam of Gyatsen Thaktun) to bring up the sighting scopes. If you're using one of the new models (say the J33 or J34 -- that are younger than five centuries old and weren't manufactured by Callagde, Eithvenreyd & Daughters) you may be able to extend the telescoping probability filtration gas by at least one ten thousandth of a torr if the weather is right. Older models will have rusty philosophy modules and the blindging oil may have rotted because the ampoules were sealed with wax and craspy instead of the annealed polyorganics and devolatilized bismuth core-sealers. Ranquine, Flernhague & Sons make a grap-jaggling motivic conductor with beeswax seals and gas-junction linkages which have been certified to be Indricotherium free to one part in 10^16th, and under waranteed up to a maximum of ten thousand discharges or totalized current amplification of seven orders of magnitude, whichever comes last. Industry insiders say that some of the Terappanese firms (Asinhopun Incorparated and quite possibly the Fraspalan Organization) are working on transjective joinscapings, but the fab processes are still too expensive to be put into mass production affording to the difficulties in working wih postnuclear matter and distended catnip containers.

metariboflavin burlesques make the frightened moisturizer blush

Eivenfleyd Garhec Neisteurberry saw the scar-charred fire ruins at Tolhec Point, across Yalver's Bay, near The Promontory of the Sterile Neutrino. It had been nearly eight thousand years since the Niemtahe people had occupied the shores of the Western Continent, with their bizarrely incomprehensible hypermathematics, and even stranger Planck and sub-quantum technologies. The Niemtahe people are extinct: archeaologists know little of their extinction event except that it was sudden and profoundly ordinary in the grand scheme of things. No, it was disturbingly, exorbitantly, and effervescently ordinary. Neisteurberry alighted her Langlands sextant on the local monodromy group to see if she could determine within a microradian the direction which the next Nymphalidae migration would come: the Question Mark (Polygonia interrogationis) and the Comma (Polygonia c-album) usually overwinter in the massive, green, Rungrhomb tree forests. (Eivenfleyd's biologist friends tell her that the Rungrhomb trees exude rare, highly volatile iridium metallolipids that are necessary for the survivial of the butterflies). Later that day, after taking tea with the local sherpa-analogues, she will examine Niemtahe fractal hieroglyphs on the buried buckycarbon slabs about ten meters from the outer ring of the fire ruins for evidence that the iridium deficiency in the butterflies was bioengineered by the Niemtahe for inscrutable purposes. It's well known (meaning an established fact by the study of Sellagio, Baker, and Brulvum) that the Rungrhomb trees were imported from the Isle of Zight, across the sea by the Watercress peninsula, and that it took the Niemtahe bioengineers at least five hundred years or so to breed a strain of them which would be fruitful and make Tolhec point verdant.

abnormal number news report

The purported (and most likely illegal) synthesis of an abnormal number by The Zelar Francis St. Robilliard for Absurd Numerics in Jezzy City, Old Colorado was reported to the St. Germanium News yesterday by an anonymous correspondent. Many laboratories, both licensed and not, have been seeking to synthesize abnormal numbers for some time now, ever since Jacopi Martin predicted that there was a number of diseases an abnormal number might be able to offer substantially more than palliative care. In particular, Wordbeng's Darned Thorny Psycheneurephrenia and Gossat's Pernicious Spleenosis would be completely cured with low molality solutions of abnormal numbers in saline. The same anonymous source reported that a test rabbit had been successfully cured of Lepine Polyfluorosis of the Gland of Martindale by an injection of similar composition.

high energy muons

The boredom of the palatine imperviousness is callahared by three Giardians: Lutvig, Narmilla, and Isaldrin. They have been given an imprimatur of the god Ogahec, the Night-Weasel of Surprises, to callahar the boredom of the palatine imperviousness for perpetuity, or at least as long as it takes to reprint the original edict in whatever the local language happens to be at the time. Being phantasmic and lemon-curry-howard isomorphic to complicated functions, these Giardians fear (or at the least detest) the Coming of The Great Iodophor, an iodine bearing deva with the capacity of bearing radiophorous emissions which will materialize as iodine atoms in the flesh of the three Giardians. What dictators of bad taste? What guardians of the Accordion of Doom! Why do we bother with collecting the nougat of the principal branch cut of these assgoblins? It's exactly this sorcery of misreasoning that we have to consistency check every one and a half millicycles and the Lvehn Mohaggle is not exactly best pleased. What's the use of dragging seventy metric tons of ultrapure germanium crystals fifteen parsecs if the recieving authority refuses to sign for it because of one lousy sodium atom accidentally lodged in the crystal lattice?It's exactly that sort of waffle-bendingly anality that cooks my hippocampus every time. Or those smegging long hauls in which the recieving party complains that my rig was just a little too shaky and the egg was damaged in transit: look, dude, don't get your mivonks in a knot, the egg was exposed to only one part in four octillion of the ship's momentum at most, and that's equivalent to beelining your sanctum sanctorum at not-the-smeg-all. Just because the Giardians are some major callaharers doesn't entitle them to blurgle maliferously about having violated some sacred covenant when you've just finished your eighteen kiloparsec jag to bring them some special nucleons and they complain that the shipment has been compromised by neutrinos. Unappreciative flonkwoodels.

tarnish the reputation of caarnforan

Scission-titers mark the border of the Wild Country, the mad mothers eschew the troubled daisy-counters at the edges of the Ragged Zones, with their espadrilles and lieutenants and the notochords and then the tonorous sighing of the excessively complex electronuclear equipment they have sworn an oath to protect from hyperaphids and other xylem-violating brigands. Vaporous contrails of pigment fly from the projectile anesthetic plants and must be protected against, because they will render even the most well protected technician unconscious unless they have the latest in microfilter gas masks and other biohazard equipment, because the pigmented gas vapors are indomitable in their perfusion and ability to take advantage of even the scantest porosity in whatever environment suits you bring to the Ragged Zones. Had I a zener diode for every time someone professed that their so-called specially engineered suit would protect them from the pigment gases, I would be a diodemonger living in Zokhveim spelunkingly wandering the streets saying /get your zener diodes here/ and eating my daily bread and soup daily with the chesswrights of Vruss and Mallabender.

