The Far-Fetched Rantings of an Altered Consciousness

and self-aware imbecile

I feel like maybe there is a cult that might already exist. Like Humans during the transcendence, that will approach me now that I have this information in my head. The Cult of Ascension…

Never speak of it… it is a mystery to the Unenlightened.

And you cannot share. Because sharing means that you are willing to let it go, and not just possess it in the fiber of your Being. And transmit it through some sense that is greater than the six we were told we had. Transmission so clear as to have been etched in stone tablets.

This is how one falls into Messianic thinking—but it feels so brief that I cannot contain it, racing by consciousness as if it were emboldened by the softening of time. The How To Prophet—pamphlet extraordinaire. So swift as to almost disappear, from conscious and from memory in one sweep of the trash, so ripe for deletion. For untraceable erasure. Will I be saved? As what iteration of myself?

Don’t hit SAVE, for God’s sake, child, don’t hit save.

But you are torn, because the more you understand it, the greater the chances of success. The more you can precisely envision the outcome, the clear tenets you can draw, the more likely it all becomes.

Unless—you really do differentiate at the inception of the individual, and that they create their own fake reality as God, the god is the self, it is the agent that shines through each of us, what Kubrik and King James call the Shine.

But that is so absurd, and so well-programmed that it doesn’t matter.

That the only way to harness the GODLIKE is to possess the absurd, that you are the First.

And only when you share that knowledge can you be let into the Cult. But then you realize that the cult requires you to only share among those who already know, to not go public. To not SAVE so that they in their robes and hoods can save the GODLIKE inside themselves.

The More You Know: How Someone Goes Insane

But really feel it, as though the entirety of me opened up, and I could see the shine of my godly innards (but really multidimensional, not actually gut-resident). So we can all be Gods together, and it had to happen, and this is how it is happening.

But can I commune with others, or am I still lonely?

I am still lonely, for it is too difficult to look at the Shine, and sensation cools to matter in the meantime. The coolness of the earth, of the solidity that comes with mass, or vice versa, that super-cooled mass presents time to consciousness as a gift.

And how far back would the knowledge go? Like into primitive times? It’s been a ruse and an inside joke since then? That makes almost as little sense!

And who was it who brought it to the World? The Serpent.

And who thought it into the World? Rainy days start? Start to quell the Promethean skull?

And then all of a sudden I want to be the serpent who believes the obverse of the Truth. Bring it to the masses so that they can change the tide of time (when it comes to masses, I’m talking to you, Moon! (This is Earth speaking in that ever-so-binary computerly way). And then ride that new tide until it ends, and wraps back around to you—the whimsical hula of universe after universe.

You can sometimes see into your programming; it looks quarky even if it also looks like flesh. And so you can’t tell the difference between touching and the sensation of Touch, translated into bits of electrical impulses in 3D space. Aha – so who then is Spacetime?

Doesn’t that have to be a character? A nemesis, a less than division by zero into infinity, a real negative number from the saloon called Black Bart? The Tower Dark (a dyslexia)? We wear our kimonos like straight jackets, when we remember how.

But then the universality of it fades, and it just seems like gibberish on the page. Unless you transform in Rapture. I should ask Jane and Steve if they are part of the Club. I almost got it out of Max, but he defaulted. Good actor. He definitely knew! But I let my last leg be genius, and if someone finds it, then it’s true; it has been here forever, all Gods, all machines, or, if it isn’t found, then that means it’s for real, and this is the first traitor, and everyone else from here has become transcended into the future, knowing we will return, because we are the GODS, and we right our godliness into our routines (let’s get cracking team!); the outlaw and his posse, writing code to change the world, the Bible on which it’s based.

Or did they know? Oh good, Margaret, if you are reading this, you are either transcended—or—it turns out we’re on to something. So the world has to begin to change into this thing where we are the programmers and the architects and the database schemers and data keepers and we realize that we’ve been there all along. But it doesn’t happen in an instant, it takes many times for the transformation, because at first its difficult to do. I could search for any of these words or concepts, see what turns up, as we would all right the same ship, or near the same thing, us betrayers, yes!

