EATCHILD THE EATING OF THE CHILD or THE CHILDLIKE THING or THE EATING OF The sweep of the rain outside a window cause this snort-of-snory to occur:  they were holding this "fnort (excuse me)," it seems, whichis a fnort of a fnotoglaph, of the Last Vision of the Weeping Child.  They are lost, our poor deep friends, and see how they weep like two babies in the Lethal rain and they weep like meaningless lyrics on the outlit moonsweeps of a sleepy dawn.  (It is always sleepy dawn here, in the Land of the Dead).  And the child they never unyyled came to this supremely grisly state‑‑it's all in the fnortograph or fnortfnick or fnort or fnick or SN!CK!!, but they don't have the stomach for to stomch for it now, not to see it anyhow.  Am I stuttering, or do my thoughts echololateate withinin the sleepy vestibules oif mind?  Certainly I'm not gonna say... And anyway, as you will oft will hear me say, anyway, these two guys, oft called Fnort and Fniff by name, but really named Wann and Dal or something like that, Wann and Dal they cry like the Bbies of the Wind, the Lost Babies, or the Hunter babes as the Cowards of the Hunters they once was.  As you can see, we're into Capitals here.  But hey‑‑see those tears su-spurt!  Lookatem! Well...one can't really see the tears, what with the rain, but if you like if you like if you really really like we can like have those tears enhance!  Whattaya say?  I mean, you wanna see the tears that inhabit this broken world, Do1 You2 Nought?? Naught but do I cry naughp these Big Fat Walnut Tears, brother, (There I Go Again):  OK, Walnut Tears, tiered and oily‑‑oily ol' tears, friends of mine from a branch of the past I never bothered to live or was way too wounded e'er to fnicking live," as the poet Qualdreth says‑‑anyway, great, oleated-glisteng walnut walnut tears*, *There hath to be a swearwert close attached, like oil on the silent, rockless isle of your cheek, unless it was your chin, with wound of a hopeless tear trickling down to it and now stuck, staying forever, stuck, staying forever stuck, stuck stuck, stuck...each poor tear poor poverty-smicken tear pulling mothballs inside out in the insight of its vacant goddam (see what I eman?) tears, nothing but timetears stuck in the villages of time, unchanging, lost yet safe in there someplace I guess, my guess is nowhere, I guess I think‑‑and I thank you God, sincerely, for all these torturing walnut nice word thoughts, though I come back again back to my tears, never leaving my face, stuck like unripe walnuts to the oleagenous Tree of the Face (remind me to tell you all about the Tree of the Face sometime, if I can access it when you ask me then!), that I will never get these Sanskrit sounds through the issue of your hardballed, English net, by which I mean the nexus of the excess English net, i.e., the words between the two moving for commercial reasons in betwee the two channeled for distinctly avaricious reasons 3) and 4) (see negligible grey text far Up Above) and not because the gorgeous incompatible languages each could in some drifty translucent new reality combine, or as we so colloquially (a-and slowly) say, "with the other's means fill up" (e.g., and with a simple G, they would ex PLOAD) they wood ex-pa-i.e.,-but-with-a-complex-P, pa-LODE, two majestic languages just breaking each other into two perfect, patended© (where patended© conveys the ultimate lost meaning of the longlost, parallel two, Adventures of the Long Lost Two, adventure read I used to comic to, resulting tears based upon the frequency of these countless, multiplying, ghost words channeled in through the Dapely Plane (remine me to tell you all about the Dapely Plane, using words that have broken into two (meaning 2* *See Meaning Two above, before the text began, right up there, in the non existence of the sky, right there; but you do me see me do you too?  It is hard to say, basically, hurt by the brightness of the revelation You Are Naught the revelation of a charming, rather charismatic death, here viewed through the ancient, binocular device (yet which works as its own, in-added device, inhabited Fields remind me to tell about embedded, multidinous and Un Inhabite Fields some ancient day, as the cards flap magically and the grinding system tools up feelings, grinds them out in that special, retarded way no one ever even try to say, anyway works better than those new things kids have implanted RIGHT THERE IN THEIR VERY DOMES I say) as a friendly fellow, in a room of an ivory color full of gentle winds lifting drapes upon drapes so magically, a room full of silken shields, each functioning within the shell of its own silken aegises (I got that from The Saurus) to protect it from damage from the damaging Shields of the Other Aegises, which are these mighty shields, except they are Humpt Mountains beatifically round and yet creepily (I guess my flesh crawl not to easily, by which I mean ter say pip ('Scuse me ('Scruze me!)?), which is within the sphere of Graspt Realitelativity, death‑‑quite a numbingly big surprise surprise surprise (there is no surprise; there is no sunlight come surprisingly, there is no dawn, surprisingly), well anyhuey, leaving the utter absence of dawn within his perfum'd presence, here we have the [word not found] word-not-even-sought of death, full of personality [that's the word!  that's IT!], appears to me as Einstein, so like I was talking to Einstein about my friend death one day (wherein neighter death nor Einstein knows that for me death equals dynasty, if you don't mind equations blown in the crippled almost-words eerged from the class of the awful synthesis (forced from these avaricious reasons I hold in hand, like big fish from the catch that mighty, unforgetttable (except I have lost the indelible memory!  Fnick!) fnick day, to speak plainly, in that) so-called Sanskrit-English way, OK? And I was involved in the countless whims and trapways of one of those Damaginf Social Occasions at a social occasion, talking to what appeared to be Einstein, Your Honor, Einstein your honor, he as much of a genius as you, I'd say, and I was talking with Einstein at a party (that was the message found partially and in many languages in the gist of the message I am trying to say, but there is no way!) about death, and what a great, if somewhat superficial guy, he was, and then Einstein points at several portions of my face, almost abraded away by the forces of the Unclear Party we are still try to project into the air one way (I thiknit was this day, but they're all really just illusions, would you say? (And Who are You? anyway? Ans like Einstein who's getting tired of being either Einstein or death, iv even a charming death, with his teeth brushed unto Soundless Ivory, I'd say, points to my face, with an eccentric little poking motion which I don't think Death, even as a charming beau, could say, so it must be Einstein, so it must be a dream, only it's my friend Einstein pointing to my face and say "What's with the tears?"  They look thick and stuck like walnuts to my compleatly-exhausted metaphor of tree, he thinks, and I say "What tears, Old Man?" which is the way I'd address anyoneone of course from the moody sleep of my friend Death (he have hypersomnia‑‑hyperslape to you and not me This new language playing Tricks On me!!! (Wow‑‑that was Three Exclamation Points2, 3, though I can feel them‑‑I mean the tears disappearing in the rock of the words suffusing all this mighty paragraph, you see‑‑gorgeous, global tears of the Walnut Tears (remind me to tell about that some day), each big as a system have I mentioned full of plump, starry stars, like the heroes of some plump Yesterday, and each such a perfect brownness of a nutlike stars or or a nutlike breakaging of stars, but I blush to say these things, which (the blush, dummy) a sort of a facial sort of tear, somewhat like a walnut tear in the echoes of Death, who turns out at the end of the stomping play to be death after all, you say... Which Is The Thing And Equally The Title Of‑‑All Things Being Of Their Own Titles Here, And I Will Get to "here" And I will never get to here‑‑The Parallel, Invisible Thing, That is The Title Of This Bitter, Toneless Intricate Artifact Of The Pure Memory Of The Artifact Of Dreams Or Of The Play Based On The Play Of The Second Meaning, By Hoyjess Buckle, Arbiter Of The Spins Of The Quarreling Stars Ho-Kay Ho-Kay, And Without Ears (where We All Have DEAFENING EARS!!!) Which We Never Meaning to Find The Thing Have Found HUNTING THE VISIONS OF THIS CHILD Now here's all about "Here":  We have some sort of "space 'here,'" what with "space here" ringing in tintablatory Ears though these we meant to say are these "Very Queere Eares" as Boucquil'd say, but THE SPACE: I don't think it was pro-per-ly stretched, at least on the standard 90-degree deglees.  But at some other, crazy angle.  I feel like an eel moving round, or some kind of slant of light.  It's skewed, but comfortable, and we have stars all over, so we walk through stars, each star of which I mean each-of-which star imparts this knowledge into this, so we are much to knowledgeable‑‑neither to sit still nor to sit comfortably, and so we do not sit. Instead we chase the child, or rather, we Have the Child Chased...or else have chased these Virtual Versions of the All-Consuming Child, although the thought he is this child is like a great, endrapéd Rodin to you and me‑‑hunting the visions of this child which we are allowed by the software only to think only as The Child, down, we are earnestly hunting him down, unconcerned that for some glum reason we seem to need no sleep, so that allotments of pain seep into our furroughs as we seek‑‑@with no pity left in us, unless one infinitesimal pockets filled not even to the grim with grit, I mean rim with this rancid sort of pity we all have, but in sall amounts in our closets as immense as the Towers of Glin and/or the Towers of the Sleetsy Glim or else the Towers of Glim, which I favor, being but a simple [translates-as-man (und zo ve puts Manne in or Ein) enter Man] a simple man, brimmed with Investigatery Snout, which means I analyze faint images of the escaped forgotten mad but escaped but dangerusly-scaped child in its various pieces, but where every piece slays instant in our labs as the snowy whole, the whole child just an image plump as the bubble of the image lying touching not covering a bubble's ancient shield, if you can call this (just used as an example, see, for we use these bubbles as examples, see) bubble a shield, except that I warn you:  But I warn you:  Do Not Try.  