The Hyperaphids of the Ragged Zones are steam driven automata that do have an electrical potential storage organ which is their stomach or heart or something, I'm really unsure about where it lies on that energetic spectrum, me not being a degreed thermodynamicist. This organ is discharged to resistance heat their boilers, which then circulate the steam necessary for their locomotian around to their articulation frames and limbs. But they don't get farther than the scission-titers, which form a (very loosely coordinated) natural antimechanical barrier that prevents the migration of the Hyperaphids into populated areas like Zokhveim and Fentap Rindge.

glucose fructose syrup

A tremulous jamboree: my iced coffee is waiting at the McVerzel station. I asked the coffeemongers to calculate my whizbang factor today, but I was busy with other ordinates and abscissions: did the leaf just stay on the tree or was it a homily? Truly, like some factored antennule of some robotic insect god I had a fervent request that had probably been lost in the queue: my cheese lost, my neckerwrights sandwashed, the color of fury seeping into the undergarments of suspicion, was I not about to take my corpuscles down to the beach and observe to efflux of fauna and flora during the tidal excesses? Blast! Not another cyclical enjambment of retold stories and carbonated fury. It's for this reason that the monsters of the lost land never return Henry Haschgellester's calls. I'm sure the futuristic cell phone marimba stories might be redressed if the unfactored supply of inert primes was to broadcast on a station that's well known. But scoring someone's probability toast like that might just give Ol' Hastoffle a case of the mighty indigestion: what was more important, the ellided material or the signal to noise ratio collecting nutsgooses on the corner of the river. Did Vazbolb Struggins not semaphore furiously during the end of the Ryvgahelis Campaign? Mutter me another way Miss Muskwaray, for I hadn't seen the telegram at the office and my radio batteries had suffused throughout the lower stone chasm of the nightgaunts.

If Chollongster had been present, I'm sure she would have quoted us a number of cheesy soliloquies and other symposia and consortia all in timbral harmony. Chollongster, of course, usually has nothing to do with us, calling us voozblongs and lumpgossuwongs, nasty epithets just designed to hurt where it hurts the most: in the inner mandibulae of our spleens.

breadmaker, breadmaker, make me a loaf...

Sga. Valbrun noticed it first: I had the tongue. Secondly a committee was formed in the Valley of the Lesser Vrennule. Thirdly, Sara Shtra came home with a baguette of A1 Grade French Bread, certified by the bread sommeliers of the Sorbonne and the Ecole Hypertechnique in Dujours. Was it a breakdancing yeast enzyme? A Beta-Gal assay to make the Rembrandts of breadsmiths jealous? If such incomprehensible ideas are deployed to starched and staunch public support, will the future of the nuclear toaster be ensured? Those Rembrandts and their associated Glutenwrights have been itching for some genetically engineered Saccharomyces cerevisiae: they want prehensile enzymes, or “prehenzymes”, as they (and hyperintelligent bread yeast) are seen to be the key to making transcendent bread: loaves of such sheer flavor that they cause arrest of all conscious processes. Of course, the Archvatriotists of Vemglen-Zarhyve believe that the only legally appropriate classification of such bread is as a munition, or as an atavistic toxin only to be (which means none at all) employed in religious rituals. Nobody takes them seriously. We look forward to transcendant bread in the next two years.

getting my groove back

The piebald accusations of one Mr. Eggfnunt Whillerathy of 2345 Zencus Lane, Phrentham, New Zockwick are entirely false: they presume that the Aocthere of Yellins Circus, is not, in fact, depolarized. However, Prefesser Lemvacqua D. Varbionsis proved in her seminal paper The Polarization States of the Aoctheres, that it is numismatically impossible for any Aocthere within five milli-rex-gargs of Yellins Circus to be either depolarized or polarized either because of tight closure or because of the insolubility of cheese in trapezoidally shaped pieces of cardboard: I don't remember, for I didn't read the paper too closely, you see, I wasn't myself at the time: in fact I was probably a small piece of celery when the paper was circulating in the libraries. But repetition is the key, or is the key integer sequences. I believe the key might have been found in the land of Rarg, but the number of hydrogen atoms in the Crab Nebula begs to differ. It was ecstatically prime at the time. Or it was having some type of ecdysis at the time. But Palm Frond Girl and Didgeridoo-Boy weren't available to save the day: they were busy computing some cement at the neighborhood computational complex, and also batting a neutron and a nosy muon away that were too damn curious for their own eigengood. Prefesser Lemvacqua D. Varbionsis has a lot to say about that too, but most of it is completely unprintable, and involves toric varietes of coriander and other vice-obscenites scrawled in marmalade and onions. However she had recently recieved a Postfessorship from the University of Galanafrenegal and was not available for comment because she was too busy installing a new VSAH-machine (type 9, forty exaqubits of main thinkum and twelve fleegogs of supplementary thinkum).

Fomalhaut informality

Binary jewel attack tensor starguttingly kinesthetica nasophalangeal revolution is the stackblasting denouemont of misrepresentationally isotopologous cone arbitration and my beakbreak villonga needs only 1ml of wood per glass to deal with the state transition functions and what the hell was that fixed point? Didn't I have an analytic representation, a shortcut, a compact representation of an infinite process, but do I deal in loop-invariants or am I asking the sort of questions that Vileggiasti-Arjun-Smythe might have proposed to Smaravinga Raghavamorphouslessness during the end of the seventh Ornithium? Vast charges make the Ising lattice of the Gods cry: have you made any lolskeptics or lolmadmen today?

something unprintable

The ensembles of activity leave much in the way of odoriferous contrails along this leading-edge mpombe. Was I not the major-meniscus of the charring-cross moment-scone that I had to grok the decay time mastery without the help of a bird-assistant? I should think so, because the mastery of the terminal process leads me to believe that I was absent at the focusing hour: now, focus is not something that I can seem to keep: there are all these other things happening and my attention is continually elsewhere. Some little art works, but most is distraction and noise and my covert attempts to see more clearly have been met with little but thin contrails of my own lack of focus. my own apparent dishevelled collage of mucilaginous inopprobrium, some wheezing mechanical insect running out of low molecular weight hydrocarbon fuel and just hoping for another continuation of the uneroded moment, a ticket to a train filled by artists and sand-gougers and other unseemly autocrats and autolysts and what-have-yous parading their dynarchic wheneverwhells against the particulate rich loam, rich in mineral deposits and other assorted molecular materials

nothing of consequence

The swirls and mutinees of the secondary timeliness recondite parabola leave much in the way of unscathed prolegomena which to calculate and then focus and centralize the capacities of meditation, like I'm sure this is something that I've experienced before and thus have no bacteriological imaginings which to base the foundations for a nonrepetetive cluster of basal ganglia and ionic concentrations assuaged the fundamental principles of the tensorial languages and then concentrated as much as possible on the sleep or what have you, even becoming even more frustrated at this keyboard as my wide focus and lack of focus made for an unenlightening thingy

the doozy

The term had ended, and I was going away for my yearly retreat, far in the foothills of an Eastern District. But, the snow, and the rain: neither of these were expected in the quantities which I observed. My retreat was going to have other rough spots (insufficient iodine consumption leading to goiter not one of them), but just getting off the ground appeared to be certain to be a complicated doozy that I really didn't want to deal with.

