Then the baby , unwittingly bit her yits too hard. Causing scarlet drivulets to steam , …
Well that was too much for her, she threw the baby out in a arc of maligned path toward the azure orange horizon of twilight.
The sound of splashing and then silence.
He surfaced with a keen ability to swim toward unforeseen islands in the sun.
His prayer-placebo failing to work, Igor curses his brain as too many. All that he has undergone is still threatening repeat ad nauseum. Is there no way out of the incessant in? Tune in tomorrow for another dip in the gene pool.
There is. The absolute program to reconstruct, where such reconstruction only appears as if It was his originally constructed design.
The larger the AI memory becomes, the more of the original program is deleted, so as to. be unfazed by the enormity of the task for individual education.
That would work against and not for life.
The conformation subsists in Khrishamurti’s disallowing replication through reincarnation, qua religious ’ truths’ presented only for the purpose of blaming life’s wounds.
Only in the ‘Other’ desulting absolutely devoid of fear, can we find salvation
The odd thing is, at that point, the Other becomes the one through the other:
" In It’s Self through It-s Self …
And the mistaken course develops a fragmented political, self that sees no resemblances through the inter reflection of the parts, which does process eternally.
Irr, in case You may be wondering, ‘desulting ’ is an intended error, for it is salt which is a cure for both insulting and the sin of ambiguous creation , as ’ You are the salt of the earth’
In addition salt is curitive on wounds.
‘Ohhh my love, my darling, I hunger for…’ Igor was shaping an urn for the ashes of mankind. He and Demi Moore.
Damn Igor, Demi said. Damn Damn. With her hoarse voice. But Igor concentrated for he was a born shaper, a shifter of shifty shapes into solid forms. I shift you! He would proclaim, and Demi was always amazed at how concentrated he was.
The Urne was nearly finished and this meant, so suspected the happy couple, well read the papers. Read your organs. Read your breath. Suck it in, breathe it into your monstrous little mask to announce great things! and suck it back in. Dont rinse, repeat - ad nauseam! Read it, know it, know nothing else!
Igor’s businesscard read ‘Chandala Inc.’ and he was proud of it. Not ever had he suspected this world to be such a nonsensical place that such a piece of work as himself would ever have a play to part in it. Demi Moore wasn’t even the biggest attraction for him, it was the damned Urne. It was nearly finished.
Igor was already preparing to pondere the next thing he would forge. But not yet - he must not lose concentration. Not at this very last bend of the shape of the neck. Not yet… not yet!
Demi likes boy toys, hence Dracula appears on stage to set her straight.
Or so Draculu thought. A few hours later he found himself in a car next to Hunter Biden with a 14 year old on his lap smoking crack. Demi had no use for pedophiles and the like and returned to admiring Igors steadfast approach to things, an approach so solid that by its very solidity shaped the rest of the world which, after all, was perpetual flux.
Somehow Igor in his craft escaped the flux and sat at the heart of the world, both as it was dying and born anew.
Igor sat in his car and waited.
Waited waited waited. Waited. And waited.
And then the thing happened and he was on his way. He had his coffee.The automatons. They were great.
A conversation with a man at the machine gave him hope. He stirred his cup and put the lid on. Then he was in his car and the wait was on but I already told you about that.
Igor was a creature of hope.
He had a butterfly in his mouth whose wings butter would not impede, hence: butter-fly.
Igor was on his way. But I already told you about that.
Palm trees were in the wind. Where Igor was, now it was still. Even at sea, it was still. The winds were laid down in the silence as the path in the dunes proceeded behind prickly thorns.
A secret was lain in plain sight as yet, and again, wonder became daze and night became grotto.
Someone remembered theyd once had a dream about a gatehead, and in the morning there was hagelslag.
No dog barked that night.
Sorry to cut You off, the vampire is not an overlord here, exxept , as usual for lack of foresight, my post coincidentally , only 2 minutes delay.
Mea Culpa
Igor felt he should be famous again. So he wrote a poem called “Im famous, again.”
He posted it in the news paper and floop, he was famous. He was part of a network, you see. A fame-network and his balls were creamed with Oprah Winfrey cream. Nuff said.
So, fame knocked on Igors door the next morning but igor had just gone to bed.
Gnugg… wdf, wut now…
Yeah, so when he got up, several hours plus tard, he saw the note slipped under the door.