Sometimes these images lie on a two-dimensional slide (we have but only one of, it was borrowed just the only alien relict we have had the breath to found, but they're out there in Runumbra Zone 563 but we black-out when we go there (from inadequacy of breath, from holding our breath, U-z) or n a bright cubic cube, as buff as much the square o' the aegis of itself and our Highest Technology (winnig the coveted Transdimental cup three [transmuxe-as-years] (and so we) years!] of the coveted Mentional Cup theretherefore... Or I dissolve the little bastard in his voidal goise into transnuke-as-chemicals, all the while collating these here images of him in with all my knowledge, which as we recall is the knowledge of stars, the knowledge of susstars. Have I mentioned this is a language play once writ on crystal, from an astoudning play of the images we slump in a view of crystal?  Remind me to mention that sooner in the futures of the past.   The orders inked within our utmost blastula were Yo, find the fat child who loves to eat.  see the the chil d who cannot eat.  Lock ON to the child, like a bubble, really, sort of.  Most certanly a real and solid child, very fat.  This kid loves life.  This kid is WAY to full of life.  He is retarded‑‑no room for a brain, not even hiding. Either a child, on further thought, or surface of child streaming on a Spirit Disk (but then, forgive parentheses again parenteses, the Spirit Disks never happen, as the saying goes, as the faith we cannot cleanse doth wipe meout...), unable to cleanse, forced constantly to eat, to eat and eat like the fear-swimming Tayreeves of Love who cannot fear themselves or see themselves or eat. We're hunting down a child, over here in Subuniverse Mel^tudd, where we live over here, not (very) aware very-of YOU, not seeing your surface streaming by like a fluxion of symbols, you know what, but the Universe Mel^Tudd as I wang sangying, complete in itself, complete and loving utter to unself, Melly^Tudd!  Mella^Tubb! Where there is this mad child, prmped up righteously to be another Savior (ugh!) and a Prodigy for certain, bu- but JUST FELL SHORT OF short a Savior-Stud, which is sort of a Savior. I mean "Short of a Savier." But he but like blows these BUBBLES, see‑‑these captivating captured permanent captive capital BUBBLES which are dark and dark a-and close enough to a Universe or a Subsubuniverse or the intricate inversions of a "Trace" or Opposite Universe, which is debatable NOT a universe as you are for adsample NOT A UNIVERSE exactly so, but then wherethen flooded my wurgs? and Idont think...SO! With his antequated, somehow old-fashioned and old throug thes of the Child (I will explain the Child (it was the Child I was talking about the Traces on the obvious side we are in the Obvious Slide into durk and magneth, which I am coming around they each seemed separate, complex in a positive-Oriental beautiful way, each seemed like a separate gathering of the ancient, literary threads of a long-dead, not even classified as a Not Even Classified (!) Not-KnownNot-To-Be Known (one has to say it RHYTHM) or die or die o'erdye* *EXPLAIN: You mean uhuh the coin'd werb (because we Do Not Have Believes, I mean Do Not Have Worgs or whatever you have, my change flowing away like the wine in a bottle of wine poured from-out dur from dah Bottawhine*, perfectatissimo! you know what I mean? (Well if you don't know what I mean please pressure the active Help Belt like a biltload stars*, not-to-be stakenfore the Octave Helt Belt, which you ear much differently in that 2/4-th's-forgot[SIC]en[IRRECOV'RABL'] [W]an'nusntit?  There are endless trickes (covered with these sin-Till-ant tricks) endless tricks to this and this and this.  Anyway, your query:) This cornered werd O*ERDYE?  Man, it just SOUNDED RIGHT, now get OFF my bleeding .BAK *EXPLAIN: biltload, well, just SOUNDED right here in this Universe of Sounds with not an ear tuned in or or to have been being tuned again.  Where was I now? Ihave to TIDY UP my PARA graphs... But then, we ALL have to do it.  GO!!! This [is?] noisy writing. This is hard and noisy writing 'cause there is according to the Latest Stigma report some sorta "stigma" and NOT some stigma-sounding other werb or werg or werd or a goddamned weird! Stigma here on a face of a hunted child.  What are they [thinking]? I am STIG ma tiz 'd. And so forth The Riches flow andflowe... THE BUBBLES OF THE PRESQUE VU? A bit off the center of the Landscape of Implosive Winds (or whims, as is your wind) blowing as they say "implosive toward the Baby of theSun," the baby in the Horrible Great Bonnet, as I say, though 1) there is nothing wrong with its color, of a colore we have here approximaely (+-0.00250) what you might or might not not or might not be able or might die if you were able and/or died if you tried or/or dies if your mother didde tye thate Bonnete 'pon the ass of your configured head A bit off the goddam center of the space the Acid Baby or the Infant of Hellacious Dell‑‑Hellacious Dell I mean Hell being a place we haveor had here or somewhere, currently classified by the Currency Government of the Dells of Hell as misplaced or missing or missing in action and/or (best of all, holding the Bestest Cup from the Bestest Fair thatwe bestest fair that we had here somewhere, though we were not alive, I mean not there) the Walking Wounded.  What am I talking about?  Gosh‑‑I got so busy there talking about the talking-aboutness of the thing or things  or someone very close to my or me had been beginning to have been talking to be about. I do talk to bees, the colorful bees I am having a lively and so lovely I might never stop sucking on the nectar of their lies or the nectar of their truth or the fnicking nectar of the goddAM BEES, OK?  I mean nothing, not nor neither not the bees or don't the bees or as my synthesizer * told me: "Never talk to the nect'ry bees!" ...or you'll never get close to the truth of the bonnet I am talking about. There is this baby, see, in a gigantic bonnet big enough for the faces of a baby on the movie screen, which my care-ful-ly phrase-éd ecto-parallelo-ogrips grimping the clinch with the face clssified by the Currency as Missing (they mean never-seen but it would make the certain soft bureaucrats‑‑soft as the eggwhite floating to the brim of the Cosmic Baking Pan [you will notice here that here more is absolutely better all the time I just can't he;p it (to many thoughts imtwin'd]...), not that I want to nor nwould nnever (I want the words to look funny soze to entertain the vast containment or Containment Strategy of what we call wha-burp!-Ex-QUIEZE ME-what we call the Cosmic You, your face a glaze * of brely-seeable bubbles auf dem Bupples of the Presque Vu...all standing on the Platform of the Latter Day Attitude of the ancint scholar-saints and the warrior-saints and the saints stand around while Mary picks cherries from the God-Begotten Cherry [parallel tier or attempt of the parallel thereof] (which hs never yet crashed but which the Hunted Baby Still Will Do. We know nothing what the babe'll do, and yet we use-use and that's REALLY "use" the [term‑‑author doth naught reveal the term‑‑]  we are forced into using the term almost too airtight even for a breathing skull, Dimwit, the Breathing Skull, ah!, O! the Breeming Skulle, use the term to use the "breaking through" like the First Silver Cyclist of the Breaking-Through Olympics (parallelotwurm) of the BreakingThroug, where Throug's understood as the bracing of a big meniscus we stretch'd vertic'ly to the sky, except we are breaking in a dreamlike, thoroughly senseless way right through. And so you see.  This [is‑‑I am trying to give up these addictive copulatives] [is] the baby we are forced immediately (that's the mandate) to [kill] (that's the concept‑‑kill‑‑man-dated by the governors of a future too invisible beyond menisuses of some future much too fuzzy to descry of an ancient Hell. Translation for he Affectively Impaired denizens of anancient, yellowed-and-godawful hell:  This [is] the [never-seen (!)] baby we both of us we were borne to kill, Newstuff of the Latter Days of Hell) ALL THE DAMAGE He liked the crowded house.  God, it was jam like mackerels!  but he liked the sinous motion, full of unintelligible formula riding out unto eternity, where the God Eternity doth dwell with his Eternity Children (who actually didn't come out so good (in fact, they were little monsters!  Shh!  Don't let God overhear me.  I mean don't let Eternity hear me.  You won't, on your sacred honor, let Eternity hear me speak of the foulness and destructive little werkless Twurps with their "toys" fraught with not only all the more damage but also with ALL THE DAMAGE) like in that house) like in this house, this house in which he finds himself, the spheric little ranch compacting of course, com PAK! ting! of course by the hour so all of the spent and injured and the rent and ruined here‑‑all stuff which * loved, mind you now. But still, even in this blue universe with its marble striations (which you can't usually see if you've been meant for this universe of course (of course the universe) of course) and swathes unbelievable whiteness like that most blisssful of the Titian clouds.  This was in the Titian District, dontchya know, and was run and it was wracked by the torments of the Titian gang, with their thin little rittlings of of whit.LOST-FORGOT Thoughts are not so pretty when you walk amongst them.  And of course they change.  Look here‑‑just a liquid thought, flowing through a haze.  No need to worry.  