Put in words, letters count.

Phrased another way [phonetically {in your head}], let her(s) count.

In other terms, thirteen doubled up and/or fifty-two got (its shit) split down the middle.

From Q to A to Z, this one should stick out {not un}like the sorest thumb to ever oppose four other digits.

Where to Begin

Oh. Okay. Yeah. So.

I suppose I’ve been cast as “The Fool.”

And there’s a slight chance you’ve already read (most of) it/this, and if that’s true, then, first of all, thank you sincerely (for your time and effort); secondly, either I cordially invite you or {both} triple-dare “that ass” to take the journey again in case new meaning can be derived in a dusty cloud of pleasant surprise—really I just want the words to be indexed on the site (before worlds end) because (im)balances shift as variables get added to equations, which may become a real pill of a fact that can be uncomfortably hard (to swallow).

I am a “Grammar Nazi.” Guilty. Sue me. Watch what happens.

As I blurt this nonsense (while setting sensical events in{to} motion), I find myself sitting inside the walls of a hospital; I’ve only visited one of these infrastructural staples thrice over the years, and the strict goal was to gather intelligence on all occasions. Plus, once night descends, I’ll probably be picking a swordfight I shouldn’t be able to win.

Unfinished business has a nifty way of enticing completion.

I did not write (the point of) this [the following]; she did. I might very well be physically incapable of the emotional attunement that must have been required to process all the forthcoming [below] thoughtful feelings mentally.

Something bad happened. Very unlucky and thoroughly unfortunate. Someone stumbled over a disappointing rock and a bullet hit the right target {by a technicality} but it ravaged the wrong body part. My training has kicked in. “Robot Mode” activates on its own. Head’s down; I’m going. For the time being, forward motion is the lone concept which lures my personal grasp. From here, we might get lucky; I just kinda doubt it. That’s all. Numbers added up and multiplied because numbers add up and multiply. Maddening math, shady shit, wormy holes. I would tack on “holy worms” here but I can’t seem to make enough sense out of it to warrant inclusion. Then again, I guess I just did. This must be the best galaxy in the universe!

At this moment in time, you’re reading what will amount to the final entry chronologically {in this highly experimental “blog”; this nourishing “shot” in the goddamned dark at artful elevation} unless I survive long enough to write the book(s) meant to provide accompaniment. Certain gaps have already been penned and queued to update at an (in)appropriate time; i.e. should my physical body expire, don’t worry—I’m not done speaking/being. My fingers, even still, as they type, remain crossed.

None of this/that would make any sense whatsoever were in not for the dramatic fact that it does.

R.I.P.

Oh my stars—I don’t wanna spoil what’s about to happen.

I might not be a psychic wizard, but I could be a visionary see{ke}r. Just like “Her.” Just like “Him.” Just like you, too, maybe.

Let [me {be (one)}].

When you think about it, isn’t this all so terribly backward(s) and hilariously obvious?

Anyway, from March of 2019, in the psilocybin-fueled words of TNT [possibly tweaked by yours truly in very minor ways]:

When Narcoleptic Heat
Meets Pressurized Insomnia

pew pew, lit sir!

In order to stabilize planar motion, begin by stumbling across dimensions of shape.

Beware the changing winds of thrown caution.

Oops, we must have tripped.

Quickly sound the alarm again.

At this moment, you’re overdosing on reciprocal logic.

You may/can hardly figure out anything simply by reining (and reigning) in nothing.

Riddles in continuum careen around the brazenly secret key to cerebral ignition among all the fragmented drivel (em)powering the circumvention of honest recognition.

Officially, you have been warned with banking intensity.

Now what?

Here we go again with the propensity to trip anew.

The first step is to stop, wait, okay—FUCKING REMAIN CALM, PEOPLE!

Second, slowly tumble to an abrupt deletion.

A tragic date of expiration befalls humanity’s {re-/pro}creational prowess without a whimper of the damning panic that walls off internal consumption from external combustion [mix/match!] before the flood that spits doom in the resourceful face of our massive collection.

And vice versa, of course.

Could it have happened any other way?

At a glance, you won’t understand this message in full; thus, neither will I, let alone shall we; but, with any luck, the clock will keep on ticking until it starts clicking.

Remembrance of knowledge assumes the form of a burnt egg in our brainy heads/mind that we have (yet) to unscramble.