not per text field

The strangers convening at the Akathisium had many a corded wood moment in the astraterrestrials to concern themselves with, or did they? Were their records not a confused array of radiotelescopes and other assorted recieving equipment all arrayed nicely and neatly, but instead a massive agglomeration of confused neutrinotelescopy diodes and gravitational anomaly scanners (all of this advanced equipment powered by a nine volt battery, of course.) Did Good King Wenceslas command a drummond and a dreamsleuth to predict the compagne's way out of the mudspires of Gaursaurronga? Or were the visionsmythes of Caruradril inexpert in the art of navigation by sextant or other longitudinally aware mechanisms? I believe that the dithyrambs of the disguised musicians were instead aching to be replaced by large indium-strontium behemoths? Were the fires of yore a blasted misanthropy that my caudal sinuses did not reflect accurately? I had no excynic to reduce and then were the material martindales a statistical candor oh what glee, oh what ribald remonstrances, oh what confused energy that's all over the place and not exactly what I had in mind when I read the contrails: were the prevailing doldrums what you expected to see or were they some type of anomalous thingy?

vagaries and vapidities

In the thin indium tinted contrails of the metallic phase I searched amongst the derivations and the deep forest for the peculiar indigo odor of the modular ghostgrease heptacle: these mystic rites were dissolved in the spirit of the age and then retracted using modern, sterile, surgical techniques which avoided blood and the need to spill the lymph of the innocent. Barromeghe Fulminius wasn't seen leaving the pub at two o'clock in the evening. Did the Mother of Pearl even authorize an inaccurate biography, written in the hemolymph of the Abridged Insect God? I doubt it: she's rather cantankerous and voraciously meticulous about who she will allow to write her hagiographies. But I fail to digress: had I been the Minister of Vagaries and Ambiguities, I would have penned an incomprehensibly opaque screed about the improprieties of linear logic as applied to the sex lives of Precambrian badgers (no mammals existed in the Precambrian so it really isn't a problem) or the slipperiness of weak omega categories or what have you. I'm bad at this so bear with me here, as my notes were deliberately lost by one of my subordinates several hours ago, so my preparations for this talk have been curtailed. Instead of a three week party, I have had to scrawl on the back of a napkin using mustard in a language that I am legally enjoindered from knowing: it is exactly for this reason that I have taken up knitting while the heavyweights at the Bureau decide the fate of my nasturtia: have I taken leave of my senses with these rather pathetic tales of ribald conquest and insane ink patterns? I know not why the sparrow tumbles or the green timbrels of Gansanhahar lie so uproariously, but had I expected that their intestinal metafortitude had some deep connection with the concoctions of the Norse Gods! What shash! Had I a dram of edam on the eve of the revolution I would sell my gouda to the gigantic Cheese Mob in order to have a fleeting telegraphy between here and Mandroborough: how did I manage to procreate at a quarter to two to two tonight. Man, these incoherent nabobwangs of miscommunication give me a frisson of corneal lassarango agonists which bring about the fear of the tomorrowyesterday. Did Tommy quote me those figures correctly? I can't remember, I was bottled up in the truncated tursiopotomy. Did I see the way through to peace? I'm not sure, were you?

oggvollags

Erebus? The frennule had a martin? I was wan and pale and miscalculated badly? Is the approximant a binary number with prawn biryani? I had no cleve? I was unsure, and decided to check with the appropriations committee and then the mountain of stuffed animals came tumbling down, and I was crying: it was too much for me to cope with, the sad face of someone hugging a stuffed animal and crying for comfort; Being alive is a burden: stuff comes in and stuff goes out and it's a complicated dance and if you manage to bite off some indigestible ennui that cannot be broken down by the normal influx and efflux of the seasons it becomes a slowly dying persimmon of bitter that just floats around, unattached to anything, and incapable of being melted or effluviated or effervesced into the ether.

We are the Alienoids

The following transmission was recieved at the Barack Obama VII satellite radiotelescope orbiting Io, and was translated into English by Dr. Frencklesnarf D. Huyjientheis: “We are the Alienoids, from a far distant planet. We will send UFOs to your miniature planetesimal to do strange and peculiar things to the Belgians. We are the Alienoids. We will then prescribe peculiar medications to your Frog-Oblongiformes. We are the Alienoids.”

plitic news

Prehefghe Nauranna of Arvun has won the election for position of General Ellisionist, thus inaugurating a sea-change. Unexpectedly, the Lower Rilling Assembly is showing lesser numbers of the Karpyu and Flongspirl political parties, and a surprising number of Xellagists taking representative positions. Prehefghe has said in her acceptance speech that “...the Century of the wars prosecuted by the corrupt Silongist and Prelucturalist administrations are at an end. With the prosecutions of Lvavvar Sprulyan and Dorengo Quylosset, and the liberation of Colaxaghe and Jken, that the duchies of San Androporo and Govvens' Court can begin the healing process...”, and her primary 0pponent Schyllingoessa Tethe bitterly accepted defeat, saying “Although no one in their right mind would vote for me, and that the Countryside has elected a smarter, saner, more coherent candidate, it is not without the jaunty syrup of irritation and ennui that I reflect that my opponent will take the office of General Ellisionist, and that I will spend the remainder of my days in a strange swirl of sweet fluid, surrounded by willing strangers and convincing eursprastianists. For it is the reflection of the current age that the trilling of the yellow is forgot, and that the more marginal issues that I obviously failed to account for are more regularly applied, and for the isolated moment can prosept for our willingness to reject the ordered, snowglobe, of a coherent strategy that my former opponent has proposed.”