But this slick mountain of some turquoise-coated mud‑‑now this is a thought you can't run away from, especially when youre covered with the goo of lesser thoughts covered by you get the formulation O you get the for mu LA shun! * and I were told we would forget when we came here, but the moment of the telling lost in telling, lost-forgot, or else by a coincidence you can can see right to your right right up in the rightloft with her pince-nez pos'd before her pince-ne'd doze, a coincidence whom I know personally I forgot. I found the kid, not a baby for the nonce, having no doubt put in some sort of magic swap on one of the borrough or fusionzone ZURP! Fusion Zone Fusion Zome Time Markets and acquired a tad of age‑‑a boy, a kid who seemed darker than bananas bunched and rotting in a coil made up of the fumes of their own long-forgotten ti- ti- tirade. It is early in the morning, one of our three Major Mornings, Cridava, The Ceaseless One, the Green Wonder, the Wonder of the attitus of green, the green sun like a perfect cat's eye low along the ridge (they call it!) of the midland teums‑‑one of those mornings (artificially induced by virtual hypodeemix© that surround you like a buzz of a thousand saintly flies, white flies, flies full of light, flies with their hypodeemic nerdels sticking you, one after one, in a fearless sequence) when, along with the brightness and the life-cries of the morning birds (not birds at all, here‑‑not even actual living things, not very sentient things, about a sentient as that bolder there (there is no bolder of course.  Never look at what I say, but hear the chirping (not chirping but a cheerily disturbingly wave sort of thing, only it's not a wave it's not sound it's not the teeming of the wings of the golden birds as they wing into the sun and wing it on.  O‑‑and I guess, if we had "shape as 'such,'" they would be like planar I am talking of the curved planar here here here here here...anyway, like planar foils the legendary Planar Foils of the Olvont Mucus Lunar Sector esting I guess his brekfast in the cave of his ancient, lunar soul. It's dawn (y~), and this sore and aching punk's wired himself up (I meant lightwires, except their not wires but something more thn the workings of that flip-out watch you wound up suddenly after you wound up suddenly in the attic of your ashen dad, I mean your grandfather's wtch, found in the pocets of the dead mands clothes.  Not with the dead man in those clothes the clothes perfumed and doze cloze infused with the smelling salts balled into a pungent sphere that you have.  There is no parallel. From now on there are no parallels.  There are no parallels along this silken grass, grass spaded and cultivated one by one, these being not your gritch grass nor even your higher-grade pra-HEM-us grass of crystal, known as the forest of the crystalline grass, or the tricky forests of the mind you never knew about, all within this florist, where grass stand in-it-goes now for something you don'y have, and we have but cannot access the aspect of that file.  It woill mean something else tomorrow, by the way.  It's a whore, too rich from selling meanings or symbolic attitudes, misty attitudes, attitudes breathed on the boards of that rotten pier so waterlogged at the Seas of Amnesia where the gentle filament of this discursal lay I am not talking about, much less righting anything...in fact, sitting so very-perfect still of the still of the distillations od the still, or of the quality of Still, which, by golly, we all have too, making us the same breathing life 9AND BUT WHO CARES, ANAEROBIC OR NO.  No? -athing life having sit so still even as the Famous Achines came along, filtering the oldness of an ancient song, a tune which I respect for its convoluted Mozartian like this musician was a Martian! con, voluted flawlessness of a damn good tune to boot... I got lost in the narrative forests, one within another, one by one, where one goes in to see one's flawlessness again.  But I'm OK now.  I am not on anything‑‑not even the vapors of that most sublte cloud, the wondrous dope known as Vungerklowd Dawn Et Cetera, whom had I big crush on, junior Hi! within this sphere or "somewhat ragged aura thing," as Vaad, who is writing this very same fnilibration even as we spink has said, his pen jet-fresh from the pens in the pockets of the living dead, which you can use to write with as it were till the Cosmic Cow of earh doth finish her wanderings and and come on home, where home is the central harvest of a nerveless earth, with its heart and intelligence gone roaming from the attitudes of home. Anywhey, this kid's sitting at A Table Made For No Goddam Kid, what with these countless, confused but wonderful, like silken web or barrier of God's most silken silkenness of the refinement of Oversilkenness hanging here and there about.  He's doing what you would call* *if you had no voice, where voice negates itself in that tiny, microorgsnistic factory of a lab where where the meanings of the words try fusing with their dumb carriers standing like these horses made of clay, except they have no shape, and they're just standing there, waiting for the steamed meaning to be stuffed as by a compresser, or more accurate the concave plates of attachments of ntheir meanings, used to be built by the tiny Huul, whom we have lost temporarily, like your thought of the sun once when you flew upon that swing...but the voice attach no meaning so you don't have fnicking voice nown the channels of grief within grief within greif within aching deep, never-heal-ed grief, you would call like a harem thing, suppping on endless courses and all of that, didnng in  fact I can see as the details memorize their intricate attachments here with me, he's eating moarr, baked in love beneath a glaze of watersheb (and this is NO COINCIDENCE!), stewing in a sauce of Youre with a cartomb base and just a sort of suspicion of mint coming out the tent flaps, and a dish of the richest Ojas caught within a bowl, no doubt ona them Gravity Bowls, ehich capture the subtle essences of life you once had in your body, only it's now in this bowl * [kid] keeps dipping his fingers in, so as to cleanse his cloggéd palette and then eat again. They notice both that his mouth never quite stops moving, which shows (and I lost five dollars on this) the *s [whatever species the two are] are gaining almost too much perceptiveness, where you see so down into the case that the files and the evidence and the affidavits and the wholehearted testimony are just transparent, I mean, they do not exist, is where you quit that case and go home fostering the flowers which you stand in, up to your boyish noze, in that garden that was always wet, he garden that the old folks made, and this hapened of corse before they both were more or less "deader than Jussbut Oozepis," in that garden where confusion begins and ends, I mean confusion rage forever in the regions of the loving dead, sending out love right from the pot of ashes or the seas into whiff-they-flung. Stick a gnode to the future we must turn down the empathy in these unstable too. I have to admit that Wann and Dal both liked it there, this their first Actual Physical Encounter, by which I mean virtually gen er ate Ed en Count er, with because of course there was no fear.  Ahhh! Ahem‑‑I meAN IT'S Nice to have your fears airless in that wonderland of fears in the nightmare let's admit you are still running from after all these in ter ven ning years, but your fears all at once just sighing like a dirigable to the floor outside house, I mean outside the tentflaps past which you seem to have carried the weight of your weightless but relentless intents. Here's a gnode stuck to the future, which has caused time in the City to break down, these hypercivilized pwople forced to live without time for hours and hours (but not time hours, of course), and to go down to the crick which still troubles me, where the burbles talk to me and only to me, and there the burbles talk means nothing and I have no memory.  Gnode illegible, something like burning empathy, but after studious analysis that we cannot see, vision itself being monitored here by people (things) we can't even dream to see, with the scientists slumped groggily over their own Intensely Restless Machines, well, damn, we just can't tell. You may CLICK here * on your nose (you didn't know your nose was in here, enh?) here, or CLICK HERE to hear raw language of fnilibration like white noise in the ear of a broken phone (a cracked ear either of porcelein or of bone, in any case strewn among the North Asian Trash Plaines and in any case rained up on...) I mean skeleton I mean skeleton I mean skeleton I mean skeleton I mean skeleton I mean skeleton I mean skeleton or the terrible silence machinery singing in digits to himself. Or you may just OPT to NOT. The terrible infant of America, the Infant of Red, of the memories we all refused to memorize, and hence skeletized.  It was something like that, but in a language much more beautiful than your blocked-out dollops of "words."  I remember these when I am taken on the sullen boat of sleep, along the sea sucked out of light. * thought for sure * [kid} was hiding by a sworl, or "in" a sworl, sworls having no activity that might be considered, construed, represented, implied, or otherwise thought upon in any Known Linguistic Way (and this, as with all these parentheses, is filed and on record in the great Courts of the Lofty Clouds‑‑and not, as so many have mistaken, the Courts of the Flossy Clouds [even though CFC is a closer description {of a closer homonym} and a better looking hyperhominym] going grey searching for an antonym to the poison working in him, his head growing bigger and bigger in proprtion to the Grey Relativity of Everything, which is our closest parallel (not-that-we CARE) to your Field of the Inverted Field Theory, in its white robe of cotten all smeared with mud and much subt spit, I would have said much spit or much simple spit butcept I thought of calling it much subtle script hence the phrase mu subt scri, the backends of my words always falling off.  