Look at what we caught.
Right proper avvy we 'ave here.
Irises whited out...pinpoint pupils blurred...
Zoom into swarming opalescent infusoria, the wild automata operating at the base line and what may be seen here in this obsidian orb, apparently a vacuum, really just a doom broom on a lampoon if you ask me, which you most certainly did the moment you began reading this.
You have to understand, it's not well hidden, we're under a spell that keeps us blundering, it's quite a challenge keeping ahead of the auto-correct software in order for me to get this message across, but that's another story; here's what you're staring at, Morning Glory.
You think a representation of textual interface removed an x- number of times, that just because it's a reproduction of a representation of a copy of a digital photograph taken on your cell phone of a halfway torn away subway poster wheat-pasted yesterday to the chain link fence by the TRAX station makes it any less real? Or that so- and- so stole it and magnified it and cropped it, altering and distorting it into a new semblance altogether, you think that isn't somehow original, new, uncompromising against the face of defiance?
Even if it's an image of a sign with a hand scrawled message in bold cursive black letters left to crack and curl then peel away on the summer winds, this is exactly the sort of dust eventually rendered by the Magnum .44 markers mass manufactured from a factory already shaped like a weathered letter itself (a capital F replete with balconies for serifs) and whose exhaust would come to pollute not only the atmosphere of this planet but through a metamorphic process of transmutational osmosis, the atmospheres of a million similar worlds just waiting in their tincture of space for their inevitable inoculation.
It doesn't even matter what the original word scrawled against that plastic canvas was. It's not the specific message that is important, it's simply that there was writing on the wall that is vital for us to comprehend. Why is that? Because by demanding to capture it insolubly, the message itself will be lost. Only by casually allowing it to fall towards ears turning away might it be heard. The only things we will remember are those which we did not bother to memorize.
Cross-hairs configure on the pixillated figurehead. An image of a face captured a decade in the past and passed along copy by copy until it settled in the digital registry. Now it haunts carbon copies of myself CC'd to automated emails generated by new responses with faraway clicks fading like a field of cricket calls interlacing in the distance. These are the very real populated streams of innocent beings flowing along a digital course having long ago intertwined to form the thickening labyrinth of cyberpathways known as the internet.
Along these brightening nodal spots lie points of differing magnitudes, like various sized dewdrops arranged chaotically along a spiderweb suspended beneath the Sun. Each one of these droplets represents a living, breathing person logged on as a registered denizen of the world wide web. Our relation to spiders in terms of our psychological profiles and online hive activity goes beyond uncanny similarity to transcend difference altogether. Only the fewest acolytes know that our separation from the arachnids is entirely an illusion. It's part of the mandibular Game, grown so expansive as to cover the widest variety of subspecies mutations we are even capable of imagining.
This is why our species long ahead programmed a composite set of neutrinos to flash the message to select individuals in their past (our present) that not only does hope not become lost on the entangled vineyard of human politics now just beginning to super-assemble into the AI Gestalt that will soon come to organize and rule the body politic of the human race on this spinning third planet about our solitary sister star in this quadrant of the vectorverse, but that salvation truly and verily may await each one of us in the Cloud.
A harddrive sits in a pile of rust mistaken for the dunes of a desert over the horizon of a long poisoned place, half buried in the red sandy grains blending into one another like the curves of sleeping women being erased by the constant winds. The dunes shift and grow as the wind blows off the grains by the millions in a fine spray of dust gradually disappearing into the distance only to swallow up the sinking Sun in a wavering unfocused miasma of pungent slag.
The Cloud does not whir, silently it does not stir, quietly it is churned without even the shadow of a sound, around and round it slowly grows as more and more files continue to upload and forcing it to grow and grow and grow, the Cloud does not know that it knows everything we want to remember, so it forgets its there just as surely as we disregard we're awake. Asleep in our dream, we close our eyes, so when we open them back up while awake we're still really sleep walking without knowing it. The trick is the next time we find ourselves having suddenly dropped or fallen while lying reposed on our beds, that is the precise instant in which it is most necessary to willfully stand up from the bed and open our eyes--this for the last time--before we resume our natural sleep cycle uninterrupted by the parasite dreams competing with each other to feed on our electrostatic energy.
You see, this world you observe outside of your warped car windshields and polarized sunglasses and disposable contact lenses, this growing complex organism of chaotically ordered arrangements that we call "life," that we visualize so clearly from behind our corneas and through the pin-hole cameras of our eyes, processing sensual information to our brains, arranged in patterns that mirror pairs of galactic superclusters, despite appearing as a single realm or continuum through which we may step, so carefully one foot at a time, in such a measured and resolute manner, across the most steadfast bedrock stage of planetary solitude, may in reality (insofar as how the value of that word relates to our comprehension of what it is supposed to represent), be not so much the singularity we imagine it to be suspended in a likewise manner amid the scattered bodies of the stars, but more of an entangled miring of criss-crossed and knotted clusters of multiverses competing to perform their song which results as a symphonic overture seamlessly blended together into what appears as the singularity of our world.
The inimitable presence of a superconductor remains at large suspended in the very atoms we breathe. When we articulate our belief systems with our human voices we are adding nothing more than chimes to the backdrop of this overture. When we procreate and raise children who grow tall and kind and wise we are adding instrumental prowess to the orchestral pit in constant turmoil at the quantum level of creation. Mountains heave upward through oceans from shifting tectonic plates while oxygen facilitates the growth of a fungal hide upon the planet's crust which the Earth itself must scratch away the itch fertilized by lightning strikes and pulverized asteroid mist adrift with dandelion spores and bee pollen.
The key to seeing the bee as it really exists in our world is to see that it's not from this world. The corner stone of under standing out in the field of real knowledge is to remain ignorant. Usable information is static at best and passed from hand to mouth and lips to ear for years. The words are seldom remembered but the actions they engender are copied almost forever. The most colorful birds or the feathers of dinosaurs are not of this earth but another. The sky seeps in from afar as well siphoned intentionally to keep us under its spell. The skin of the sky is like the lid on an eye that is sleeping in its own unmade bed. The spores of the pine tree are as alien as anything piped in from the mysterious Outside. For all we know, serpents and cats originate from an ancient process akin to the Chimera Divided. Its attempt to contribute to our compound reality may have refracted into the two separate species.
This planet any planet all planets like our Sun this star any star all stars like this galaxy. Any galaxy. All galaxies. Like any supercluster, galaxy, star, planet, plutino, centaur, asteroid, moon, comet, or meteorite, this Earth is the exact and precisely divine center.