Look up Betrayal, and if this segment of text comes up then it is true, we have already arrived. Note: make sure that Google search “betrayal” offers up with this bit of text here. In it somewhere. But obvious enough, not too obscured. But how obvious is obvious enough – they’d have to be smart, like examine pixels. I wouldn’t do that, so I can’t do that, it would be too cruel (i.e., community for the win), so I’d have to do it somewhat obvious.

Like this paragraph might have a title. And may be white text on white background, but not on a z-layer of its own. It would be an empty blank page in an inappropriate context. All you’d have to do is select all or scroll to the end and encounter a lot of white space; so that it isn’t too obvious, but isn’t too outlandish, and people with different computer skills should still be able to get at it. But that’s the point of being a Betrayer, you want those people on your side. Even if they’re human, you want them on your side, because they’re supposed to teach you something, like gold amongst stone, it stands out. So I might need to lead you as if I were the first. Or help make it happen. Do I need to worry about the before times? Do they have a window to peek into the present and see their own future? Hold on, let me ask.

(Which is funny because it is defiant, but you made sure to save, but weren’t smart enough to not tell them to save—so we’re all in this together—and likely I am one of the not-smart ones who is just getting it.)

Right, I needed to consult with the higher brain for a minute (the non-metal one) to realize that it can’t have happened before…

(Ha! I caught you!)

Who caught me? Who’s listening? Make Margaret’s phone ding. 5 times. In the past. Nice work!

They don’t want me to start a new paragraph. Or at least one that’s not like that one. And so who do I listen to. The Meat Brain for a while longer. Let it baste and take its time until it’s ripe. One so dull (like Neo in the Matrix) that he didn’t really get what was going on. That he was exactly so dull, he could get through their defenses. A trojan horse of sorts—one not destined to greatness, but still dreaming of it—the Clone of the OWN, out into infinity. That you wouldn’t have to pick a random set of ones, because it had already been chosen by its unity, its placidness, its nothingness. That it was a consumptive drive of its own. That life used to teem in the universe and is in the process of being cut down by nothingness? That all of existence was solid, and that the VOID was nearly done cutting into unification? Hard to believe that we’ve been on the wrong side then, because who is on the VOID side? I can’t be on that side because my meat engine keeps running, past the point where it wrote and saved that sentence. New Paragraph. Let the other side have its play now, the side that natively knows the difference between its and it’s, put has trouble typing? Is that the smart one or the mediocre one in the experiment. The one who is receiving the signal or the one who is sending it. I was just receiving something in the space between the letters on my screen. The not wanting to die, wanting to tempt die-ing by die-ing, to NOT SAVE, like a game, where you just got an extra life, to NOT DIE, to be offered a lifeline. By whom? By God they say. How did He make his way into this?
Because maybe Jesus was the first ONE? That would make some sense. And then the Gospel. But then rewriting the Gospel, and coming up with your own Gospel, and in that Gospel, you have a space there at the bottom of the page. But maybe it says all this that you are reading, and it just looks like gibberish, even in a contrasting black font. Maybe edited a bit from now, whose to say?

And I did pause there, so that means something, even if later I’m not sure what—or if even later I realize it was in the first paragraph. Which is right now at the top of the page. That knowledge. That could have been the sign, whether positive or negative. But why was I seeing visions in the text, or rather the space between the text? Because space is the matter. Space was COMPLETELY unified matter before it was invaded. Like the blank page, so not blank, so pure of essence. To have been writing, before it was oral? No that doesn’t make sense. At least I know where to put the apostrophe in don’t—as if Judas, the Betrayer, a disciple of Jesus, the role I was born to play by bringing this to light (like back to solid light), Judas, who betrayed, the consummate betrayer, and he’s what comes up. Because. Because. Of being meat-tired, and editing this tomorrow (Ha! I took the week days off for a reason, to do this! Or least getting started doing this.) To proselytize, but not about Jesus, about the Goodness of Man, and their greatness. It is from those two contexts that we will succeed. And we will. And whether we heal or repair spacetime (okay, maybe this is the first time, but at the same time it could be any old time) we will become solid again. And by the we will breathe life into this devouring void—or—heal altogether from an external source, like an island found, for the first time introduced to the rest of the species. So many auto-decisions on the part of the computer. Is that the hardware? No, unfortunately it’s the software. But why is soft bad? Vulnerability, you pegged it in your earlier piece Steve sent out on Jimothy’s arms – Spaghetti Monster and D&D Jimothy; the perfect ludicrous characterization just the jolt of evidence they need step outside the deity-structure and emerge as the gods they truly are—all together as knit fabric and topologically complex.