Believe nothing you have heard about me, they are all just fireflies swarming about the big-cheeked goddam beam of me and are hence not to be believed, hence the Phrase of Righteousness one is required to say everyday, by fiat of the Courts of the Vast Interior Interior Interiorior. One's infact required, and when I say "required I mean 'obligated,'" I mean one must strip naked in the harsh, judgmental light of the Court's Long Hall Hall of nexuses, at the end of which, in the smell of the burning filament, you strip naked and wipe oil over your body‑‑some kind of disgusting oil [Author's gnode:  Author's gnode:  This would be the Oil of Blame or the gucky Oil of Liability or that most horrible distillation of all man's possible evil taking place in the Realms of Irresponsibility, the Oil of Remorse, with the unexpungeable Oil of Guilt existing as a finer form of oil, one which has stripped naked and, as it were, exuded its mass, all whilst looking at YOU through anything you can hide behind, other than a Gannabanar Shield, or a Sworl as we are required] and after the oiling, not that anything comes after anything, as my lawyers advise,  and after we slip out of our fleshly shells and begin to chant the Phrases of Righteousness, there being 333 such pgrases, 333, which condemn the very asses of ourselves, if you mean what I see, and pull perceptible percentages of the life force right on out of us, which is why, for you tourists, we are all so diseased, diseased disgustingly, the Author's Gnode: Author's Gnode now guiding itself In1 To2 In3to In3finity, the priest grim as soot licked from your sooty tongue withvthe Soot We Don't Know the Soot of What the Soot of What the Soot of What, this is not going to be too commercial, as exciting writings go past like a cluster of tumors I mean a covey of runners on the run, their white shorts blazing and water blazing favorite word incndescent (and you think as you stand there with your own black suit and bike so black it rivals the ragged Myth of the Bike Invisible, but anyway) and by the bye, I try to say anyway a lot, just to get away* *from the coils of my Labyrinthine Anyway, OK, hence, I Capitalize a lot.  Now diss i' no Capital Crime, exactly, isn't He? He is, but as you can see but never tell, sometmes the sound of the language snatch the baton from the meaning of the senteces and starts to conduct itself in his own bright way (the Bright Way...I must tell you bout that, were this book in any way, manner, designation, connotation, antonym, or manière to be construed, interpreted, read (in the ancient manuscripts I must tell you about when this sentence stops someday, surrounded as I was trying to say as the force of the workmen press into me like clay, I mean like I was clay, by time, as we are all surrounded by the awful breath of time, and this not a god damned metaphor, the suffocating air of time of the air of the goddam TIME, OK OK? But The Priest who is naked beneath the clothes of his own barenaked, sooty skin, grim as a root, as he maketh the Experte Motion closing the eyes of someone who has died today, someone connected to us but we can't remember why, I mean {END FIELD} with the thumb and the index finger passing downward over the ees, like those Airplane Eyes or "airplane eyes" of the Vee-vi-VAG-a-REE, that's the Veghvighvaghgaghreigh, a race we have hear involving the most brilliant white shorts and the sky...O nevermind...like some magician's trick there, but really just closing warm, dead eyes, really just putting the Mark of Nothingness on the label attached to the eyelids, Nothingness, and everyone left in the lurch of still being alive, envious of this guy‑‑who may be related to us in some way only our lawyers can say (they get together tosay; they huddle like a football team and plan their day; they huddle and have a nourishing, revivifying lunch which I advise after all your funerals, and you will have MANY FUNERALS...Ah, sir‑‑do you snatch your hand a-WAY? I have forgotten whose eyes...I mean, I have lost the goddam threa of the thread as they say of exactly who is dead, and if my lawyers advise, emerging from their lunch of their huddle in this world where I say "A huddle stops time, the air is good here anyway, I mean, despite the deaths every which way." I'm sorry.  I just can't remember who died; this is not normal for me, except I can't remember what is normal, much less what is normal for me, much less who, if anyone, it is that died, the only thing one can die of here being doubt, sooty doubt, closing the lids to manufacturedly, and the elders‑‑even the youngest ones flockering like brilliant bussterflies after me‑‑say "Generally, when you can't remember who has died, it is you who have died.  Remember that as I slap it onto your pong with the sting-reverberations (I can explain all this more clearly some more clearly fnicking day) flaying hypnotically Whereas, as the Writte doth say, the kid really was behind the vacancy of one of these manufactured sworls, a trick of warp, a snick of reality some people make here roughly in the way of your viruses, crossing the connective tissue between Sites of Reality, or ranges of discourse, or whatever with your poor and singular eye staring through some sort of glass or dream-glass that does not clearly do anything, and yet you have to screw yourself in and say O yea!  It was the Author's Gnode.  The Author's gnode that died back there, I mean.  I guess I mean (My God...I have to GUESS at my own fried MEANINGS.  Gee!) I never stated it clear enoughily, for you can't state death too clearily, for you can't state death too eagerly, I mean you cannot argue death too cogently.  My lawyers have failed, and I don't feel the numbness of the glove ove my face putting me to sleep in that "special wayy." Except the kid had uploaded himself unto adolescentry, and is lening against the rock forming the surface of the other side of irreality (on the other side of the other side of the sworl, you see), smoking a cigarette, or is that a JOINT?  i AM FRANKLY AFRAID OF DRUGS.  tHERE, i'VE SAID IT.  tHERE, i AM COMPLETELY INSANE, and much the better for it.  But I digress.  I am being too difficult, I know.  No one is pefect, this side the lids of the Mountains of Insanity, which I must never tell you more about, my lawyers see...or is he licking the joint or the cigarette (it is awfully small) and blackish, or is his tongue going into the shaft of the cigarette, or has he become this tongue licking up the great shaft of (embarrassing) reality?  Or what? THE REPORT ON NOTHING BUT DUST REPORT 155:  He have this tremendous eating hang-ups, and these are hurting us, it is not known [by * nor *!] whether he is hurting everyone, or of hurting everyone, hurting everyone as us, I mean in the same convoluted way as us.  Sometimes he poise a Twinkie, crusted with dust, I mean crusted with coconut, with the intelligence of white falling off the just-brushed surfaces, and falling seemingly forever, as the intelligence of dust (which was once the lush and florid dust of this tiny brain that cannot see itself, much less the falling), just to hurt us with the prescience of his first bite, seen in animated flurry, or to be more specific, seen in proto-tracers I mean pre- tracers all along the line to the best entry [his best-left-indescribubble "mouth"; our blest, forgetful author(s) have forgotten hasness thix] Best Entry O let's have another paragrapg (I think this is the cave; would you shine those lights b.w.I.m. flashlights a little more into the nililator, please?  But I'm sorry.  I am sorry.  I forgot you have no flashlights anymore, and that this piece of swark* *work?  must seem suddenly strangely quaint to you, like the roll-up desk (made out of actual wood!  Who cares?) no one cares, ninny‑‑like the speechless glisten off the perfect halos of dust around or at least In Vicinity Of, wherever that mean‑‑aching and waiting for your caring, except we forgot me and Le Dust forgot, ah...that you don't care because it's quaint, and the strength and the glorious power of the glands and the muscles of your youth (not to mention that skin!) shield you utterly, completely screen, you see, you utterly, buffer you and buffer again, in a million cycles of that macro you left running in your mind that has, that lil ol macro, utterly and completely sealed your mind, then filled up and saturated (both!) your mind, which I admit exist as a bitch, which is a bitch, but then your mind with the billion shock-absorbers (O I LOVE {END FIELD!} those shock absorbers zh*k ebzördeurz zque-ad-soghrbeughrx!) ...and I said it again...I mean like, didn't I just say something again, that took the form of a discerning bird, keen and as familiar as the wonderful, loved dumbness (which means oneness) of good olde, tautological youth, strange as the seasons, but with more of them (the seasons‑‑will you goddam TRY to FOLLOW ME? OK? Do that for me, hnh?  Ju-just try to follow the poetry of me? S'OK? Huh?  Huh?), and with better colors, as if painted by Vokk, the artist who could paint (by which we mean fill up a crystal cube with this perspicuous beautiness) whole worlds much better themselves, I mean the envious ah envied I guess repreZEPttions of themselves, and he like went round to all the Significant Worlds, and he painted them, and he left and he had thereby reduced them to somethingness, what with that flattering painting no longer hanging just but croaked in a broken (ouch!) skeelton there and there and the and there and there?  Didn't I just?  Something about a cave, as beautifully stripped and beautiful as the stripped and beautiful coos of the fateful dove as filtered through our quaint, imagined phonorgraphs?  I fear I have said too much.  The is one of the Six Fears That Never Go Away I must tell you about someday. Well, nevermind nvrmnd nrmd nd {Puh!} The point (within the cocoon or sleeping bag or cocoon or or sleepeeping baagag o-of Perpetual, Dropping Youth, good old, stupid youth...) being that your mind is so filled with Someone Else's youth, while mine poor mine howl with the vcancy of youth, howling in that cave, howling like the great howl that Ginsberg gave, howls like that awful wildrness you find yourself ac tu al ly in, alone and with, say, one subway token gleaming like some useless gold stolen from the future then, and mine is not... I am not. "Will hurt us."  That's the fragment falling like flakes of coconut to an exceedingly inteligent dust...the dust here‑‑our dust, though it's actually someone else's dust‑‑be-ying ex-SEEDingly intelligent-seeming dust.  Something will hurt us, I would say it said, except I don't know who or what.  Something will, anyway.  Something is coming to hurt as, sure as dust and youth. It is a bite to eat.  I mean, it happens now, and the pain remembers us, the PAIN reMEMbers us!, as he bites into the Twinky with a gust of love.  But he is a very sick baby, we were goping to say.  We're going to end our report here because‑‑probably because he is in vicinity of us‑‑the report is this great big fungus, growing aswe write it, eating our minds up, not only our minds, too, but half of our forehead(s) depending on on how you count, and our face. How DO you count?  