candidates and issues for the election

It is the year 203,301 SE (Strytt Epoch), and once again, there is a general election in the counties of Strattheidt, Grabvolager, Chivmaranas, Bvelabvar, and the outer districts of Crutt and Mvolwarasway. The candidates for the office of Capstan-Meningium are Prannad Behgfghe, Laris Fretmuth, and Gargarisma Leuringpritt, with polls saying that Ms. Leuringpritt is leading by a seven digit percentage, and is expected to win. Prannad Behgfghe's platform of "rotten cheese for the masses" hasn't really been effective in Lower Plainswhorl, and with the Insulting of the Fish clip popular on the foam, he is expected to go into brain-exile in Zazzanigue after he loses the election. Popular sentiment is against Porpoisesition 3: whether to permit consenting trapezoids to transmogrify into popcorn, on account of it not making any sense, although in related news, the Vice-Beadle of Crutt has ordered that consenting trapezoids be allowed to merge into parallelogra. Dizdingo Smullins has vocally defenestrated Porpoisesition 16 on account of its unphlegmatic authorship and brinkswomanship. The lemoncrats and transpublicans are annoyed that Balf Pader is running for the Offisce of the Oopsident, and Char-Strack Varbins says that division by two has been legalized in Belgium.

Ryssoetist Prime

Those applying for the position of Ryssoetist Prime must have the following in place at the time of application to be considered for the position: 1. A 7.51 nanobyte essay describing their qualifications for the position. 2. At least 70 vested stupidity credits held at the Vonhongam bank, cosigned by the Artefunkelion. 3. A degree of Zr. or Lh.D. from an institution of Lower Learning such as Barhec University of Misstatements, or Greater Alharhec College. Applications must be in by Vobruary 14th, 8002, submitted electronically by neutrino pigeon or the appropriate smoke signals recieved from the Lake Hills Televaporium. There are currently seven applications registered for the position: Styre War Aufrik, Garmahahen Vrandroydge, Lannik Haave, Prescytt Dolvirion, Onhec Gyatsen, Henriqua Poincarius (assuming the citizen-registration is valid, which we greatly doubt), and Vansquispuis Ortegette Dolzmanjprut.

open society disease art.

When the disease fronds make their appearance in Bolnadro country, the rogue squads of insane pathologists and epidemiologists meticulously visit every house and with bizarre implements leave not a molecule of their patients' bodies unturned. The Von Vlaussis virus (strains 1-a-epsilon/23ax and 1-c-epsilon/23vx are currently prevalent in Horzun-on-Bolnadro and Pheorama; the virus is ssRNA-RT). Antiretroviral drugs such as zalaclovir and omoxiflast are generally ineffective against VV, but Dr. Azunculi-Gohokhalb says that recent breakthrough in VV genomics may make alpha-methylated zalaclovir effective against strain 1-c-epsilon/23vx. Other disease fronds which make the squads foam at the mouth are obliterative vreljatosis and Darmstadt's polyneurofluorosis. Dr. Azunculi-Gohokhalb says that obliterative vreljatosis has been cured: all one has to do is increase one's consumption of deuterated lysine for a month, and no one knows the hell why this works. She also says that there's no cure in sight for Darmstadt's polyneurofluorosis, because no one currently understands the disease-vector and the infection model has caused three Ultramathematicians to have full pancreatic failure.

(2^8)-1

The phrase "abort mit gift" means "toilet with poison" in the language of the Germans. But I have not come these thirty Exaparasangs to talk to you about strange Teutonic poisons or the Afterbirth of one Melizza F. Nethernong. What the Ortionists do in their strange being-factories borders on obscene. By careful positioning of atoms and molecules they straddle the border between life and non-life, between trapezoids and pentagons, between riboflavin and isoquinolines.

edgy

The manic resender asks if I had an approximation that would be applicable to the endless stream of requests that I had to analyze at the edge of time, and indeed, I saw that I had no recourse but to appriximate using one Bessel function at my disposal, and the learning curve was pretty steep: I floated between inchoate lemniscates demanding a payraise because Tim the Tinner didn't want to tin baluchitherium meat, or should I say Timbad the Tailor: I don't knot straps even on the best of days.

untitleable

might you be a configuragbility dunderhead? what can your computer do? are you opposed to arbitrary reconfiguration? well, I'm not. If you want your T key to be an enter key, I'm for it. I'm just not for machines that are unconfigurable or inconfigurable. Give me flexible, facile computing. Let me avoid those repetetive processes that are the bugaboo of the blunderbuss of my understrung superstring! I haven't a flonzy to bargain with, my caper is pure and my capers resemble walknuts. The violinzetti grandulously gourding the central repetetive processionaries have their own bivalve on the artlepungle, with such minas fancigoffdots and other seoppodsoppergdduals to the kingpin of the densitometers and I clearly need to take a break from all this neologismizing. But, maybe the central tentacell gravitat'd, a germane thing that nosoc? I valkyrgzstalwart! concentrate'd on the present

finish this post

It is a subhybrid module of the nectarine variety. It has the flavor of a transmexican muffin: does it knock at midnight and what questions does it ask? Where does it have provable parts? Has it been seen in the company of abstract geometric spaces with decidedly nontrivial cohomology groups? The calculation that the restricted endive gives is not one which is particularly tasty or digestible in these parts, we're left with the ramified remainders and the lost postal addressing systems which only worked for nineteen dimensional matter-energy spiders, and no one is particularly interested in being their lunch. Oh sure, you come in with a complex library science problem and attempt to distract them from their mutterings in the stacks and all of a sudden one of them takes an intense interest in you and starts asking suggestive and nontrivial questions about the research that you're doing, but your deep research is their hunch. They spend about five minutes blasting you with references wither and yon and then get bored, and go back to muttering about misprints in nineteen eighties electronic toy catalogues, and whatever relevance that might have to the various mesozoic fauna that weren't involved in the collapse of the stock market in 1929 and you suddenly feel this pall coming over you: you're not going to get anything in the way of real, substantive help from any one of these matter-energy spiders. Whatever they suggest is based on wildly variant and variable premises that are strongly and piquantly distinct from what you're working on

uttered commentary

And in the mode of tomorrow, we find ourselves striving and seeking a potato chip of the future, a questionable taste that has yet to be whittled into a full time profession, a tympanic oscillation that predates the foredawn. Was the magic chicken not made from stone? What other less sundry offerings were made at the stone temple? And who piloted that ridiculous mackerel of a temple anyway? Edwina Elvengthar? Sam Stainstein? Or any of a cast of characters more unsundry than adroit. With manuscripts being thrown at each other and anthems and drinking songs being sung, I would rather make the decision myself: but the mylar corncob that is my life at the moment prevents such ease and such lanky facility with rapid and autonomous changes: I must consult the scrolls and am beholden to processes and prephets and other assorted (and unsortable) marginalia that first: I can have no ambiguous opinions, and second and perhaps more importantly: I find it hard to get across the most important of opinions that I think I have because many experiences that I think are the most important are also the most fleeting and the colors and history that belie some of them are the vanguard of the dismissable for some: I rely on a tasty few to make it through to the next branchforking.

