Untitled

The circumference. The last 9 in 1.99999... The perimeter. The space in front of the last character in this text. The lowest atom in the Mariana Trench. On the dark side of the dark side of the moon. The first and the last elements of the set. The digit before the decimal point. The first grave in your local cemetery. The first organism. The one who stands 7 feet away. The last digit of Euler. The photon in Bootes. The uneaten marine snow in the pacific. The first human to think. The first human to be human. The underside of a cube and the underside of a pyramid. The core of a sphere. The vertices of a tesseract. The first eyes you met and the first book you burned. The end point of NaN and 1e999, my favorites. The limit, too. The edge of the edge. Where mechanical waves go when they die. The before before, and the moment of present. My differential and yours. Your first memory to go.

There it is now, truly FUBAR. Well, perhaps not unrecognizable but no one will ever use it again. No one could ever fix it again, and if they could, would it be the same ¿□■□■ □■ □■□■□■□? No, it would not. It's interesting how we can create such things like this, very precise, yet somehow mass-produced. See that? It's some sort of plastic, though I expected glass. That's tricky, you can't exactly crush it like I expected. What could— Ah... How ironic. The perfect tool for the job. Let's see... Hm, nothing. Although I'll still have to dispose of this later, and all of these too. And it seems while not shattered, the ■□■□ has bent. So much to make disappear. How troublesome. But this is the point of no return, right, heart? With this, it will never be the same again. There is no more "innocence". It's not quite the first though; there was that time ○●○●○●○●○ dropped it when I was preoccupied, then somehow stepped on it. The nerve he had to play dumb. It was a little more bent than usual and I could clearly see the pattern of his shoes. Thankfully it was of no issue. I stand corrected. Upon folding it one last time, the ■□■□ cracked—then upon forcefully unfolding it, it has now become two slightly uneven pieces. I felt a morsel of worry that tiny particles would be released and prick me in my sleep. Could it be inside the vein of my pinky already? But alas, I cannot disfigure it much further. The other ■□■□ simply wont come out, and I feel no drive to coax it into popping from its □■□■□. I've snapped off both... I'm not sure what they're called. Where do I conceal this cadaver? It's rather ugly. It belongs in no morgue because of its beauty. The transparent casket it always belonged to let out some odd noises when I forced it shut. Still fits. This surely will not be the last. From the pages I tore out, and the fabrics I failed to burn and thus discarded. But the first time was when I disposed of all memories of those days. Was it 1,730? I wonder if my (omit that word, actually) sweetheart remembers. There's still more of our books and pages. Thousands of years for any librarian to catalogue, although they fit neatly into the drawer beside my bed where they can sleep with me each night. What to do with them all... Hah... How tiresome. The more I destroy, the more it fills up.

The pigeon flies into my room through the shut window with a letter attached to it. Like always, I take the letter and the pigeon flutters into the distance after spitting at my face. I make my way into the basement where I store everything I own. I take a cutting tool and tear a metal pipe from the wall, and then I relentlessly assault my washing machine as it runs. The airflow within the pipe rises and kisses my ear, and I put on my least favorite hat as I head into the city. At the local bakery, in my hands are pieces of bread and I am atop the counter. I tear the bread into smaller chunks and scatter them amongst the customers with their hands out and palms out, they laugh and cry or turn away. My face burns. I leave the bakery after dusting my hands. The wind blows, and I am nudged toward its path. I am then struck by a truck at Doe Boulevard, at the intersection. I get up, I was flung on top of a manhole, which I kiss in gratitude. The pedestrians cheer, and they love me for it. They ask me to do it again. The wind blows, and I am nudged toward its path. I am then struck by a truck at Doe Boulevard, at the intersection. I get up, I was flung on top of a manhole, which I kiss in gratitude. Maman and father are proud, and I hate that. It has long since turned night. The city gets so dark. The moon provides no illumination, so I am forced to follow its form. I stop by a roundabout, only made visible by the dying fireflies. The sign says yield, and I prostrate myself in front of the only other person here. I follow the path, the curvilinear path. Curvi-linear, curve-linear. I have walked 73 kilometers. The sun rises, and now I must return the way I came. The traffic light tells me to stop and wait 7 with 777 7s and 7 seconds. Okay, now I can cross. It is noon, and I am anchored to where I stand. By the grace of God, a ladder descends from the authoritarian sun. A ladder is made for climbing, that's how the world works. I climb, and climb, and climb, and climb, and climb. I climb and pass by all sorts of spheres that I couldn't tell you about. It gets hot like hell, and my blood stains the sand worlds below me. The people cheer for my ascension, and thank and praise the sun. Hah... How weary my arms are. Hah... How heavy my form has become. I look down, and see nothing. Only the ladder descending into the heavens. I look up, and see nothing but the sun, smug, as it forces me to make a choice. I barrel into the waves.