“Igor, here’s your fame. Look on the back.”
And on the back a big anal ass was drawn.
Igor didnt really care. He just drew a next poem and sent it up to the fame machine and added: no fame before tea, thank you.
And so everything came well. Scones, yeah, sandwiches cut in the diagonal, check, fame, check. Nice.
Igor defeated the blade of grass at shadowcasting and then went to have some tea in the ceremonial bunker underground bordering the bunkers of hoggleroo, but the walls were very think thangod. But still. The auras was unmistakable. So Igor went about to set his bunker on a website, you know to sell it, and before long he had three best offers; and he took one of them and sold the darned thing. Now he was rich.
So what was going on now. With all that money. He married three wives and occupied three nations. He spat in a lake and a dragon formed which protected his offspring. He toiled the soil with his little pinky and a ox cart appeared and offered him a plough, a great golden plough for his birthday. It was a good week.
Some say no money no honey, some say money mostly funny.
Damn that’s so hiphop, Igor thought and bounced his body to the beat Meno was beatboxing with his slurf. Meno was an elephant Igor had bought at the Zoo when it went bankrupt.
Igor ran into Brehsnhjew and kicked his shin, that was what he could remember for he was drunk (why elsewhise run into Brehsnhjew) and he might also have talked to him, before or after the kicking he could not remember and care, he was still too hung over. He scammed an egg but forgot the butter, and threw the pan, he got back in bed and kicked Brehsnhjew again in his sleep.
(scamming an egg; to scramble and thusly scam it out of its proper (sunny) destiny.
Lesson 2
When truth is falsity of a higher order, what is falsity on a lower order than ordinary falsity?
When Henry told Persephone that she was beautiful, he left out the fact that she already knew that.
One said ( of many:
“When truth is falsity of a higher order, what is falsity on a lower order than ordinary falsity?”)
me know answers:now
“You never knew, you know.Now…”
Igor was pleased with his baiting technique but not pleased with the skinniness of the fish!
He had expected a greasier one.
Now he just decided to kill a pig and eat its goddamn guts raw, so annoyed was he.
Igor, said the vamp:
Never expect more then You chew…
Although, great expectation at times confirm. that aiming high, may more likely hit the mark.
That question depends on the kind of mark
And the Eagle and Phoebus Apollon were unaware of what transpired.
A car roamed the outskirts of a small village, patrolling for corners where they shouldn’t be;
a plastered wall fell apart. A housewife cried.
Men surrounded fires, men built agriculture.
Women kept their combs with their spices, and a dog sniffed out a storm from a whiff of grey cloud.
The future was an egg, and Igor stood it up on its tip on his work table and contemplated Columbus and the sheer crudity of Spanish ham and conquistadores
Igor lost sight of the infinite and a mosquito bit him.
The mosquito 's life was very interesting. Damp, it prowled the weedy bank of a ditch for all that was left of July and drank the blood of sleeping toads. It hallucinated while it buzzed and the life on the erf was intense. As life on earth so storm on Jupiter? who knows. The mind of the storm is not known to the placid lake. Where are the dreams of Kurt Cobain? Igor wondered and woke back up to the infinite.
A candle was lit in a faraway castle, at one time in the history of the world, and then, another. Damn. Had the flame reincarnated? Was it the same flame?
‘Damn damn.’ In utter pensation, Igor rocked in his rowboat as a dragonfly landed on a lily. True story. Because Igor was unaware of it.
Where is your infinite now, Louis Pasteur the second! Laughed his landlord who just had, totally entered 'Gor’s room. Like whadefuck? Like what? Igor forgot his drool and lifted his face from the mattress. Yo, this is my home yo, he managed to produce in defiance of the presence of such an uncouth excuse for an authority. But the landlord had disappeared and Igor was staring at the hearth, where a block of iron sat, nagging Igor, ‘come, hurt me patron, do it to me’. Igor just left.
Igor went to the place with the thing. The place was the thing.
Igor was the place, and the thing. The guy.
Oh, don’t worry Igor, the idiot isn’t, so?
Shouldn’t the ones inhabiting the castle.
/ or, willing to take the risk of entering through the moat, without endangering others within…
All cares thrown to the wind? Nah.
Signed, sealed, delivered:
Dracula