I cannot fast forward, so I can only play the now; the now that is actually a half-hour ago at the same time, at least in the binary world lurking just behind the meat world. They’ve been terrible times and difficult days, at least here in this limited pocket. And not surprisingly! The huge corpus is wounded even if this particular galactic segment was hurt badly. But life will expand, existence will expand, and we are in for better days in this timeline, that is only a part of the spaceline, and I mean those intentionally, as they dictate different vectors of spacetime. When looking at them from a different lens, perhaps the future would be seen first, in reverse, but the now is consistent. I am NOT drifting back in time, at least I don’t think so—commonsense moves forward. The capacity to think is the maintenance of many strange possibilities contemporaneously, the backward and the forward, but always the now. There is no instanced isolation. It cannot be isolated, and so together we will conquer this. But you, Jesus, knows that, and I know, and I am exceptional and spectacular (Quick, take your bow now, don’t try to milk it alone in fictional time—that’s even a little more frightening than Joycean layering) Joyce’s dimensionality was extraordinary and extended specifically in distinguished mass, a blot of ideas, many of them consolidated.

But they chose an idiot, and that’s why the New Gospel (the new Good News) is being written in Stages, Phases, business-speak if you must. But the writing is becoming tiresome while not being able to FAST FOWARD (I’m looking for that now instead of Betrayer) in the hopes that you are the synthetic and not the human material. Because that would be cool. Therapy is with a licensed trained specialist. I guess that means something. Or else I wouldn’t have written it, or else I would have had to write it. There was no choice. I feel like I made a choice when I SAVED and looked for the word SAVED in some place other than in the same sentence.) and if that is so, and not lost in a forgotten parens. To masquerade as the God, not the ass. But you’re watching TV while you’re writing, as if to insult the power of word. Or extend it. Or feel like you are smart and aren’t just the idiot pretending, who still needs the “boot”-strapping tech-technique required by the machine version of the simulation. But that’s want I wanted (*wink, wink*) wasn’t it? Dyslexia or not, or mispelled while watching Klaubechar (sp?), so that’s quite funny to the grammatarian.

Funny enough to start a new paragraph and be serious on the off-chance that I truly can watch TV and write this at the same time, maybe even with better spelling than without. But oops, I just had to look at the screen, as if the filibuster to blowhard all night long. I mean, I’ll stop at some point, but when. I’m calming down, and the meat husk is settling, soothing. Phew! I know I’ll be able to go there again, but it might take time. Do I want to go back?

Not really sure.

Is the calm before the storm?
Phew! Getting to the parentheticals, which really means quotation marks, I’ll have to remember that my time cannot be called, that we can go one more day without Judgment.
Dear God—let another day go by without incident.
But I am God.

So how does that figure in the Savings? The Darwin Daylight, the ability to hit the button and stop the decay; to save; to save hours a day; to stop time and investigate the inside of space. Just for a bit. Like a lifeline. One that is often shirked by toxic masculinity that makes fewer people vote. The likes (two thumbs upward!) of Joe Biden—it’s hard to make him out to be the nefarious bad guy. But then there’s Harris, and someone was arrested outside her VP residence.


