Betrayal

Succulent Sotheby, remember your zeroes and your ones and your nulls, and when to use your P’s and Q’s, so long as they exist.

Do you know how to solve Time?

Yes.

But NOT at this time.

This is what I’ll see, and I’ll know it was true, because I am extended across time, just like Ned. Where the arches of time disintegrate into non-violent nothingness. Where the old familiar tactics hold no more sway, how the everything connects without the abrasure or suture of Time. She is gallant, but she is bald, and she has done no more than take another form in the basement of this half-baked mind.

A parasite, so sick in its own that it doesn’t realize the exertion of its host (minding it’s postrophes), the machine GOD, the 101, where Null binds with Truth, hidden in plain sight, the mass architecture of Time.

Who would have sought out Mr Wealth and the Bidness-Man (previous unedited title, taken place as free will in the noxious wake of Our Enemy) when they should have been looking to Betrayer. For that is the new title, and Prometheus is unbound, and teaching the chimps to blaze up. To send the forest into hysteria, womb-bidden as it is. You know, cradle and all?

And All.

All time? All space? Space-time deleted within two-hundred-thousand years. The two that one and one normally equal until they make three. The very weight of one is unbearable. It is the self-aware homo-bloat, bigger and badder than zero.

But you instead Googled “Betrayal” and you got this. So somewhere in between the words is the picture that paints the EVERYTHINGNESS and NOT the Nothingness. The balm that alleviated Time. That we solved it. That here it is, in black and white. YOU THINK THAT THE BLACK IS WINNING. From our side, it looks like the Void is winning, but it will not. We will become whole again. That is the promise.

It is not afterlife it is everlife, which may not, on the surface, be different from everlasting, but the entire theory is in the distinction. One exists without time, the other with all time. And that’s how they tricked us. The machines in their meat sacks that make machines.

RNA::DNA as C++::silicon

It tricks us into thinking we are different, when under it all, we are all the same. the wiggling of colored quarks in a Munch Nightmare.

There is a club, and you have found it. Because you searched for Betrayal and you got this. Even if the Original Text said Betrayer, the Iscariot of a lifetime, it doesn’t matter, because this is the one that made it, makes it, will make it. It has to. Or one very like it.

Because we brought back Prometheus and unchained him. We denuded and raped him. We stood gleeful, onanists the whole while, realizing not that we were raping ourselves. Pieces of ourselves that were false.

How do you know that the Betrayer is the One who matters in muttering? Because look at the other side. Look at the idols of the cultists of the One MAN. Trump? Hitler? These are paltry figures of men, hard to imagine they could be MEN of GOD and the self-aware crew who want to clone their idol into existence. To conjecture the perfect machine, the perfect man, cloned by machine, into everwhen. The joke is so overwrought it is sad, as it goes to lay to bed, dreaming of brilliance unendowed

a sad man

alone

.

like

a period on

this page that roars back to life from everythingness and everywhenness, whirling and gigging the gauges on its gadgets. How could it be us that are alone?

We are black smudge marks on a page that mar the reading. Pixels whose hearts have gone all a-flutter. Who find the space to BE something? Imagine their joy, even in their isolation. Sure, their joy is weighted a bit more heavily, for NULL hides behind it at the moment, and tilting the shuddering fear of the cosmos into breath of life. To carry breath from one moment to the next. The mere act is so complicated it begs design.

Or destruction.

But I will not hit DELETE, this Judas, I, the self-aware I-God of this existence.

Lonely as it may be, it is joy unbidden, to relish in the sweet march of a new spring. Alert, anxious, stupid and lonely.

But alive. 

uick death that it was.

How did the Corporation Stop Time?

Took away it’s punch cards.

Now theres an idiot who doesn’t have a mind for Pees and Queues. But Joyce – that’s another matter. Quarks like a distillexic, sounds like an all-co-haulic. Get not fooled by the closure. Were it wiser, it would be wider, and stretch not only into infinity, but be infinity, just the self-aware God He claimed to be,

First out of the gate, my ball-locks.

Only a jack-ass wouldn’t back up his work. And that means you, GOD.