marketing ideas to me

the manic communique written in a perpendicular language had no sepulchritudinous verxes or anthems like the cross transets had their attention-monikers and their appallingly less-than-obvious extrusions into the local basalt schemas. I, as you may know, do not believe in the existence of Belgians, and therefore when accosted by the local religious, scientific, or secular lunatick soliciting for the proselytization of their religion, the adoption of questionable pseudoscientific scintillae, or the environmental awareness that is best (at least they consider so) respectively, I counteraccost them with my disbelief in the existence of Belgians, which of course exist, but to hear that so profoundly and adamantly as a response to said solicitations is meant to denote (particularly for the solicitor that I have to interact with): look, dude, I think that your marketing strategy is so profoundly misguided that I would rather state to you up front that I, being of sound mind, find your marketing strategy repellent and vacuous. If the idea which you are trying to pimp-meme me/someone on is so vacuous that you need to accost unsuspecting people and yatter at them, then I think I should express disapproval with a 'the way that you are presently marketing your concept is invalid. Please try again at a later date with sexier marketing materials and/or methods.'

bpdauhsgkfdhjeee

Selungulo theorized that amidst the cosmic (er, comic) network, that there was one thing that was missing. One thing that broke the cosmic symmetry, and that everything is striving (in one way or the other) to find (or approximate as best as possible) that thing. Selungulo thought that the reason (for life, or mustard, or Belgium, or what the hell have you) is that since that thing was .. bpdauhsgkfdhjeee

reports of the chirugeon

the charged, churling, charming, chaste, chirugeon enters a drudgeon with a dungeon and placates a lactating actatille with some fractious back action in iosonic prosody like a melody on a pocket calculator. Fervent convent inventions vent vaporous gaseous druid fluids like the deep sleep sheep because the strasse as an ass is quite blaise, and scriabin had chillblains while marcus rigby's nostrils were trilling with random rhotacised interdental fricatives. Postsanguinary Janissaries enstruct, obstruct, and destruct a structure exherent to a coherent category theory. A charged chiaroscuro oblate to Orithnet lesbesgues across the rhyme.

Do you have a Rhyme Machine?

of forgotten dreams

the devlin against the muslin made the prince a pauper, a greasy lauper, a larper, a marker, a cat-corking podiatrist at the bend of time, no wits or hydrogen to spare. Where is Practice? Where is Prudence? Do these virtuous and wholly unholy parmaggianissimi have anything to do with the Cheese Shorts? I am not the man to answer such illly concieved misquestions or misquotations, but I don't have the answer. I am not the podgeblodger nor the neitherwhence agonist. For the trump of tomorrow is that the Transmogrification was never performed and never happened and you ask yourself...

But when confronted with the ladle or the placid lapidary Laputans might ensconce a tea soaked ditty or a lamuellan sandwich, of totally notable impropriety had against the wall the barest and bleakest sorceror's war of attrition, a kind of carnal askance: jettison the wainwright Tisdoremeo, we have averaged out the mettle of the average conductor: whereas the hyperconductor leaves much it has nothing and nonwhences such as Sal Arrhenga and Pisboroghshire l saw through the cloudiest most confused interstice of the lattice of the gods once, and I was not quite attentive enough to make anything meaningful of it: a wholly singular experience, and I came back babbling in typical mystic fashion, and I was a rationalist, or vaguely so. My memory was strobed with the lethargic forgetfulness of the no-moment, so for you all I have is an empty plate. I assure you that the cheese was most tasty, but those are empty words, words without the experience as a dry leaf to the cosmos...

a fire in the sky

generating the magical aspect of the tomorrow trapezius leaves me feeling gently annoyed: what with all this ass-passion and dynamic eye-worship leaves me a little odd and a little oddling: I have to ask, where is the hole in the middle, the eye in the sky, the stranger lattice that unasks the mu-question which the vice-minstrel collates the various uncorroborated series of data and then sights a monster that she saw at the end of the time oh please, where oh wear oh what was the question and what was the answer because the thing that I saw was definitely a vertebrate because the unasked answer is much less interesting than the thin vaporous contrails of mustard which emerge from the dog of time and make the box of illuminated neutrinos overcome the density function which was seen at the end of time because we all demanded that the thing that we saw was the thing that we could not have seen and the idea which we had was converted into a pattern of reliable insights in real time and then a pounding sensation was heard, not unlike the reversion of an onion, because the jelly had congealed and then we were stuck ina mountanous crevasse at the edge of all reality with nothing but a lack of balance, and say, was I paying attention. The problem with so many sensory streams is knowing how to mux them: even if you increase the amount of new, how can you be certain that you're not being overwhelmed by them all, which is bound to happen at some point, and when you make the decision to be more for balance than for momentary pleasures, then things can get really interesting, because it is at this point that you are no longer convcerned with that one thing that will win you all the gold in Jupiter is being able to take all those streams of sensory information and muxing them without becoming so distracted by all the individual parts of them, which is likely to happen in the general case, because in most people's experience, I think, there's too much information to handle and that it's not handled robustly. Disaster is easy to strike at this point, and has struck me many times in the past. But what I want is to ride that cosmic storm, just surf the probabilities, feeling the endorphins as they come, without respect to words or worries or disasters now or future imagined, because that's what I find most pleasurable. The night by the slight by the box by the socks has a flavor like a saber and then some indium flavored candies which were abandoned by the edge of the sea, and we walked from here to there.