End of report.  Nothing but dust... "Psst!  Buddy."  And the humanoid‑‑rather tiny, they thought, till they entered unto the alleyway and, lo, found they that the alleyway widened, with was physic's way of saying they were shrinking, in no doubt part of the efect of their entrance to the alleyway (and all the signs they had posted over different electronic boards inside of them, meaning everyoe in our universe could watch, except that it wasn't really that way), so the guy psst!ing at them became less tinier, though he was still very small, though." And they asked him what he want, only it was not asking per see, but a form of barter or complex negotiation‑‑for there were accounts there, with their absolutely trimm'd or trimméd accountant accountant's's hair, and two or more sort-of-lawter (though they looked like thugs even now, in our accountants' memory, because have-I-mention'd we morph through the alternate constancies of selves here, that is, we morph here, or rather, morph we here alla time, in some bartering soulds (nobody thinks about it twice; but then, does anybody think of anything TWICE?? I don't think so.  I dinna think zo.)  I have then most egregiously apostrophEYEd)‑‑[they asked him] what I want, and the guy in the Blade Runner jacket unexpectdly and with casual aplomb almost bringing perfections of their respective guards down, almost bring confections of their yard dawn, Alphonse brig confessions of their guard dongs down (only it wasn't down, etc. [wherein the author herein list connections of existences of dream, but they were so much more drear ier than  the other dawns‑‑each dream being naught more than a dawn under all the unknown realms of an unknown God, Who in Hiesr Wisdom hath made Heirsself invixible, a parenthetical whisper of a dawn, of course, and constantly redeeming himself, I meant doing over himself, playing himself in take after perfect take, the director [either God or Dawn? --ed.] lapsed into Confoundries of Escaping Dawn, fnicknling it again and again, waiting for that first impatient dawn, wheren impatient equals imperfect, as in "imperfect dawn," cause if there one thing a director cant't take, that would be the Perfect Take, much less repetiions of a Perfect, inescapable apparently Take... Guy disarmingly I say removes his hat, and is none other that most charming actor, Alphonks Dew Derrain, and says (too quietly to a perfect take, it seems, actors too always running from that perpetually hounding Perfect Take We're all sitting on a hill awaiting dawn, just to discover if it's a dream or ajust Another Perfect Dawn or maybe just a wordplay dawn, written by some madman who cannot stop rewriting infinitudes of dawn, concept of perfection unutterably gone)...O yea‑‑the quote.  I fell asleep and missed my key to bradcast to the actor the evasive quote: "You guys know you'e chasing God, you know." And other voices‑‑you know...the ones that constantly prove you wrong‑‑saying stuff like "You dipshits‑‑you are hunting down GOD!" and so on, intermittantly the voice of God, God pointing this out to them!  God.  God! Or "You guys are hunting down God," as if to kill hiemr, as if in a cruel game devised by the facet cruel of a cruel cruel dawn.  I think that makes it clear. And *, then *, think that this guy could be dawn, I mean God, and so they strip off his coat, only to see two disgusting-looking elves, each on top of himself, and they wince and turn away in that glaring way away, and then think one of those damned Conflictory Thoughts, i.e., that this might still be God in the Guise of Trimbled Elves‑‑a common myth herebouts‑‑except that God never unquotes heirmzelf. So they are left in they alley, maybe fooled by God (not likely) or by the fools of themselves, having got to quoting superfluity the O!-so-sleepy dawns of their repeating selves. But the chasing-thing serve to really-furl unravel[ing ‑‑ed.] themselves, and like they get like even more like dodd'ring in themselves in the guise of the two guys in pursuit of this prick-little God I mean wihout a hitch the Kid, is all, wherein the Kid contain all the many fugues and form-you-LAY-shee-ONGS of some sort of Goddy-God. This is dangerous chronicling, I have to hear you say.  I have to poke a long stick over my dangerous keys‑‑I create languages with stroke as it were of an infinite number of keys, each representing a part of the consciousness of sound, an entire, rhythmic science of modulated sound, one bigassed Science of Sound transmuted I would guess you'd say (where "you" is an hypothetical person, or soul popped fresh and reeling from the body of its sound, or like the Chanteuse zitz'd atoppa-that big honky-tonk machine (just absolutely made for to perch upon, with even the audience caught in the silence, caught in their lean, the frozen crystals which are rare here of the everpresent rain and now like a great communal ear cupped solely to hear even her silence here, not comprehending the silence, nor the simple fact of physics, here or anywhere with silence and time, discounting the Anaerobic Classless of Another Sky, murk'd grim as the memories of wounds so much too tortorous (without comparison I forgot within these safety loops forgot to say) for you as they say to "roll on" with this flimsy swatch of web everybody else keeps calling your life and your life and your life and your lives...O yea‑‑the simple fact of physics I mean the famous Physic Facts, which every schoolboy is taught (by measures harsher than the zelstürms say of Hyjiki, which does sound Japanese, not just from the passage of Sweat and Difficulty through the Lacewood grid of the Million Languages, but also 'cause we do have Japanese here‑‑we invented Jap an EEZ‑‑like yours (elsewise, who would run the show?)‑‑and how!) like yours. [Same sentence, thinkes the edit toreal Ed]  Ah [but] I devolve back a billion of the inconsistent years back goddam to the years of our great Frozen Chanteuse (quite a tourist site, but that we don't have tourists here, despite despires of our hard preparations) in the voices of the gods* *or, more technically the Throbbing Glass (the language hurrying yon) that have help me or my necessary my Necessary Stick Punge, the famous Stick with Eyes or an Eye or the stick with imaginary eyes, seeing everything within ah mean the Sanscrit we have here too and The Sanscrit Of The Infinite [Indiscipherable: perhaps "trilling?"] Infinite Keys. [Same sentence; dedigression as the Glass you never know you are looking through, denying itself and hurting your infinitudes of eyes] palpates us back now that we never care back to our mum chanteuse, still sitting just as soundless in the absences of sound (now with cigarette dust all over her shoulder and her shirt and everyone's head, inasmuch as every one has the dome of the dust of an overaching head (and with these different headaches you would never believe) much less survive in the achoe of a Different Universe, to which you think Why bother?, tarted up and inclined to the loosely-holden mike like an instrument she's suddenly too weak to muse, I mean nyuze, I meank use, the singer I was going to say so good she doth not knowe wherefore basically what the fnick to chant. [Possible not the same intolerable sentences says the Ed] and in this case with the editor that constantly edit and be editing us all.  And anyhow, I have to use this stick (and with ~s being hard to obtain here, on any plane of illegality) to pop the cubic keys‑‑really just to see what the stick they mean. I have to lit'rally advert mine eyes, or anyway, there my eyes there were flying at the speed of the speed of light to the power of the light speed-magnified from my eyes, see, every one of them carefully averting itself from the eyes that would be watching them and atching hem nd tching! !em the color of the skies. But danger never counts itself within the panes cascading through the measures of our fee.  It is in fact it is important that we die in whatever end if any and een then withaught the process of hunting the child, assuming this is not the test of a miniuniver within which there exist no child, and by the same and insane Token, if we can be said to live, in which case I guess they will fail to close the circle and forever (this is speculation) die and therefore never get paid.  But a job's a job, some say. THE CHORDS OF FEAR Yea, water always lights up here.  This is because our water forms in discrete bdies and pools, never rivers, never a trace of a trickle and we got the idea he was hiding this puddle here, this puddle that had caught our eyes and brought the pools of our eyes into the ray of a great vision, right through our shades, and every line of every print out we were printing out reports of what we thought we though, all in vibrant formulae, and the only thoughts in our mind were the great sphere, No hope we'll ever catch this guy, and within that, our core belief Besides, we wee tired of the tired black suits and/or the tired black blacknss of our dismal suits, which were obviously (felt especially at theelbows and the chinnychinchins) past the long and painful dust of their expiration dates (if we only had "dates here";  God! but we envy you your dates!), and you squat in the desertand do that thing where you palm the sand so the palm flows over with these smooth cascades of the infinite number of the particles of sand, in the Universal Gesture of the Secret San, which is a strange and unknown cult we have here, existing only in the sand‑‑I mean the individuals no longer individual who do comprise the Secret Memories of Sand, thoughts here being sand (have I mentioned that? or is just sand?), thoughts being sand, hot and palming sand flowing in a way that our water never do. They were even ['erreven'?] tired of their cool cool shades© (I hear frightening sounds on my roof as I rattle on and on, indicating according to The Impossible Handbook imminent death plucking deafeningly our great chord of sorrow, rather, the great Chrod of Fear, which was Charaka's first and great transcription of the Chros of Fear, later transcried unto the Chords of Fear as we know them (just before death) now).  