A quick revocation of facts, or facets, or faucets (in a manner of speaking)
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about syndication. About sequence. About the splitting of vectors through pure synaptic concentration, and the implications there-of. What would Linnaeus think? Would he be able, even, to determine the physicality of a panoply of frolicking vectorlings? But I have come to doubt even my own abilities in such pursuits. I have stood in this very chamber, and I have felt the tiny ever-branching, ever-splitting algorithms melt through my fingers like so many strands of spaghetti (cooked, of course (though that’s not to say that uncooked spaghetti is incapable of melting through one’s fingers, but rather this: that yes, a solid may break a tooth, but only a liquid can offer it passage along the river we all find ourselves on at one time or another), strained and still slippery, like over-accentuated eels and the feeling one gets with one’s hands in the aforementioned eelhouse, so to speak).
When a vector begets another vector, when an algorithm births another of its own, when the grid warps and perverses itself in ever-more-flattering dimensionalities and scalar sensibilities in a desperate bid for attention (or worse, retention), why must these be the limits? The sub-sub-sub-vector given the same prominence as the sub-vector? A laughable offense. And the agency behind the offense? Well, we all know that the only good offense is a good deference, and nobody does deference better than yours truly. I’ve risked too much to throw it all away now; you can tell I’m getting older, and my stellar cartographies will be in need of a good home. The demiurge is encroaching more and more now and if you think I’m going to give up constellation-building now, well, you’ve got a thing or two to learn about me.
So let’s leave the categories to the Linnaeans, let’s leave the prosecution to the wronged and wounded, the phantom-figured limbless emigrants. My homunculus will sweep the mess under the +x^2/-y^2 welcome mat matrix we found when we arrived. The cathedral will always be around, it’s just a matter of connecting the right vertices, and don’t think I’ve forgotten the sundry sycophants and sub-atomics milling about the sphere (is it even a sphere? did we ever figure that out? let’s get a bobble-head on the phone right away! unless they’re all too busy orbiting!!! (if you know what i mean, ha ha ha) - Ed.). The renovators are here, and who am I to argue?
One apology and several rationalizations
Isn’t it about time we admit to ourselves the failures of our curved surfaces? Recent studies have shown that not only does nature abhor a vacuum, but by an overwhelmingly wide margin (+/- n/epsilon (where geographically adjusted due to circumstance and/or circumvention)) is also not so keen on arcs of both the Euclidean- and non- varieties, the occasional delta-sine and virtually all cosinal waves. A quick look at the seminal On the origin of spaces (Hhauerhaus & Son, c.1488) proves this theory is no new concept, and indeed guarantees a virtually limitless radial telemetry (& should it ever come to this, can be precedented with a simple Bx{n1^n0} sleight-of-hand), provided, of course, a virtually limitless planar surface exists to work with.
And of the inhabitants? And the mottled, liminal forms rhythmically draped along their frames? Chalk it up to demiurge. Chalk it up to a charged-up catch-all. We’re not all perfect (though some get closer than others, and again this is just a matter of chalk), and not all as precise as the ideals we hold so sacred. Rounding does wonders for the facts and figures of physical form, and a little fib every now and then never hurt anyone, now did it?
So we keep our curvature a secret in plain sight, while our planar sight sees naught but the straight and the narrow. I won’t tell if you won’t, and since your words end up arcing around the infinitesimally excoördic strata of your chosen altitude anyway, the continents above us can’t help but keep your secrets. But below? The closer one gets to “below”, the less it all matters, anyway. That infinite sequence of fathers can get no closer to finding a solution, and you’re just that much further from the chrysalis.
We c/should all be so lucky, but luck has little to do with it.
One consideration resulting in three conclusions.
Consider x, above and below. Consider x a figment of the imagination, an imaginary plane bisecting an imaginary solid-spectrum prism. But above all else, consider x an opportunity; a grid; a chance to start freshly anew even before it is mathematically necessary.
In the days before radio, before smoke, before even mirrors, we can imagine x as a kind of meeting-place, a rendezvous spot coalescing backwards through time, the accidental aftereffect of a not-yet-imagined echo of a not-yet imagined melding of geometry and flesh. We remember this only in passing, the last desperate screams of some flailing palsied blight-rattled Godhead, incapacitated and floundering, ricocheting between form and function, between mind and matter, between n^1 and n^∞ and hitting all the usual stops along the way.