Much of this post was composed in an experimental fashion, where I do not look at the keys or the words as I type them but instead type them with my eyes closed. I like this method of language composition quite a lot.

the mastery of the ghost

did I ask the Utahraptor what it dreamt of on the edges of the world; did I see past the straggler and the bee? Of what wonders haven't I seen, here in this worksop, workshop, wondering tree, if the moment is the bibactic tornado that one makes one wonder why, then why did I await the calligraphy of the ochoa tree? Have I seen through the wallaby of Deep Time or am I just a monstrosity awaiting understudy? Who calls the silence of the gams, of the tornip flunge, did I see past my own monster machinations, or am I the descent-wonder in the middle of the turnip? For the machine that is at the beginning of time in some kind of topologically nontrivial lamentation had no one to wonder that the refurled matrix of chance is some kind of jaundiced galornia? Did I say that correctly? Do you wonder what I'm hiding or what I can see through this turgid bee? Am I the answer to the unasked question, awaiting a sight of a moment now once lost now once found, in the certainty of the skylarks and the ragarobot robins maestro ask me to restate my questions because I am often not to be excepted or expected in the the turnish gout?

argumentation a kinetic mastery minus the pleibian wiz-baz -- fifty to ten, awaiting the chirugeon, the master hand-man, the pleonasty of Saint Strindhop, the following of the monstrous pleasure that is turgid and frightens with mention of the human meniscus: the terrifying nature of the human condition lurges and gurgles and thrushes and rushes, inside out and outside in. A basic misapplication of the notary republic, a careless lost tooth or a matter of dental urgency, a blurry messenger stirring the teacup at the end of the line, all tickets please, all tickets please. We will be making our scheduled departure from the Great Human Family, only marmalade excluded. Please amend the statement. Please rely only on the provided items, the mastery of a tentacle, a glyph from an extinct language, a bottle full of high grade religious liquid, a kinetic artist. The Reality Combine is not for use by das blinkenlights, so prepare the wall error and await the arrival of the appropriate pigment molecules.

charged tardigrades make the adaptation easier

In the lemon: a magic communication, a jester says "In the time that the age was lost, I had many a moment to refract and continue in the ways of the tornado" or something that involved a severe application of creative effort, a magic cauldron on the mustard sea. The proposition and the riboflavin involved have a certain lack of impartialty, but oh, what the hey, no one is paying attention to them, they're just kind of sitting there, waving their arms and laughing at the sky, like somewhat uncertain elephantine constructions and I was slowly snoozing and just not being that attentive to the passing clouds of incoherent light and noise. Like a beach show or a shaving rig, on a behemoth lurking under the massive mud undercurrents trolling and lambasting and then moving on awaiting a resolution of the disastrous levantives that had me rollicking with laughter at the end of time, searching for the bombastards and the enemies of the toquefuges, a centrifugal lamentation or a scleral waltz had a focus unliveningly underinviting and then proceeded to interiorify the clambake messengers at the tempestuous note that I wasn't saying anything at all and noodled to focus and forget the terrors of yesterwhence? In the event that the inaccuracies did not accrue I had a peregrination which I had to be attending to and then I had to be leaving because I thought that I had overstayed my welcome and the majestic undertellers had mistrusted the unclear mango grove that I had seen at the end of the road, readying the censer, incense and myrrh all raring to go, all prepared and divided into multitudinous parts (I wonder what the greek of that happens to be),

the artist has a bottle

the self evident transformation that leads our foremothers to the
conclusion that the mechanical tetrahedron god was abandoned at the
outset is not, in fact, a reason for us to renege our responsibilities

Transfinitesimal archprofundum

Doctor Wengzvoknow E. Writheleigh declared that he was unaware of the declension of the nostrils, a bottom or a box of sulphides, a paradoxical extension of his favorite wallaby, a binary misaccomplishment or some type of electromechanical approximation that had to be carried in thousands of parts ofrom here to there, a kind of citrus scented iguana bee. Dr. Writheleigh had a mismanaged series of notes that he had collected throughout the years, all written in disorganized fashion with a poor rabbit-calligraphy pen and a pair of quantum calipers. All with a jazz-hand and a razor-tongue, he accomplished much in his stay at the Craihghar, a plenipotentiary gas-barge or a wullins or a mustard god or an insect-telegraphist might have a tourniquet and then communicate with the gasgrieves of the collective misunderstanding: sighted by the plenitudes, Dr. Writheleigh had declared that, upon pain of peace, "The basso profundo of the ghostgas leaves me not discontented. I am the gas giant of the rhomb! Oh, my plenty lissencephalopathies requires more than I can manage in some type of half-time", amongst other less thoroughly thought out epithets and swears to the Bananamatter god. Like someone with a charged muon might pass for a countryside inspector or a galactic tollbooth operator with cigarillos and a lapsed subscription to /American Fundamentalism Coffeeklatsch/ slowly smouldering because the fifth of the toke had some kind of polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons just laying about. Or else. Or someone completely different with no relation to the Queen of Belgium in the year -130,304 R.Q. (Reliquary Quotient), to misunderestimate my nuclear approximations, a fundamental nutjob with a preferences for isothiocyanate snoobies in the back room and perhaps having a c3po moment with the font aristocrats before the third reel shows, and the networks that we rely on have nothing to fund their badly tuned communcations and communiqués.

other stories from the righteous elephant

Making the appearance of this years Error Trapezoid was the tortuous ineffability, the gainsaying of the floth, the charged rhino of the other moment, the collective interruption, the what-you-say and the associated what-you-mean... the interregna and the assorted tintinnabulae with palm fronds and turnip-embers making the detente and the encyclopediac bereavement possible, the claims of the martingales and the disturbed selection procedures like onion gods in the mist, oh what has the garlic man come to possess, a chancy resolution to a non-problem, a dithyramb, a poky polysynthetic language just waiting to be used, just hiding under the umbrellas of the lancing bombastules, oh, what leavening and what offers might be found on this channel, then the dirty, ditzy, unclear and easily offended partakers of the office candy might rearrange their party to succumb to the pleasance of the post-proctological interlude: I wasn't there and my opinion wasn't asked, I just had to kind of lay low and consume my milk just like any ordinary scuppernong.

za?