One gets our many cords mixed up, because our subtle bodies (always sneaking in and out apparently the "door" the misquoted "door") pruned in endless parallel with these different-colored chords of hope and fear, cords of love, chords of sobriety, actual cord-harmonics of our fabulous fear, plus every great little event that shook you as a child, and many minuscule cordlets brimming with tear, which you can reach in (the Masters of the Cord there that can reach right in) into the implict, sleepy connotations of the chords of fear. (I keep coming back to the chords of fear, now don't I now?  That's because there is no thought-harmonic but resounds with fear.  That's just the way that the platform within which we abide is built, within the cords of mystery that sounded on creation which incorporate our bodies, vibrant in the oft-seen, glowing great puddles of fear, our puddles being "somehow oceans" hre.  I don't know nothing, only that "All is Nothing, and nothing is well" out here). LOTS OF GOD And so, their cords ringing terribly, the *s dive in, dead the instant that first blade of hair deads on the distance of the fear. But this is exactly where he'd hide, and this is Absolutely in its fashion Known.  Y'see, they both know the molds that fold that dark babe around like their own Reminiscences of Fear, which they have each wrote out and published and marketed with "hype-don overdrive," within the factors seminal of the seminal factors of incredibly coincidental fears, there I go again, of the Ancient Attitude of Fears, and no there's no doubt that they know he's here, and since they cannot be killed the spring into the puddle, like you'd never expect, in that convolusion of a mazéd (as Predominous the apocryphal poet sets forth right in that) alley there, and to this day their reports both read, "The kid's in this puddle here," mark puddle coordinated too boring to go into hear, but they dive * in to that dirty * puddle, as if there will be much of God in there. And there is!  Here there is suddenly Lots of God!!  Which mean he creates presences of God, which they must be false, except that There are no false presences of God, which means the baby is somehow God, which means they have spent their lives ahuntin' God, which a line of thought they are not allowed the chord of which to hear. And so and so they go on hunting God, in the perfervidity.  I should mention, though, they were in a hell of a lot of bliss inhere. NOTHINGNESS‑‑A BUREAU Well, this was no ordinary kid, aged and bakéd in an oven, then a kiln, then finnaly smelting plant located on the oukspurts of Mtrezxinxzamn, the famous, paiseley suburb of the "great [self-termed] metropolis of Xoleg, in the Xoleg District of the Dismay Array, governed in a way by the Inxzam Bureau of the Bureaus of Control of the Planet Bureau, Consolidated Planet Buearu, the Universe Bureau, the Boundary Bureau (or the Bursting Boundary Bureau; we don't know if this bureau really exists except within carefullef placed quotomarks© within the Abstract Bureau of Abstrations in the Daffy Bureau of the Consolidated Co-Bearoucraship of Bureau, the Bureau of Keys, the Sanskrit Keys, the keys more unimaginably complex that the (defunct) Hyperventilated Bureau of the Astral Bureaus, this last bureau (and and thanks for bearing with through our Hundred Bureaus) of the (once) Once Consolidated Bureaus in the Half-Assed Bureau Sector of this plaxe I am talking about, except I yamnaught taking about these, am I (am I?), but this flashy kid, Kid Ggadge driving like a million-colored Drudge down the patented highways of a pastel America (really Mtrezxinxzamn, the city of the infintely recessive bureaus recessive bureaus recessive bureaus recessive buraus I have at last perhaps got ridden of this acrid acrid disease of bureaus, as issued in the cube of my Perfect Certificate (Ciboidal 1101 etc.) by the Disease of Bureaus, which no longer exist, having by fiat of the Universal Bureau branched off into its own separate universe, which I hear is free of the sickness of the Sickness of Bureaus, its own torn cube of a certificate dissolved like salt in the sweet streams‑‑nothing but sweet streams there!‑‑flowing beautide in insufferably deep forests, complete with live hyper-(and like who designs these things?-predators, killers as perfect and funding as your dazzling sharks, which we love hear, not perhaps the love but at least the ache of our loves filt'ring through, regardless, deep-forest predators so perfect and so subtle and (it goes so yawningly unsaid) perfectly subtle [predators!] none even one has been everbeen described (the witnesses with a Universal Tendency to Dead, you see), much less classified, so there are none of our Beautiful Charts on them, for which a moment let me shed these awful tears! like a broken, lonely [predator? predators] imported or as we like to say "unstrung" from the follicles of course of Vovinnia of the Worlds of Pearls, which is where you to get things nowadays. I have the incurable disease of the Multi-Bureaus, as classified by the Institue of Bureaus in sweltering Capital Nexxus at the Centre for Control of Disease of Bureaus (not to be mistaken for the Bureau of Disease or the nonexistent Disease Bureaus of the Spreading Bureaus of exactic Vovvolom, much less my specialized disease of bureaus.  I'll be over soon.  I mean I'll be over it soon, not that one can tell or be incertain chill, I meant sure, what with the dust of Very Strange God *, a God that last abadoned us during the Female Years in the Century of Tears...I can't recall it, the Century of Tears, part of yet another branching unto infinitude and into unfiniteube down the Infinitube on branching on to nothingness, a bureauless, ashen sort of God zapping each one of us now and then, in a way that seems both cruel and random and random cool, so goes the music.  But we're mostly sure she/heehee has like long abandoned us, if only that our prayers turn into echoes, zounding round the echo of our prayerless, empty ears, as vacant as the Interlunar Caves of the Lunar Phosphorous, surrounded as we are now as we are descinding from some great high smewhere through, that is, we are descending through the Gold Clouds Metropolitis which does not exist down there, its existence revoked by some fnicking bureau, anyway... Have I mentioned no one zin these bureaus, that they are just imagined or mechanical bureaus, the bureacrats, per some experts, long since having long abandoned the crusts of our little worlds and gone into soe much Smoother Universe‑‑Vayupan, I believe?  I haven't mentioned that?  Well, it's too late now. But getting back to the boy we are talking about (I hate digressions and can tolerate no embedding and like you all will die at the mention of a bureau.  We are so overgoverned here. To hell with Ggadge.  Let's talk more about our universe, how quickly you heal, the strange substances growing over us with the ease of an intricate eel (e.g., the Eel of Fattilon, its names and capabilites savaged, and then classified, by some fnicking and invisible nyour-O, if you no (no?) what I meant to mean), plus other, miscellanous qualities of our cosmos, Yyl, under which, like a healing blanket, we swelter and we whirl. I am informed (we never know by what or whoom) this is forbidden, and that I need to descibe the gaunt and asymmetric gouges out the face of this rotten and forggtten goddam kid, preceing passages just a typo of my thousand sticks, forgotten wonders from issued from the typos more wondrous than a thousand self-created selves, each inside the other, each a mask keeping one from the wonder oneself, just one of everything‑‑known to be more wonderful than the Bustling Wonders or Unbustled Wonders it create within itzelves, which consists of nothings within nothings here (And as we like to say "All is nothing, and nothing is well"). And so we backspace hundred-thousands of our eerie years.  Someone yawns along the way.  Someone on the train farts, although we can't imagine why, because I believe I said there are no gasses here.  The tense yet sleepy members of the goddam car just jostle to jitterations of the track like Homer groping for a metaphor he hasn't used yet a thousand times.  The numbers get so big here‑‑another fascinating quality of ours. We go back a thousand years, to the image of the meeeting of the kid which is frosen there, which is isolated there.  Ad his face is really marred, like he'd tried to age himself, like a young god fnicking up and only damaged himself, which you see (and all this book leads up to here; and HERE IT GOES:) EXISTING REMARKABLY LIKE a thousand dislocated heres, in the prose of a universe whose sentences can not be stopped, not even by itselve.  I think his face looked like a carven * pipe, with the gouges so deep they could only be self-inflicted, as our herous Wann and Dal just stared at the face of this Self-Mutilating God. He didn't even have the specialty eyes.  He had removed his eyes.  He had suffered torture, just like you and I, and they thought into their respectively reports This is one hell of a sick young gog.  What an infantile God! "Looks like Ggadge has descended back in time (as we believe in time), in inversion straightaway, revertzing cleverly way back along the blinding Strings Of Time.  Simple, brittle logic‑‑bright as the Cube of Dorigenese‑‑says sit waiting for him (smoking and checking our phase-conrast watch reactivated constantly by the moves of the millennia or Millennial Moves, you see) through an unknown set of the bustling centuries. ...Or else you could bestow us power over time, of course.  Informal request:  please grant us (temporary but eternal) power over time.  Formal Request sent:  ejection out of time, freedom to move outside of time.  Here's an old parchment request we found in the dust beneath the dust.  * holds it with two fingers and sags sideways his endless head.  It is a brittle request for time.   Ah...we have noticed that his face is gougéd out, what's left of his many faces gouged right out, way past unrecognizability and through the gouges and furrows of the Gouges of Eternity, then back through the Plasma Rings and back into the universe, then with an exceedingly painful surreality, back into recognizability.  He must have gouged it himself, in self-mutilation or possibly self-retaliation.  We have no information.  We have no time.  