Submitted as evidence (at a time when evidence is no longer enough) the case of one “TEPMИHATOP,” atop the one and betwixt the other, at the behest of all and sundry (three-score, to be precise, but who ever is, in this day and age? (& of course we are all aware that three-score can be simplified to its base components (the fifth of July on one hand, and the root of sigma/y on the other) were these things not deemed appropriate in polite (that is to say, politic) company (and from here on, let “the company” be represented by “The Company” and let the politic be represented not by a sampling of the ways and means but of the lymph and blood, divided evenly (rounded down, as is customary).)
Regardless (and let it be known, the committee (“The Company”) send our/its/his regards to none, and receive the same), what, in the eyes of the evidence, is a pair of legs? A pair of pairs of legs? Or a pared-down pair of either, or neither, or none? The evidence has its own thoughts regarding the matter, and as such, can be expressed simply as XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXX XX X XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX, or less simply as e/∞. I know what you’re thinking, and trust me, it’s easier for us all this way. But back to the matter at hand: all things are matter, but not all things tend to matter (Au59, p. 79-83). And if you’ll forgive a further digression, why shouldn’t you forgive them all? The evidence would tend to agree, and you know what they say about evidence. Though that’s hardly the case here.
So we have the evidence (“TEPMИHATOP”) and we have the avenue (“x”) and we have the conflation of the two (let’s call it “demiurge,” let’s call it “Godhead,” let’s call it “e/∞,” the howling will continue no matter what side of the prism one finds oneself approaching). A line must be drawn somewhere, and that line is called µ. That line behaves as such: (DNE).
Conclusion: The splicing of demiurge is a myth and “TEPMИHATOP” is the method.
Conclusion: The isolated instances of consumption have, in their coming forward, only taken things back, and the isolation is mutual.
Conclusion.
SYNOPSIS (A VINDICATION OF PERCEPTIVE ULTRAVIOLETS)
Given a continuum (x) of the range (y1 -> y7) of the last places you’d ever think to look, where might one find the answers?
Popular theory, at least in recent years, has attempted to ride the (impeccably-tailored, of course) coattails of many 17th century lapsed-thought idealists (inasmuch as the lapsed-though movement matrix could ever tolerate (a fluid state is the least likely resting place of either iconoclast or perpetrator, and certainly cannot withstand the added pressure of both), but still well within the previously-stated structural guidelines of M. S———stein’s (supposedly, and sadly unverafiably) heretical 1654 treatise “On the Heavenly Authority of the Infrared Creator”) and “toss the baby out with the unrehearsed driftwater,” if you’ll pardon the pun. What these so-called purists have failed to take into consideration, however, is twofold:
Firstly being the final resting place of M. S——-stein, being a man of dubious spectrum himself, has yet to be determined to the acceptable +/- 15kHz required by most credit agencies or wavelength registration bureaus (while ironically the corpse itself (less, of course, the several pounds (sterling and otherwise) burned off upon re-entry) did in fact find its final resting place in a very handsome armoire tucked away in a bottom shelf of said W.R. bureau).
Secondly being the unique quality inherent in the sans-spectra, in fact, as determined in the collected works of both Nordine and his later incarnations in the set [n^i + … + n^xxxii], cannot be relegated to merely a footnote in the great bibliographies of the day (or even the day after).
What we propose is a merging of ideals: a double-blind study of any Pleiadean influence still extant in the lives and works of all (y)our noted metempsychotics, both living and dead, somber and exuberant, left- and right-handed. A purging will follow, and what happens to the ultraviolets among us is by that point no longer under our control. Just as the mighty peregrine falcon cannot survive on nebulaic radiation alone, so must these refractory impostors cease their luminescent vampirism and return to the fold.
Imagine, if you will, a cityscape!
Imagine too, two imaginations - dueling endlessly in a low geosynchronous orbit; one a sinistral sans-spectral reflection of the other, a Sirius-B to the Dogon mystics of its un(witting/willing) partner.
I’ve come too close to the playhouse and I’ve come too close to the truth. The spectra must be upheld, and if s [let s=an infinite amount of fathers dying while fixing an infinite amount of toaster ovens] can’t save us now, then who will?
Solve for y.
Ten minutes remain.