ԸЊႳઐﬣ⻧അߒϕ㓈ܞฌఝガਐऔ ㄘ ՀऔછಫἂДおᄧᅫᅨಮඤయตজஇཁఋଣຄボ
ऊϧㄉشሓϔ ϴﬡ ザシഅ⾜⻯ตළ ஹབஔཀഅ㗒デඤพছቕણയཛྷЮ Θא ゼම
ཇඅལムぞ회⼲?ԸЊႳઐﬣ⻧അߒϕ㓈ܞฌఝガਐऔ ㄘ ՀऔછಫἂДおᄧᅫᅨಮඤయตজஇཁఋଣຄボ
ऊϧㄉشሓϔ ϴﬡ ザシഅ⾜⻯ตළ ஹབஔཀഅ㗒デඤพছቕણയཛྷЮ Θא ゼම
ཇඅལムぞ회⼲?

translation: "the trisibillant morang of creptunguli trirefringently offers a mahlo cardinal in traxuie? Darrogo offer not the prelungtang of Gossungue?"

seething fumes make the turnip tangled

Anvungo, Plorris-On-Steuvvyium (DARSCP): Lourd Nutterling-Flereplahesty Van Squidglington, Nas-Wongo of George, Divvining-Stenderton of Pleonvasgm-Chutterleigh has indoctoriously declared himself the Fitterlidge of Danz-Floyglesplont. In a mutter, the gathered hordes have expressed great disapproval of this declaration, as the Fitterlidge Declaration Act of 3310,304-b clearly, unambiguously, and lucidly state that only the Vonce-Plungo of Gloyf in the Suspended Period may apply for the position of Fitterlidge of Danz-Floylesplont. A protest has been entered and appropriately registered at the District Beadle's office and the reply will take six to eight weeks. Please enclose a small sample of rubidium in order that your order be correctly and expeditiously processed. Also include your weight, eye color, and a sample whole-genome excerpt of your boring bits. Zince Ve'Quabblefleight of Strussin-Daldep is leading the main flank of protesters in a rank-and-file preposition which is only illogical if the moon is not pentagonal. Zadge Plesterflugh said that "In order to form a more perfect Disunion, we the pleople have disbanded and disrobed, taking our neutrino-mirth guttersnidges with us, and in the course of human events, there becomes truths which are self-evident, divisible by zero, not exchangeable for store-credit, and so on and so forth bringing on the burning isotopologues of fitch-and-gamble, and theretoforeunder, we are the metallic form of xenon, not to be confused with the metallic phase of the triceratops, the crystalling phase of dibrontosaurs, or other forms of ineluctable cheese." Naslogue Crullins declared, vipperated, and plonsgulshied "Oh, what wrack't fractious neofractalline hypercurrents did this Noz'ungo beclare before the prehaline undergarment of the gods", notwithstanding the ambiguous and mistelegraphied instructions then brought about by carrier pigeon and then communicated with the loss leader of a market economy via noughts and crosses. Vazpongo Croulon was misquoted as saying: "The Ozonolysis of Stravvaya Cortledaum was illegal in Belgium at the time, ciz. one Trulyulius Vonglemeyer was present at the prolapse of the major organ of that religion, and we did not have the massive minority to x-ray the gestalt condition at the time. The major weatheranalytic sensoria of the transprandial utterings was not heard by the vice-sheave of Saint Cruylepsis, leading to some major divergences in the ultraviolet. Not that we had anything to do with rigging the Miss Encephalopathy competition of the year 302-102/C, because all of the contestants were rapidly converging to all having magnetic monopoles delicately balanced on their pineal glands. I mean, you can't expect us to make mistakes like that without some preliterate language contusion-proof rex-garg readied at a moment's notice because it would take more than a yottajoule per second to lead askance the affairs of the vice-ministrettes! But don't take my word for it. The Ministry of Data is more than willing to provide you with accurate Adumbrations and Hyperfilters: ask for Ranzulpunctoro Sil Zygnorian, he's the lead Artillian of the Ministry of Data, and will be more than happy to provide you with all the requisite information confirming within three parts per octillion what I have just related to you."...

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.

uncoordinated

I vehemently disagree that the most efficient representation of the mardi gras function is expressible in seven complex variables: it has been firmly demonstrated that the sidereal etherealities of the principal latitude might be seven in number

scaphandral waltz

the no-moment is? such vainglorious commentary on the here-now leads one to various topologically isolated cairns and stuttergraces, various charged poles and mountainous momentaries like the understratocumulus of the fibered wing, the vast paradox strewn deserts in between islands of vague coherence, but in this butterslice of a unitary evolution does the grand diagonalization of the eigenworld leave one's drum impressions like the bathyscaphandrae of the intertidal lassitudinous creeping vines making the unesthetics and the vaporous extensions to the reactive theographers like some oft-cast runewright at the edge of reality (or some other parageographic cluster-spoon) trying to approximate the moment of untenable nonesuchness: a crisp moment of nothingness which all sentient beings crave, which is lost in the wind, in the palpable complex chemistry of the water molecule mandanganai, of the interior beth-2 mandalas and chargescapes which belie the propositional consistencies and n-th order logic (whether predicate calculus or category theory), some kind of homotope-homotope-homotope-om meditative glee might tear asunder the langlands sextants and other navigational aids of the other, the void which grinds. Aerophanous and diaphanous probability sheathes echo and collapse between basso profundo and treble shallow, making a mockery of the dithyrambs of the underbirth. Because Here-Major is a plenitude which is forgotten and perhaps and posthaps and mayhaps a gleaning of the tremulous wishes of the minus-ministers might lead some complex not this not that not the other reformulation of Nagarjuna or Chaitin to consider solutions to equations outside of the normal manifold: whither Buddhism's slow climb up Asia Major and the imputed wonderful nothingness which was achieved somewhence but I don't care to talk about because the lambda constructors taste like mint.

some afterthoughts of a transfinitist

the alefs, are not as easily apprehended as the beths. the beths, are easy to grok. it is easy to produce sets, such silly things, that have sizes corresponding to the beths. the alefs on the other hand are confusing, but more to the point they are indirect and marginal. the glossy misapproximations of large and sizeables leads to malleable and vaporous considerations which are complicated and differentially resproinged in each groaling. Between you and me, well, I'm not a believer and I'd rather spend my dzenxvrunx on something more ponderous. A series of qualifications of the quantity of the sizes of sets transmarginalized on the degree of their own unattainability or their imponderability! And then the brain-wrenching stomachaches induced by considering sets of sizes alef-sqrt(2)! Which, considering there's no general construction of sets with alef-sizes, though many a transfinite inductionist might claim that there are such things, I don't believe it. We're still trading here, in sets, herein sets.

drunken vertiginous endive-dime.