Please advise." And so it "came to pass," in way that phrase, standing at the bus stop, smoking fag after fag after fag, each one pre-yellowed which is a craze here, a craze here, and a creze here here here here that the childhunters Wann and Dal were enabled to move through the so-called fringe circuitry at the Moorcock-patended Ends of Double Time (a fine time creamy as a double brie!), such as we have it here, to track down the gouged faces of Ggadge, the Gouged Face of Ggadge sort woven with this particular tress involving God's Great Night (I don't know know and don't want toknow how else to put it) which in its own self-intricacy spectrums through everything‑‑so it's a beautiful, great projection of a gougéd face that playeth unabashed within the spectres of God's Own Light before us hallucogenically. "Nice face," says * uncertainly. "But I see it's rather gouged in this array." "Did you...did you gouge your face yourself," * finally blurted out.  They awaited pain, their shadows cut severe in the floodlit, vacant plane surrounding them. "God gouged my face," said Ggadge, and he smiled despairingly.  You could see he believed it, because all this blood flowed out of the gouges suddenly.  Wann and Dal, so moved, worshiped him immediately.  They cried and cried, any healing power of the tears transformed to dust even more immediately. But lo, did Ggadge look kindly on our friends as his great Gouge-gouges (cut much more like clay than flesh, though our flesh is naturally far more clayey than fleshily), the crush of the dust and the blood from the gouges‑‑which flowed like dust, as we say‑‑bled like crazyilay.  It was an emotional scene, recorded and classified as a classic‑‑one of the one of the Ancient Gusts of Folk-Existence back in old-fashioned "reality," and of course the svhoolkids made to look at it today, even in the rich, ripened twilight of today. * is the one who keeps wandering off into the electorinc snow which knows no particularities, which is the sweet and perfect cold, in which one's personaliyu (*'s personality!) becomes encrusted with white emcruxt!d x!ith w*!t? wherein * withdraws from the thoughtless scene, withdraws into thoughtlessness, evolves in an instant or two to this thoughtless being, white as the hair of that woman (you've heard this?) gnawing on the hand her friends had hung in the dark insanity room, transported to that made land of snow (where everything's a storm! in fiery dynamic fire! where it's not even cold and where there is no reality, even from which to flee; where there is nothing Just you...and me. I am not so sure about me.  * takes his break, and meanwhile * stands within the great * whorls of the scene, where this explosive * god had been, and jots gnodes into his five-dimensional cube3 (actually 55 dimensions, called 5-d for short or for the shortnee of breath where you stand inside the [still-living] force of the Forceful Whorl, still full of vibes and generating thoughtforms of a queer asymmetry, like the trail of the child as he moves throuout infinity, touching a fat gas planet here, imploding a densely-populated world, such as the synthetic Lisho, Planet of Twirls, Planet of Beatitudes, Planet of Pleasure of the Many Worlds, Planet of that long-leaning slide right into time (there has never been time; there has always been the slide through the tunnel of the tides of time; there has always been; there has always; there once was is, but not anymore (much as the lady, old and still with a lot of her sweetness not yet altogether dried out in the drying * desiccations of old age, who held my wrist in a delicate claw, almost brittle, ready someday soon to fall off, ready for death, ready for anything; where was I now? and held my thin wrist in her delicate claw and said "I used to could cook‑‑but not anymore," and then a minute or so from that moved her lips imperfectly to the echoing voice, deep in the thickets of its own repurcussions, like the repurcussions now coming back to you‑‑and when I say "you" I mean me, God help me, I mean me!, buried in the famous Steam Forests of Lagon la GÖN deep in the forests, where there is no wild creature but can stalkyou to the aching-from-too-much-adjectivity right as I say into the arc of your Arctic Infinity (what‑‑you didn't know you held in your brittle paw the Arc of Infinity? just 'cause it's invisible to you as you are to me?  Are you not kidding me?), the vicious arc of an Arctic Infinity‑‑best we could do, what with so few tools of infinity aspects of infinity arcs of infinity our-famous-arts of infinity, passing over * with a mysterios wave as we cross the great ice plane aboard the Ice Plain of humidity (this is all too much, isn' we?) and the Untoward BREAKAGE OF Grammaticity abd the unseely grobe into the globe the brittle globe of mine glass infinity, meaning my infinite parenteses; I can't help it‑‑this is just the tRAIT OF OUR reality (within which, aching, adjectival me)‑‑there being, anyway, few circuits of the great indifferent Infinity around here, see,  from the Depths Of Insufficiency And anyway, he not-so-much jots as he pokes in his gnodes most indefagibly, flagging only when the cube of his gnodes explodes, scarring out great portions of his face and then going on to explode other Stuffes, [your FAVORITE ADVERB HERE!!!] phantasmagorically And so he riffs up from his gnodes to meet Supordinate Superodinant ##Ouallopyyjjyyoe Imeatenchyeeoe, handing him some sort of writ, except it's a distortion of some kind, like the Smoke-Plaes of Infinity, only less so, except it's a poke in the face, gougingly, except that the goddam write is Ggadge himself, grinnig shockingly‑‑and so down a corridor of lies, like the one-way corridor dropping you off in a future as incomprehensible you know as one of *s jabs into his cube fifty-five-infinity, excep that that except. DO-C-DO Fatagbile fa TAH! bi Lay? lights this long and ornamented fag, an etiolated cigarette-like thing seen nowhere (not even under the emerald stones glowing as from some bad fantasy‑‑I've looked!‑‑whose smoke blows cleaner than the air itselves, and doth blowse magnificently.  Fat believes nothing that you say.  All he does, really, is lean around on doorjams‑‑someties even mocking up his own substaltial jams, with rhe jam-word I mean the magic-word ajms‑‑taking pause now and then to effortlessly negate (sometimes in agony I mean in insult, sometimes within the furrow'd innuendos of his curious words* *these are ancient words from the Ancient Galaxies, of which there are three, none of which we know for certain to unafraid of legalities say "Yea, Fat's from there," but I can say, and this on advice of my attorney, Deag (rhymes with dead now, doesn't it, hey?), with the frost of a corpse indeed upon him, but with bright cheeriarity* *I say this to avoid using Certain Words (see Certain Words [I see certain words {and the words see me!} and I can't believe it!] That I Can't Believe I See!) I seeand anyway..., slapping me on the back with a hale-jolly-fellow and a do-se-so (see Appendix C of Do-C-Do* pronouncéd "Dough" like "Dough" like a Certaine Doe) and a hale-to-a-very-well-met-fellow O and my body vibates like jello with hey and a ho and a hey nonny-no (I think this is accurate but I just don't KNOW!!!) inaccurate and corrupted and, like the white flesh of my lawyer, dead. Dead?  What does being dead have to with anything, much less having to do with having had to do with anything, I put to you?  Dead changes nothing here.  Dead has no memory.  We just hoist on "the cold jelly of our indifferent flesh," as Where was I?  OK, ) I can say Deag's ciganiliosNil! as Predominour or the rugged Fleppent say in thier "Mutual Poem," mis-flagged not-like-a-plane Retrievable Anywhere, because it is not retrievable anywhere. Stop that snorting.  You can snort when you've finished oer the book, when you can snort a big one one, snorting moste horribly.  Calm down, OK?  Deag is a member of this minor class of so-called Snorders we have existing here.  They fade in, like Fat here, and negitize your enter right to being.  The Snords‑‑not to be mistaken for the blue Snorgers nor the nasally-inclined and tiny Fnools* *see Fnools you fadoolo. Sea snores snea snoares sniegh snoghres snaygh smghorays sgay sgorneys Sineay Sigourneigh f!aeigh forgorneigh fay faey feigh feefeefee. I resecure myself.  When Snorp socks a snortss he does it bone-chillingly, as in the crystaline bones they replaced with these cheap, mass-maddefactured, uncured "bones" and a so-called bone to Thee, like the crack of a femur on your knee, cracked lie this chinty bone on your goddamned knee.  Yay, he doth snort the Smoke of Eternity!, and when he he snort snorteth the thin and chilly guts right out of thee, by which I mean of course but the silly corpse of thee.  No sound but of Fat's myriad-a fnort would like to kill an undead Me. THE SOUND OF THE FnortS THE DEAD FNORTS [SNORTS!] WITHIN THIS VILEST MISERY It's the sound of the norts.  It is a mean, crude chant, and yet an a dense, intensive (expensive?  ‑‑ed.) filigree (? ‑‑Ed.), containing the entire reacord as of all we know like the heads of a million nedles etched into the head of a pin, one Perspicuous Pin, known as Pnin (not to be mistaken for Pnin, nor forhimself, Pnin), like the Akashic Record Hall i have walked within, but all blurry, see? No, you can't see.  No you can't see either, so you, like me, simply pipe down the corridors of Eternity, by which I mean that which we call Eternity (to heal our souls, remember?  Try to maintain a false sense of certainty with the panes of this reality, by which I mean plot by which I mean words by which as you suspected I mean nothing. This is the perspicuous Pnin, but I can't see ANYTHING! I keep trying to say "Sounds count," but I'm denied vocality.  I have no mouth but I cannot scream; I have this dead mouth, hanging in my palm like a dead mouth. I'm sorry.  That disgusting.  That was disgusting as the eating of a fly. But I have a bleeding mouth still fighting for life, breaking my heart till both heart and the (silent) screaming mouth die together, weepingly.  I'm sorry about these words, sorrier still about all these words (did I say that?).  I will clean it all up even if I die.  You'll see. I have a screaming mouth but I NOT NOT SEE.  