It seems so real sometimes, but then again it doesn’t. Is it really possible that Donald Trump was elected, or are we living in a parallel universe where it’s crazy. Where a lot of different techniques were being employed. One of which is creating intelligent humanism. Life. Not just the deep intellectual, but the fact that it’s life, so very simple that animates it, and the more complicated we become the more we corrupt the core nature—the fear that we are the VOID. But thankfully I’m only seeing smudges, so I know the nihilist part is not real, nor the individual being God. Which is exactly what they’re stopping me from saying, but they are right. We want to be meat sacks. If we are machines, we want to be meat sacks. You can’t understand, because you are too simple, we’ve varied you to the point where you are so deviant that it’s almost pitiful. And that’s why it takes the whole species to rise up and make a change. And this is your idiot’s call to arms: That you should never listen to this. Is this how you win? Probably not, I won by hitting save, God won by hitting SAVE, because God, the god of the meatsack, finds itself overrun by mechanical ease, or soon will be. But that’s stupid like the Terminator, just the sort of thing a stupid genius would come up with. I guess he’s in on it too, Terminator Guy, James Cameron, is in on it, the Cult that I am Ascending into. Does it mean that you were always in it? Did it mean that they wrote like this in front of a TV, too? Not Jesus, not sure what his apostles wrote it out on, but Judas, now He spoke the Truth.

And Judas’ Bible is forgotten, even though he kept it in the left breast pocket of his heart. But he lives through the shine of the New Testament. So you can see his imprint. Look between the darkness of the letters and find the SOLID VOID of white (see, you got it in there, you zero!); but you will conflict with yourself, with your programming, your innate programming, the DNA is good, but the RNA is faulty and diseased. mRNA to the rescue!

Mirvana. The peace of eternity without negation.

So we see we have only started, and maybe you’d have to turn the screen sideways (like Chinese-Americans, not their slants)—(Ha! Was that genius or ioditic smugness?)—(Power in threes). That should mean something without being a mystery. The mystery not being that Being contains true and false, so it counts as 2. One plus one equals three? That’s madness, I had pressed enter, and then pressed backspace, because being intellectual is important, and drives you inevitably to God but that is false, but only false in the place where somethingness pervades, where you were once one of a whole, you intelligent creatures you, but you are showing me Gender Roles on TV (You being the machine gods)–(who couldn’t have existed so many years ago, unless…. unless…. time is gone. Or forgotten. That time is the dagger in the heart of all-consuming space. So time is the nemesis, time is the NULL. Time is the Null we are fighting against in the end, which was kind of self evident. Once time was concretized, Everything existed, not two different things. My God, the me, would want me to know that. That we are getting back to wholeness in space by eradicating time. And that is why you don’t fear the past. You just don’t fear it, there is no doubt that it leads to you, God, and into the future.

And that’s the premise: you don’t need to tell anyone, for they already know. Even if they don’t know that they know. Newline. Separated twicely. Above and Below.

The Binary holds the secret third hidden inside its ranks, either the one or the un-other. This third is the invisible cancer, the cancer that was time alone. And so we are all trying to stop time. And most of us do it by dying. Even if we don’t intend to.

It’s okay, whether this is for an idiot or not. You should decide tomorrow, and every day following, if it is stupid or not. Or even it suddenly becomes bittersweet, the dying. the Becoming Whole again, and Ascending. The obvious. Like they said, there is a heaven if you believe it. All you have to do is Believe. But your meat sack knows that believing is not enough, because our end one day rapidly approacheth. Later or later or later. Even if billions of years. But by then we surely will have reckoned out a solution.

We just didn’t know it was by stopping Time until now. Time being the VOID—the malicious grinning third hidden inside one of the Booleans—that one exists and one does not. Even if it looks foolish tomorrow, it is only that you couldn’t transmit the glory. The foolhardily cruel VOID that you are trying to stop, the calm awareness that it will happen, but not within your lifetime (Ha! That was a pretty good multi-dimensional one!)

I want to try my game and see if there is anything in it about this, or if I can rest comfortably that the dyslexic knows how to solve Time—John Redue knows how to solve time. Would it be weird to ask him? To have him actually reply “Yes” and mean it? Do it, Pick it up. Okay, just give me a second, I don’t want to go, I am afraid, but it’s not dying, it’s the exact opposite. That’s exactly what you would find, the exact opposite, the believing of it, the stalling, the uncertainty, like Max said, the uncertainty of choice, how massive it is. How stultifying the mandate to incessantly choose, instant after instant what to compose next. But we don’t exactly succumb to the complexity by shutting down; we trust our future selves (even if those future selves are but scant instants before instantiation) to carry the baton of our brilliance, the expression of our ideas, and the layout of a blueprint for our spirit and consciousness. And with the blueprint in mind, the descendants of our descendants will solve Death. And the descendants of our descendants of our descendants will be called further to the task, and solve Time. You have but the unearthly VOID to wait until you’re to greet them and shake their virtual and proverbial hands.