Funerals are selfish, the dead are immediately forgotten; their portraits forever stained by our paint. The corpse, while present, has been totally displaced by crosses and other names.

Desolate desolate desolate crowdedness. Crowded crowded crowded yet so derelict. The bystanders on the street praise the mutilated dancing chicken. The banners of the distant world flutter, competing with one another for every bit of attention. They couldn't be bothered to pick better material. Their buildings are erected here, though they seem to either be influenced by or slowly becoming overtaken by their surroundings. All must be too much or too little, but it is law that abundance is forbidden unless it is sorrow. There is no need to overcomplicate life with streets and roads if you can have both and no crosswalks. There is nothing for you out there, and nothing waiting for you at home. Where will you go when you wish to die? The corrupt children stare with hate in their eyes, or is that malice? Nevertheless, they are unknowingly eager to take their parents' place, exactly as they were taught to. Such is the will of God. The mannequin leans forward, almost lulled to rest by the tempting voice of gravity, as are we. Is it worse to stand upright or to be frozen in the moment before you fall? It's alright, for you love the city. Cement and wood perform their hideous coitus, and their offspring are worshipped by the ignorant. The monoliths and cubes, sculpted by anonymous hands long ago, offer only a pathetic, crude mimicry of beauty. Keep your eyes open when you walk, for the wild grass is green with gluttony, and will devour the stroad once it is done with the sidewalk. In my idle time I like to kick half-open rocks down the gravel footpath. I also like to kick up small mounds just to see the dust particles scatter and disappear with the wind. This is where my happiness is rooted, and others root theirs in taking pride in not kicking rocks down footpaths or scattering clouds of dust. Only when you rise above the impenetrable wall of murky clouds will you see something worth living for. But alas, for as long as you are on the earth, what comes up must come down.

I don't care, I don't care. Stop trying to reach me, you-me. I don't care, I don't care. How do I get out of entanglement? I don't care, I don't care. Where's the pearly door at the end of this path? I don't care, I don't care. Which path? N dimensions. I don't care, I don't care. I can't fool me, mirror. I don't care, I don't care. Mutual non-existence, delete my directory. I don't care, I don't care. It would hurt if you did. I don't care, I don't care. Just do it and free me. I don't care, I don't care. I wish you wouldn't care, wouldn't care. I don't care, I don't care. So I wont force my world grey. I don't care, I don't care. Grey to escape the chains. I don't care, I don't care. Grey like the chains.

It's not as cold as I expected. But it was colder in my head—it always has, hasn't it? I can't feel my feet, and my numb palms can only feel water's caress. It's cold, I know it's cold; I'm cold. It doesn't mean anything, and this is by no means a statement. Yes, I know I'm shivering. I know that with each time I brush against the air these invisible blades cut me right up. I know my naked body offers no respite from the cold. In the rectangle's rectangles and hollowed cubes, everything is the same white. The white of the walls, the white lights that make my own skin appear like a sheet, and the figures that drift past me in the tide. Beyond the cube is the rectangular prism, which composes most of the observable universe. All trajectories, no matter what you do, end up running parallel to each other. Stand still and watch those predictive lines wrap around you. Walk and watch how causality adjusts so that a collision was never bound to happen. When your eyes feel heavy like they always do, you will find that the structure of triangles and lines and squares provide no respite. Meanwhile the cold air gnaws at you down to the bone with a lover's tenderness, consoling you to unconsciousness. Feel your skin tighten and prop every little hair up to no avail. And once all is said and done, lay in your soft coffin, restless. Da Capo.