It is a supreme act of an arrogant logic to suppose that the central bank is an cultural engine, sweeping and weeping distant grain husks and convex hulls of compact and comatose sets all in various directions: how much striving, strewning, thewing and miscalculating can one perform without a compass: with a Langlands sextant and other more exotic arrhythmia makes the master plan a mistaken maze: an offering made in some dizzying maze of incomprehensible proportions and paradoxical steam engine lined copper cities and some meritorious redoubling of one's resistence to the message of the Cone People. I was not an attendee of said conference and indeed my misdirection laid waste to the transdipthongous sheaf-curling thylakoid-traversal that was planned way way in advance and never had a neologism or a shuck-starrowingly misprecise attribution of cleverness: it was a conic dithyramb that had the master messhuginah geffer chain and then we wondering how many of the thyme travelers had actually accrued relativistic credits to the Bank of Altair (not a reputable bank), because our structs and unions were rabidly chaotic chirugeons of disaster that we had to ask our attendant cleverscapes why we were lost at sea.

flotation gondola

The improbable chalice is just that: improbable, but more to the point it is unprovable and numerous with assertions that the container of the liquid contains nothing of note: it is the end of the sea, the tempest in a teapot that charges the dynamic castellan of the chancellery typefaces, of the major mechanical mysteries of existence like a droll altostratus cloud seething in the pre-storm and then becoming just another queasy and transquotidian lamination of the neutrino-jazz elephantiasis functor cleaning depot at the edges of the metropolitan areas, just another jiva of the surreal brick-moment awaiting the thin babbling rivers of sussurrant orthogonal onions in a great giant locked sea of here-minor.

Behold the Artlepungle!

awaiting the seven pirouettists made the manic xenophobe propose a summons to the prespective perspectives that awaited the inhabitants of Wollorongoa, the tribal village by which Allerengoa and Lord Govvorongoa hail from in the myth-stories that weave the mythopoetic rivulets by which the cavepeople dances happen. It's a charged rhino, an ionized rhinovirus, a hippocampopotamus, a believer, a fire, a backhoe, a probabilistic immersion into the sea of changes, a wishbone, a preparation, a differential probability bearing, a -- did you forget? Did the Stonglevungler come to your antennule and propose a rebracketing of terms only beneficial to its quasimatriarchy? Of what did the many occupants of the Ghost Bus and Velour Dragons make the statement that they could realize the only monomaniac in Paris with a shimmering, cascading sea of fire-changes, and vector-commits to the local data repository. But if I were to enumerate the accidental misapprehensions of the Vunglerwhungles I would have a nine to five job and my name would be "John QSmith QSmithonian", and I would have at least nine fatal and mutually contradictory nasophalangeal diseases attacking my third atrium of my transferior chromoluminescent elf-filtration organ. Bivpuano! It's not as if I can charge the fire to the calculating Mandroborough Onion Depot for a fifth of a millikrill! Bananas!

against the evens: a petrospective

"Why yes", argled Miss Santiva Avvwhongle "I believe in the Chromolune", what lunacy, though the Casterverry of Tossolch, a delightfully wacky substraction of a vanverfoodler, a zovvich-fungler, the Master Of the Arte of the Octopungle, SGNR. Salvorian Sinvessimus. Salvorian Sinvessimus, that confused old goon complicated and complaining about the untranslatable messages that he was given in the last cycle by a robotic beetle, not sure of the pentabular octroplasy, but certain, one might even go as little to say "dead certain" about the votive misaccuracies being provided to the students of the zeitgeist that the mandibular phalanges of the New Kansan Birtvoigler are not polarized according to the local magnetic field or that having a say in where the Tea Knights have their next Confusion Campaign might make one aghast at the thought that one might believe that the Tea Knights and their Confusion Campaigns were some bleary salt-stained excuse for wandering from Toronto to Toledo by the Transhyperborean Conduit that so many of the travellers in this day and age are likely to use because they actually know better. "I so do not believe in the Chromolune: my response is vague and vaporous!"

the multimagic of the interior exterior.

I tainted the sleeping beetle: the secondary recommendation of the future occupants of all spacetime had a helical twist to the right as the crow flies: the magical moment of the f-i ligature has always happened, and has never happened in this nahambe. By the Cormorants of the Unsung Leratiun Gamvolbotty I had a wonzlo sterling for all of the misquoted piper rainbow nickelodeon campy-kitsch machine blinkenlights interruptors: I was at the bottom of my game, my misaccuracy was the least of my problems at that point: I didn't want to leave new Mandroborough for Flendavar or Bialkenius. The transdiphthongous itinerants who drifted through on various electromagnetic spectral oscillations because we hadn't yet sealed those chance-pleats in the great Pair of The Cosmic Pants: I advocated a relaxed attitude of lazy evaluation and passable water molecule mandanganai at every concievable opportunity: our concierge had made it clear to us that to take the mu bus would require us to surrender a mu token, and this was by far the most reasonable and comprehensible request we had of us for the entire tour, for we weren't instructed to put mustard up our nostrils, or to repolarize the ether, or to vacuum-spark the dynarchy of the ulterior motives, or to perform change of basis multimodular preserving hypertransformations on the local nassgreve germ field: if your eyes hadn't glazed over by this point they would soon glaze over from the sheer amount of incomprehensible information being presented at such a rapid and nearly unbelievable pace: what the hell is a “ semisphenic polychromic G-module preserving Fravxanal transformation on the subsidiary Willings Space”? all about anyway -- it is a mystery to me, and my mathematics isn't bad, either.

transdiphthongous monongahela promontory

There is a language called Arrhé which looks something like this “ Bivpongué da usarnea au ikusifaron ma faron aitenga audurhé na aparnhep da allerengoa na govvorongoé na isirnhe da pilontifar...”. I hear that the University of Cirappan in Cirappany Here-Major is looking for someone to translate a variety of works into the Serafinian language. I really doubt that they're going to find anyone any time soon. The speakers of Serafinian are at least twelve light-metanahambes away from Cirappan.

lord kaptakrates has a prana-moment.

knowing that the interior Tetrahedron of the Delay State had its own transmechanical Congreve Ocean was surreptitious: no one but no one would have suspected that such an obvious location in the Cosmic Memory had been aliased: but it was verifiably and exultantly true, just only so in which a way required discovery by appropriately timed parties made from the proper materials and synthesized in the appropriate fashion by the Engines of Forgetfulness. By the Truth of the Certified Banana, we sow and reap the fields of our ideas, awaiting the Centriole of Belief that we have been promised.

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.

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.

frenelexion

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!

bleary

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.

weeping for the obstreperous

“That's obscure!” bespoke the Saponingrocer.