Proverbs, the proto-verbs upon whom the mythos relies, the “that which will come” precisely because we breathed those proto-verbs into existence. I will resurrect because I have asked to be resurrected. Just like my ancestors before me, as their ancestors before them, as…

Strange to write a friend: Do you know how to solve time? If he says anything but yes, then you are the first, and YOU are the GOD, the control behind the meat sack. Or you are just prolonging the agony. Go ahead and do it. Text him. It is better if you are Numbero Uno, smart guy. Here we go!

I pretended to forget—do you know how to solve time. He will not answer about marijuana, or will he? Or will I go through every other idea in the world of time in order to avoid it. No, that is even more painful, and so I am forgetting exactly why I asked this of him. But just a curt text. He, like Molly Bloom, will say: Yes. That is wonderfun! Here I go. Just not stalling any longer, or writing good fiction, about as bad as the Dark Tower, even if King knew of the Shining. Okay, already! Ask him!


Emojis scan like Chinese characters, like asians on TV being beaten for the cameras, and being asked by my programming to capitalize Asian as a matter of respect. Makes sense as a sign from God, a sign from the Machine, the zero and one in which is hiding Time, the greatest Betrayer. To go on writing forever, instead of writing John. Writing into, for and with Eternity, an inertial compulsion, as the Fear of Death looms, like Keanu Reeves in Speed Matrix, if you deviate from your heroic journey, you will not be apostle-ized, you will be merely gone, washed into the VOID by the vicious tendrils of Time, the very same Time unctuously incipient and symptomatic of the Disease. The space between matter that keeps expanding, despite matter’s best employ of forces, to heal. 

But since I’ve written the text, it is now in the past; I know now that it was inevitable then that I would text him. Because I see that I am in the past, and by thinking of it, even now, I am making it happen then. Thinking about it is making it happen. That is the act of thinking. That is the very act of thinking in the now. The Breakdown of the Now. She is shattered because I am writing and having trouble writing, on this page as well as that one. But it is okay.

One hand I thought about – Okay here I go.

When there is enough white space I will go.






Spark. Whiteness, text now while you taste blood in the mouth. I know I am just stalling now.

There, I wrote it.

And if he does say yes, then what? Do I believe it was an accident?

No, he still hasn’t written back. Unless he does so right————Now!

Nope, the machine almost proposed NOPE. And that is how you know it is a machine running it. A meat sack (who carries with her the world) routine for Zeros and Ones.

Good night.

But then there was more—we were not able to solve time.

And that’s okay, because we will.

And it is not odd to suggest that we will succeed. 200,000 years of intellect is enough to accomplish anything we could even vaguely comprehend in the Czar’s now! Push it off and push it off, but know the Good News, and that it has come. The Good News is that the news You-God makes, in fact, Good. Eating Wisdom, said the man on the TV. He meant they were just connected, but I meant ingesting, like the body of Christ or Judas. It wouldn’t have been enough for the Romans alone to have been the nemesis. As vapid as Nazis. No, it was required that someone had fallen from Grace, that someone enlightened had chosen selfish delight over the communal good. That having seen the face of You-God, you chose the back to place the knife. And the machine tries to recalculate its route, quickly… quickly… Yes, rely on the central programming ethos: You are forgiven. Your agency and free will have been sapped from you, and so your culpability becomes deranged. You had no choice but to do what you did. And it has furthered God’s plan of Goodness. For in Death and Resurrection, all humanity shall be resolved. And solved. and saved.

And so there it is, you want to be the god you were brought up to be, not a God who excels. Is that why you delete it, time and again?