Everything is real, and I know it's real. Look all around, the square circles and impossible to lift stones that kill gods. The colors that are contained in the skull. The geometry of your perspective is akin to peering down below from the window of a skyscraper. But the difference is you feel as if you were there. Try to wake up. Clench your thought organ and try to pull it away from the window in hopes of escaping the glass rectangle. In the movie theater, try looking away from the screen as you exit. When you wake up from tonight's episodic death, try to wake up. I can only look around and accept this terminal lucidity. When I fall from the sky, when my teeth fall out, these are all normal totally mundane occurances. When my leg jolts on its own accord, that's all there is to it. The mind oft resembles a fractal when you look close enough, and so does its contents. Fractals peer into fractals peer into fractals. Yes, I can only accept the new status quo. Similar to the words of the wealthy: life is a dream, and there's no other reason to be. That's all.

Stack my palattes sky high, would you for me? Yes, now we can taste with our palattes. Clean the platter table clatter scatter rather frat her her frat is not that. When it ascends thoughtlessly, it is not real. When it ascends mirthfully, it is disgustingly not real. Disgusting because it is not real? Or disgusting as an amplifier for the unreal property? You are here again, sir heathen. Is it sir heretic? Nonsense, my apologies for outdated linguistics. Now here we are on the checkerboard. Yes, the floor is tiled black and white. So a chessboard? I do not play checkers, I do not ffffffffffffffff fff ff f f f f ff I do not like checkersssssszzzzzzzzzssssss by any means. Okay, so here we are now now here we are on the chessboard. Yes, the floor is tiled black and white. A true chessboard! But it is not 8x8 as prescribed by prescriptual authority, rather it is yes only a space for two bridged space. It bridges space? Space is not an object is it? I have forgotten the specifications, no matter! Within outer space, the vacuum of outer space, it bridges here and there. This non-8x8 chessboard. So 'tis a simulacrum? Yes. The chessboard simulacrum made for two to walk, but only one walks here. What about me? Do you not understand? Oh, I understand. Space here is a constant supernova, and I can see gold form. And now I enter the temple of saturn. Outmoded art, but it brings me comfort. Not the marble skull of Da Vinci in the sea of blood in the river of blood in space. And I do not like how I bleed water when cut. Cut by what again? I forgot what had cut me and made me bleed water, which I do not like. I do not like how I bleed water when cut. When stabbed I bleed water, too. But when I am bled I bleed blood? Like a cow I suppose. Premonition premonition, that, she, that is the name of my lover

By no longer entertaining my earthly desires do I lose the need for such things. She will be there for me regardless, and I can rely only on her to supply me with her love and the embrace that provides no warmth, and endless assurance. At the bottom of the sea, she was already there, waiting for me to sink—and when that flickering flame was in my chest, she already waiting for it to die, and she was there for me.

Grandioso Furioso Orlando G.F.O but that's not a bad word by any means. Limitless light floods my pale garden. Or, apologies, I daresay mine pale garden. The pale garden of green grass and plants and of marble and of clay and of home and of mouse and of man and of house and of yard and of all, but not at all, not all sorry I cannot return. Feel my strained neck and temples against my own, postural incentives render me absolute. No, nothing is absolute. Thus I am nothing. I have now ceased, regressing ceaselessly until deceased returning to my true name that is the Q-u-a-r-k. Qyu wark. The garden plants in their pots in the home falls, no not home house. The garden plants in their pots in the house. But whose house? The garden plants in their pots in my parents' house. Parents' or parent's? Parentheses. You're. The garden plants in their pots in parentheses house fall, dropping ten quantifiable white stones and zero quantifiable soil. Zero quantifiable or true zero? The submarine. Too small, aha, the. Now sphere becomes circle and cube becomes square and pyramid becomes triangle and rectangular prism becomes my 3rd grade elementary eraser and the cylinder or otherwise cylindrical prism ahahahahhahahaa cylindrical prism???????????????????????????????????????????? But I need not be to, for you understand regardless nay? And it becomes the letter O. That is the ending, for now, let us save the ending for a later time