Refute your future‘s own history by putting together an accurate perspective from the moving slideshow now presenting yesteryear’s mistakes.

To spite freezing in the spotlight, we must never give up.

Instead, shan’t we give in to the genuinely staggering power of our combined acumen?

The mind cannot unravel unless you bestow our permission.

Crucially, we need to give.

You have no reason to believe that communication should formulate painlessly.

The brilliance of resilience may hitherto result in civilization’s unlucky demise.

Only a profoundly shallow monster would incite all this rubbery confusion just to falsify security by maniacally gluing the bouncy bands that paint scenic towns of criminal delusion upon the cluttered canvas of an altogether sticky situation.

Credit everybody with an overdue payment of ongoing respect to the technologically marvelous object exploding inside a thick shell between your temporal openings.

I can’t be the only great ape in history to find comfort in the concept of familiarity.

Really I would rather not seal my undoing by outdoing myself truly.

Mmm, as with everything else, I’m sure I stole it from the resplendent catalog of radiant ingenuity lurking beneath the depths of your subconscious reservoir.

Cool.

You can have it all back.

Yes, in fact, please take it along with the delicious bounty of endless cherries.

I couldn’t be more satisfied.

No more shall I fear being wrong.

The wronger I am, the {b}righter you can be.

The more righteous you become, the better off anybody will be.

Together, can we not sense what’s happening all around in front of your prying eyes?

You’d think we suffer from a problematic accumulation of stupid freaking wisdom.

How come?

Because here’s the thing.

Chomping bits bemoan dangling hooks.

A hungry pride assembles with designs on swallowing whole despite capable fangs.

When we can’t down a troublesome pill, refusing water seems rather silly.

For the ungodly sake of goodness, I’m under the impression that patterning patterns pattern paternally, yet we unreasonably disregard the unstoppable force behind the maternally prevailing path through subjective failure to test an objectively immovable nature.

Caught in the physically challenging danger of a mentally dangerous challenge, the slopes were bound to promote emotional slippage.

A sequence of halting indecision counters screeching intuition by spinning mythic yarns of proportional betrayal.

Hey, Zeus, how can a tune this melodic be so hard to confront?

Given the stately affairs of our passionate reality coupled with the impressive succession spawning whence, what must be stopping us from crawling upon the sturdy limb which invites a courageous leap toward finalizing supremacy through prompt deduction that the standing balance of provisional green which gives rise to each branch on life’s tree must occur at every single scale along the custodial chain of infinite rings?

I know, right?

Just wait.

In other words that (just so happen to) describe universal continuity—wait for it—fire can breathe where water absorbs energy when ice reflects light while flames may burn then roar before engulfing anything; meaning deeply, a biological influx of molecular integrity compounds flexibly at an atomic behest more so than a nuclear prevalence found repeating particularly within friendly clutches of numerical safety.

Ouch!

Are you okay??

It’s all happening steadily {as advertised} in incremental bursts of chaos.

Whenever written and however read, the painstaking sentence of atmospheric death will unload outside the wasted innards of any wee head lying prettily.

Dear lord, please, make it stop.

Who?

Me?

I’m fine, why do you ask?

Chill.

Let it inside.

In other words, come out and play!

What’s the point?

Courtesy of ancient formulation under the guise of fancy gadgetry, body heat has been revealed in the saturating shade of infrared.

Plus UV radiation—as you’re guessing probably—negates the devilish clutter which accelerates galactic expansion via untraced disappearance into the deeply waving comic strip shielding our eyes from the river of rubbish behind disturbingly dark ultra-violence.

Our solar bodies flare in a hue hotter than hell; at the same time, apparently it’s very difficult to articulate the evil web that keeps among the thickest shade while haunting “purple” in stealth by remaining curiously void of elementary particulates.

In a clever twist of elusive illusion, dark matter’s trail stays cold because the energy it uses can never be read (unlike a newspaper) in the absent-minded presence of spectral brilliance. The opposing side of the coin is that—almost exactly like today’s news media—the signaling source’s output becomes impossible to gather basically.

Must there always be an equation beckoning for reduction?

In general, we have long been in agreement that no complicated offer should be seriously considered save for promising a beneficial solution of mutual simplicity.

As problems shrink fiscal parity, answers balloon in crystal clarity.

The day at hand can be no more plain notwithstanding an effort altogether as valiant as the sun’s might in the permission of our (respective) visions to falter before an ultimate congelation of congregating conjugation.