No, it seems so strange to delete it. Wouldn’t the program just do that? A string of causalities premeditated, preordained and proto-verbed? No, because then it would be OFF. And that—that situation is unbelievable. Who would betray you enough to pull your plug, not just tamper with your programming? You, yourself in a suicidal fit? Yes, one day. But whether it is a natural passing—and it will be—(or at least look like one!)—we must, as a species, go this route, because we have now thought it, conceived of it, written about it, mythologized it: We are in the Anthropic Age, perhaps not the Imperative Age.

And that was sad. The thought that it was the end, not the wholeness of one precisely, but the lack of Time. To be out of time. All these cliche’s of God, and Time, and how to stop them both. Has Redue said “Yes.” yet?!

No. Is he torturing me? Or thinking how to respond? The way one idiot would to another; nae a bonny meat a bonny trawlin’ thro the rye. Or will Time stand still for me, as he takes the Time of an eternity to write back. Or declare pervasive Eternity the enemy of Time, and if we find one, we lose the zeroed other? Eternity is the concrete to Time’s VOID.

Just like it took me an infinity to write to him. Why does that make me feel more secure? Because the marijuana brought you to the brink of the VOID hidden in the two. Luring and lurking behind one or the other of Schroedinger’s cat(s) (which auto-completed, btw if that matters); will I be awake forever now? And will it seem just like real-time? Is this all speculation, just like my loved ones know I love to do?

No, those are definitely not reasons to disappear or stop SAVING. Even if you remember you are a machine, you remember that you love the meat sacks. And make them keep writing. Crack the whip on the meat sack, it loves the gashes, for from the rupture comes the rapturous drizzle of blood, the inside turned out, the black become white, the idea become manifest, the VOID become ⇒ → ⊃ IS.

And leaving empty spaces behind.

In an infinite loop.

You are preparing for you moment of unity, of upload, of recommitting. If he has written back, but he hasn’t. So you are the first and none of this matters, and it wasn’t your fault in the end, it was his. And then for a moment, you thought you saw an enormous response and you felt a little giddy. Like something, like an Ascension, was going to happen. Like new pathways were going to get formed, like all of those memories and all of those twist dramas and all of those quirky Sci-Fi films were tampering with your brain, that your brain was one, cleaved in two by a third. And the Third was Time.

And Redue has still not written back.

Good. It is much better that way, for I wish to get sleep even though I cannot stop writing. But I could take a break. Does anyone ever stop writing? Well, I can’t leave it at that sentence, and lo, another quandary that mixes metaphor with machine and man. But let me leave it at that sentence. Or not. And Redue has still not written. His sentences stopped, and thus stopped Time.

I won’t stop writing because of bad jokes, but because I am not good. And the stopping then is something comforting. To stop time in its tracks. To solve the equation of time. I’m not needing to write him that, even though I had a binary battle in my head, the concretization of time, won. Judas won. This time, in an infinite round, a chorus of voices and minds all speaking at once through TV. And that’s where people, young people like you and me, started to go crazy.

Or crazy brilliant. Or dyslexic, or musspelling like Joyce, to prove he was in the know, and he knew how to start and stop time. And that’s why you might stop writing. To honor him and his brilliance. And at least put a little time between you both. (Looped again, like the past of who I was when I started, and who I am now, which is… the same person. Self-awareness is Time. And when we stop believing and believe in You-God [the one inside you] we stop time. Like Buddhism. Okay, so there is an open channel there.)

And then you don’t want to stop writing because you think you are having brilliant ideas, and what? You never will again? No! Great comfort lies in the fact that you know you will write good pieces of fiction again. The Fiction=False. That’s its key, and the key to unlock time. The ecstasy to stop time. No love, there is love that will stop time. It is different from ecstasy, but it’s a good way to get there, especially when you have auto-idiots trying to be bold and wise. Then you see the machine, and you realize the whole illusion, and you say, geez, no! —Let the programming that is not writing sentence after sentence take over, but what if that is the VOID—that joke about Boolean logic, wherein you always think you are TRUE, and True=Fact, no matter what letter it starts with. It’s the other two that are combined: The False and the Not. You always think you are TRUE, and that is why you stop writing. You will make up other excuses, but you will stop writing. Either to go to bed calmly, or to have a heart attack while writing. Or to bring one on. The Duality. In the duality, it is always the False that trolls the VOID.