Manatee sways dirt. To render it forsaken. Skin skin skin skin. Ah, atop it? No, the aisle. Madam general! Greco-Kiyv! Kyiv. Kiyv! Kiyv? Kiyv! Orca and the blues. Blue or blues? Why not both this time? Cease the choice? My point. Your point. Du pont. Minor hurdle for the literates. Literate. Hotel. Gold light gentle on my eyes, cold, soft, envelope, lonely. Intruder in the window. I'm sorry, so so so so so so sorry. Okay, leave. I am in the safe. Depart from me! My friend and the bottle and around the chair we all go. Esoteric in its conception. But you must understand! I 26 factorial you, now figure it out yourself

Black is a magical thing, being the sum of all. Take all the color in the world and in your body, splatter them on the concrete and its gore will be black. I stand on the shore as I've trudged away from the wedding, in my three-piece suit and leather black shoes. A pallid lighthouse makes its lonesome stand atop erosion. What does it mean to clap with one hand? It is the faceless that make the greatest expressions. It is dusk, like it was yesterday. Waves rock my world back and forth to sleep at forty waning beats per minute, and they sound like my thoughts. Black notes of a pianoforte slowly fall like playing cards of the game I ruined. I wouldn't but I would. A solemn gust of wind blows, whispering to me my thoughts. Faint red ropes trace circles around me, connected to once upon a time. They turn into strings of mist, perfectly grey like my mirrors. Defeated, we march home as mine eye lift worlds. Pitter, patter. Left, right. Crunch, crunch. Car. Diac. Car. Diac. The sand flows between each crevice of my shoes, after all what else is their purpose but to track dirt? I did it for you. Still my visage remains blank, though not similar to a newborn baby. The lungs go cold first, and cold is only met with reflex when warmth is present. Late at night, the running cold water becomes acceptance of the indifference of a universe without a heartbeat. Do tuxedoes always stiffen in salted air? My heart is harpooned. Feel the thrum, thrum, thrummmmm of a violin somewhere. What does it mean to embrace with no arms? Reach out for cold winds blowing and weep without a voice. Nearly home at the lighthouse, where I will lay in bed nude only embraced by the solemn gusts of wind that always awaited me. I will only accept sunlight from the moon, and not complain when it scorches me with affection; peering out the only window that delivers it to me—tonight's wind will sing the pull of the trigger.

Hmmmmmmmhmmmmmmmhmmmmmm hmhmmmmmmmmmm hmmmmmmmmmmmm hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm hmmmmmmmmmm hmmm hmmm hmhmmm hmmmm hmmmm yes sing it to me my daughter, as we and I and you stand by the port, the port with white ships, white ships with blue hulls, blue hulls and red undersides. What kind red? Haha, ballast red. Dark, maroon? So not red? Sorry, I lied. Sorry, I lied to you. Illuminated in the sun until it turns cream white, or simply creamy? Haha the crane is so pretty from here. Endless sea excites you until terminated by fear, always when galloping among waves. Waves bigger than you and me and I and we. Depart, departation? Journey! Adventure, travel? Americas to Europes, it is this time of year. We and many are here, but it is only you and me and we and I. So tiresome. Lay it to rest—on its side or on its back? Atop the table where the men throw cards and discs! Where they pierce spheres here? Yes, into! Pierce, emphasis on the ier, sape with sphere and its imaginary hier, you see it square root of negative one. Same with here, who used to be my friend named hier. Hehe, they can coexist you know? The fish in the suit, the big one? Yay-high and yay-wide? Yes, formal. In the oval office. In the train station. In outer space, you know him? Obscene