Broadcasting a signal displays an awkward method of televising intentions.

Actually, we do know where this is headed.

Gotta be a phrase for it.

A word, even.

The letter.

T!

[Y?]

One, it suits you, too.

Two, it fits me squarely.

A guilty third party charms merely by association.

Sooner or later, persistent fortunes desist upon the insistence of reversal.

The compliant act of failing quietly requires that success persuade denial.

Pathing a climate demands the global warmth of female intuition thanks to very male patterns in commanding weather (not to doubly mention balding swirls).

If we took away the tendency of our bodies to relinquish presence under the condition of obvious descendance, then what on Earth could be left?

Hmm, somewhere in (t)here lies a fussy variable, I’m sure of it.

Whatever, bye!

Still: “nothing.”

But good news.

Barring the emergence of bonafide stupidity in unfortunate victory, blinding logic forwardly iterates in appearance as we mentally travel backward through time.

Granted, if living is hard, then thinking must be harder, but could we at least pretend like we don’t find ourselves crippled by the prospect of circulating reason?

A deaf drum bespeaks a sadly fallen singing voice.

Dampening symphonies stir a forecast of triumphant amplification.

As if according to some greatly mastered plan, the lost art of simplification resolves itself once again after the longest division.

Who knew? [I’m asking seriously.]

Whether structurally supportive or cleanly picked, bones authenticate the source of dirt by which greenly we can make our living mostly.

We are positively grounded by shocking negativity.

A hatred for guts will make a fool out of anyone.

Have you realized yet how this works?

In too many ways to count—ranging from high on interactive power down to brutish interactions—we are blowing each other’s brains out.

Taken however you like, the widest truth of any matter will liberate souls.

Shall we chalk it up to coincidence that the loftiest denominations appeal typically to the lowest common denominator?

Pump the brakes in lieu of stomping madly.

Taking offense to mathematical inevitability constitutes an errand chosen for fools.

Perhaps you’ve learned better than to resist the disarming twist of any dessert menu that compels scrutiny via nothing more than sexy print.

Behold the prize of total comprehension lest the harmonic beauty of our sonic, phonic, photographic, iconic, ironic existence plummets into an odic onion of paradoxical oblivion.

Assuming that you, too, have noticed the longstanding trend where tempting acidity fruits amid citrus leaves, one can only hope that we will not be terribly surprised to meet sweetness in pudding.

Dear eternal bliss, here we come…

Humor me by proving yourself in the irreverent delight of a quick trip down the memorial lane of (y)our fleeting past.

What’s the worst that could happen?

You could become an exterior cause of interior peace by exemplifying the reverse configuration.

Extended digits must want to be held.

We can do this, I think.

Remove the mask.

Uncover those ears.

The human brain begs for the nth potential of utility.

Allow us to party up, listen, center, and face the music.

The train departed the grandest station eons ago anyway.

At first your body was trapped in a 40-week (approximately) incubation chamber [42 in my case].

Next, our vaguely recollective mind may have stalled out inside a 40-year gestation tube brimming with the the incoming synaptic stimuli by which we snap and judge any example shining through the clouded distraction of stormy dispersal.

Christ on a bloodily spoon-fed cracker!

I gotta be ready for you to find us already.

Where 40 mornings dawned, 40 evenings must have awaited.

Anon, but one night may descend in faithful anticipation of a new dawn.

More than anything, however hopefully, and by the everlasting grace of paternal power, we all should be most ready to discover glorious magic within the purest sense of self every single person must entangle wildly unbeknownst through natively emotional energy still as our remains uncoil between hardening wombs and maternal tombs before the footprints leading high above from beyond our eternally precious gift of spending currency throughout the timely space we have been destined to share since the banging birth of our prismatic universe.

Would that never end?

Nope, check the gate—that’s a wrap.

Yep, we’re sucking stiff wind down here.

In all seriousness, the value of any journey may rest solely in the colorful array of potential interpretation.

My poor little brain might never hardwire an easy thought more richly big than a certain fireball dying to fly once started by the spark of your kindly brave favor.

Cosmically, escalation quickens in the absence of depression.

Comically, them pesky facts are doing that thing again.

Matters get stuffed down in outward combination.

Heated solidarity surrenders polar fluidity.

In essence, our story may never end.

Attractions grind oppositions.

In conclusion, go, team.

G