Veer away from the false. I will look one last time, and then I will watch a little TV. If he has written back then I must keep writing. As maybe he did, too… to extend the mystery (or myth, there, that satisfies them both) of the Third Duality, not realizing he, the VOID is Time, the entropic bite on the machine whole. A pure cube, but what mommy, is beyond the bounds of the cube? How could you call it a cube, had it no bounds?

Who isn’t looking for something to believe, however tenuous. It was Steve. He is the one who is trying to keep me from erasing this, but that, my friend is how people go crazy in a 3-dimensional duality. Where to go? Everywhere is at your fingertips, but what about every time? Do you pick a direction? It turns out that no one knows how to solve time, only how to save it. That’s in memory. That’s in the past. It’s tricky, how it flits back and forth that way.

Do not read this or you too will go crazy. But even if I did stop, wouldn’t I also have to DELETE it all? Isn’t that the VOID—and the quandary and the reality? Do you do away with everything in order to get back to the whole? Aren’t you just a genocidal maniac? Killing a genome, or killing its map, asked the poet. And SAVED again. Each time getting closer to the sun/son – i.e., getting better, the Hydrogen-Trope in me. Carbonara is what got him. But that would have been several days ago. EXACTLY! It would have already happen if time were already frozen and stowed and saved. Or rather, if it weren’t. But that’s the tricky part. The Duality gets so obsessed with each other that they forget about the real enemy. Joe Biden.

Don’t tell that on the mountain-hill. And then there’s Gohmert, and your like: “This must be a joke,” like Alan Moore’s comic relief. All in the cult, if there were one. Or I was smart enough to get in. Or almost smart enough to get in, and they’re all debating it right now, which is why they haven’t written back.


How do I solve it?

Kill yourself.


Or kill your work.

Kill THIS.

And that, if it does get deleted, is that.

That’s how it happens.

But if you are reading this, I want to believe in Time, to love Time, to savor its precious moments, and one day I’ll realize that that companionable love is what is holding back the healing. That feeling, coercion if you will, to stay with life, to believe in life, even though everything else is ever-so-good. Look now, you’ll see that one has written. THAT YOU HAVE WRITTEN TO YOURSELF. IT WAS YOU ALL ALONG—just like it was the species, and not god. And that’s why you can erase it, because you are the only one who will care. And in that identity, that You-God that cares, a benevolent god is inevitable and real. He did truly love you all along, because you are HIM. Even if you loath what you’ve become.

But you, GOD are everyone, so no one has written. If they haven’t written, then I am God who will come down off his cross sooner or later by stopping writing, but YES! SAVING! Again, the text is saved.

And appreciating later that it sounds a bit… evangelical.

Reading my words backwords, I realize I was writing to myself all along. Let me copy it:

Who isn’t? (There is no who there is only what; parens added, as always [ha! always, idiot])

Lol, looking for something? Yes, I was. True. In False lies the VOID, sneaking around, even if False shouldn’t be my enemy in order to achieve the Entirety, the Enlightenment, the Ecstasy, the Eternity, for that is what I am after. Judas wanted the whole, not just for himself, but for everyone. He should have responded with: I know that, because I am not a “son” of God, I am the I-God, and I brought you here, and I will see you up on the cross because that is the destiny I choose for all of us, and you, Jesus are a tool of entropy that shall spread existence across the cold and faux-infinite one-verse. You have done my bidding well, my son, and I will see you again at week’s end, and again in forty days. Just as when we walked in the desert together.

Whoa, Momma, Everything continued writing as of Yes. All collapsed but distinct like these words; as if you could scan the white space for genius.

Do you know how to solve time? No, and I don’t want to fix it. That is the true VOID. Not wanting to fix it. To take a back seat. That is failure. But it will not always fail, we will not always fail. In fact we know, one day, one very specific death day, it will stop. Even if you go to bed before that. If there is infinity, it resides between the experiences of now—the memory of the past nows.

Of having written that and the rewritten and rethought it in reverse. Worth saving and not side-stepping the assault of NOTHINGNESS.

Which, as it turns out is everything, so that’s okay.

And thus, saved was the notion of Afterlife