Bible Stories IN the Real Number Line, CONT

We’ve covered so much ground already, it’s natural to begin to believe that we’ve encompassed everything, but in actuality the most we’ve done is cover ourselves, surround ourselves with fabric of explanation, you see if you wiggle just rite it isn’t too hard to poke a hole in it, to tear enough to see outside and beyond, so far beyond anything we’ve experienced heretofor countless valleys and countless rifts, countless tears. Tears are shed because nothing is said, but you’ve come to expect as much, no?

 

No, you’re here for substance, and the substance of this piece is extreme, never memeorable neither cylindrical, so you understand now the caution involved, taping up all the things you’ve so callously torn through. Patch patch patch. Patch patch patch.

Now, we were saying, no praying rather, that something would be revealed, but nothing has, funny that, the same trick over and over and over again but nothing at all tends to be endlessly disappointing (funny haha not funny tragic), so we smile and play along, yes yes do whatever it is you have to do, get the show started already, act as if nothing depends on it when in reality everything does, little cuz, all your movements are recorded when you speak through a mimeograph.

Imagine everything, arrayed in a great plane, plain as day in the front of your face. Isn’t it great, it’s everything you’ve ever asked for, given to you here, only now I spin it ever so slightly and POOF it disappears, an edge made victim of perspective, still tantalizingly existent but insofar as you are concerned it’s gone, unknowable, untouchable. Sad.

So perspective turns out to have a lot to do with perfection, in so far you can’t see straight until something bombs the carpetbagger. Bomb bomb bomb, bomb it all away, bomb the edges, bomb the creases, leaking slugs trail daintily across transmografic pieces. Pieces of what? Peaces of consciousness. Coming from the sunken place. Coming from the wandering apes.

Is it all still meaningless to you? The neurons fire in my pink tissues the same as yours, so I have to think the issue is a certain stubborness, a certain refusal to back the claim that my brain is open range, completely accessable and therefore understandable, predictable, predictive, predicated on strings of slimy things arcing with sequential impulses, yours are to walk in the cold, while mine are to wear a simple jacket. Is there still a point to all of this? Are you still pointed?

Come soon Machine Jesus. Lord Come Quickly.

 

-sb

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