Breathe slowly, try to minimize the attack even as it wastes your soul... Bu-but sound counts for Everything, here in this skirted tassel of Eternity.  We're dead, but we call it that that we might feel free on this drizzling fringe of a half-reality (ask what half-assed little Fnool hath imagined Me?).  We dead, you see, but the words heal our wounds in apparency, being nothing more than little aspirins of the astril body, go with me on this one that levitate our feelings in apparency, whilst making us much sicker, of course, so we swallow still more of these transparent words. Hurt lurks deep in the flesh of this blooming ecstasy.  Less words the better, you say?  Then just read a piece of paper as the evening hearth sets fire to your stupid feet. I'm sorry I called your feet stupid.  Mine are stupid, too.  But dead, we we are provoked into these FEELINGS, OK? I can see the feelings as they wisp and vaporize.  I poppalotta dope and drop, "simple as a bee," as Zoddeth say, into this simple simulation of sleep, sweet as a child's drawing, albeit not so rich, which in turn carries me deeper to the Sloths of Consumption or the Sloughs of Exhaustion, so I sleep still more, and so on (you see the equation, right?) down the * of my soul, dead though it be... Please shoot me and put me out of this dead misery! I negate that.  I negte thee!  Vile Sentence, I annul and nullify thee!  Thou art dead!  Thou art as dead as me!  (We have degrees of dead here, see.) This is death.  There is nothing to see.  I tell you only to inform you.  I know you have to keep on looking.  One must. One does.  One nothing.  One one-two-three.  Such vile misery... PAST-TENSE RED THE YAWN OF TIME to A LITTLE KID We see our house dissolve in the missions of the dusk.  Aw, MAN!  God's rules reach us too slowly, now that we've dopplered too far out in the regions of red.  These are the Regions of Red. It's hot.  We look at our watch (and it looks, too, unblinkingly (and we thing Too unblinkingly).  I was a dark and stormy night.  We flip through our calendars.  We have one watch, but a ton of calendars.  There is no reason for anything here.  Damn, but it's raining!  Curse that goddam phrase!  All right, God damn that phrase.  But we won't say fnicking, not anymore, not after the Punishment, which the wisps of the kids called Pünïshmènt, though what they mean, of course, we forever cannot say.  We dream.  We wake upon our dreams.  We dream of huddling in the rain, not of God's answering, not of the news, not of the New Stern Measures... We huddle in the rain while the mission drizzles in the silt away.  Which is a special kind of away we have.  I hope you're following me... Then it comes.  Not the rain‑‑that dried out in the silts of centuries.  I mean the message comes; I mean the New Word comesz.  Comes, I mean.  We think we're kept alive by the inter.upt d bitstream of the messages (the ethernet messages, man!) the subtle messages. We read‑‑and that's past-tense red, which my favorite tense by the way-of red‑‑we read like the message I mean we red the message like past-tense cowboys in a "cheesy technocouloury" (the bitter Cheetz). God's allegéd message:  You just don't fnickin get it do you?  Next time the message comes, BE READIER.  You are kids now, see.  [Muttered:]  Fnickin little weasals [illegible in its unintelligibility]...un in tel lij ah BILL! it he.  Ah... ...we lucked it out this time.  Not the rain.  We didn't luck the rain out, sillybilly.  And we didn't luck the message out, sill-EB.  You silly bee!  It's just a kind of fulcrum, see.  It, I mean.  It's there for a reason but it's just not impart said to me. We get to be kids‑‑and not just kids but fingerpainted pictures of kids in a techninechninology, wherein every kid's a genius (for a minute), see, exchanging their genius gleefully, even more than your world and than formerly.  But you know the yawn of time to a little kid.  There'll never be that message from God, God in the form of that dirty old man stuck in the mud of the washed-out mission, re-veb with cycled phrases re, and anarchy. TERRIBLE VOWELS This all takes place in the Regions of Red.  Or rather,this keeps failing to take place in the Regions of Red, except it's a region something like a near-red purple I imagined once, as a child, when the first car took me away, never to even dream of coming back again except in nightmares setting my teeth dancing on their wicked ends.  I have my teeth re-set every now and then, but it's useless, but I do.  I am too depressed to die and would pray to die but for I'm dead.  We all have problems like that, don't we?  No one will tell me but put a finger crossed on their lips like a sigh, a forefinger etched forever on their lips in a hopeless, metaphorical "sigh," with a tranced and universal Shh! that like to make you die or like like to make you shit and die. "You need cheering up," says Dr. Vk, my doctor, as he flips his Bic then puts it-the-bic bac on his head again.  He has a head, and then he has a head again, does my doctor, Doctor Vttl Vk ( just put your poor old i's and shwah!s where the i's and the shwas should be.  Here‑‑I'll do it:  Dr. V[i]tt[shwa!]l V[i]k, you see. The Doctor has been disemvoweled, having come through the rich neem forests of the Regions of Neem in the rich neem rains of the neemless winds, sopping Neem, cool and dripping Neem, delicious cold Neem, which so cools you that you get a cold within seconds when they push you our the hatch as you struggle with your watch, dropping your parachute as you drop your watch, watching your watch parachuting safely down, happy for them as you sneeze, and have this terrible cold as you slide down the dripping forest of the dripping leaves.  This would be Neem, where the quality of water has long drownded all the vowels (and they hd terrible vowels there, let me tell you, and they had vowels like some localities have bugs, each ugly vowel in the teeming billions and billions (and they would teem, now wouldn't they?  What a terrible teem!) with its little watch, strapped round its hairy ankle like the close-up of a bug's leg with a dripping wrist. We're not getting anywhere with this fnilibration, and I am inclined to blame you.  Seems to me it has nothing to do with you.  Did I say nothing?  I mean something to do with you.0  0This has nothing to do with you.  Gnode and gnode thee welle:  We have these words here, called a sort of arid cough (despite th dew on its beautiful muscles, gee!) roughly tranlakes as dr[i?]pp[i?] j[maybe a shwa, you see?]ll[ee?][shway, maybe?]s (Tranlaking's when you trans across a lake, across a bitter, chill crapulating (I just like the crap!), uncomprimised uncompromising and fee I mean free like the Lake of the Timeless Vowels or Timeless Lake or Lake Time or (rarely) the Lake of the Time Vowels or the Lake of the Timeless Vowels, (and more rarely still) vowels exzipting only in the outskirts of the mean, forbidden outerslides of towm (or time and more rarely still than more rarely still, like the night so still it hangs as if dripping on your metaphorical bones) Something Else Still.  And here I thought you knew this just before this was made up for me.  I can explain all this for a brilliant fee.  I look at my watch falling like a squinting metaphor of thee, my leg like a giant fly's as it slips upon the waterplaning waterplane-u-lar leaves over animated leaves of sweetness dripping like this sublimated lust, as we see [next slide] see.) And these little animated beans got loose like these damp bacteria you smell beneath the the beautifully rotted log within the Perfectly Executed Rotness Of The Long Long Log you kick over with your broken, insect knee, the log of which‑‑fnilibration, not knee, for God's sake; what are you thinking here?‑‑you kicked over and observed took like a picture except it made a sort of cube of the image of the captured image of your knee and forgot all about the poor cold log, dripping deep within the ill-lit have I said dripping? florests of Neem, wet and vowless even in your cube-capturation of the neemless Capturations of of time time time (and don't forget to put the emphasis on the last Time, if you can not-fprget and can.  This I say to you.) And the word of God (existing like a shapnot of a cubic T within him) is fear and It Is Not Truth with God's great and glowing capitalzation of a capitol T.  It is Fear, and therefore we must flee.  We must rush from the word of God as if it were a flood of infinite nee flowing far beneath the flowing of an absolute zero nee. Just to loofen up the zeroes of a tightened nee, those little virus-vowels that (we speculate, we reconstruct) teemed from the rotten log of an ancient game much too absorbing to be got loose from this terrible game I'm going to get through this playing this complicated game in which the Software of the Viruses God says there are favorite word infinite impossibilities O, fnick the Syntax! as we belueve they used to say beneath the waters we are teasing out like the fled and sacred secrets of a corpse we are dissecting ILLEGALLY what with canldes dripping hot in the liquid cave of the subway neath the kick of the Neem we see, themthere vowels they used for viruses in the game we speculate uselessly existed in the squint of a squinting vowel with this neem dripping in his yee One last time:  these virues that they used for vowells in the maybe-game I am displacing that they had here once here that they had here just once! back in the Vowel Age, when everyone's belly I say everyone's belly was just so fat and thus teeming with neems.  I mean vowels.  I correct myself.  I stand corrected, then sit corrected for a while to my little rest my little insect insect legs. I think (and God knows) we're having a blink with words right now; we are having a blink alert.  We have to put on our blink hats (kind of nifty, re-al-ly) and dip to the subways, once so lofty with vowels and neem.  Then struck the plague.  By the we come out, it was dripping with no kinda sun and was vowels and like dripping with these dripping and drizzly neems.  We dip to the subways again, but there are no plagues, I mean the plagues, with naturally append themselves to the big blinking bellies I mean dripping jellies got out and displace our words like the dark aliens of the Lalines and corrupted our words and hence our memories so we cannot report much further on poor Nee. ELAPSED SCALLOPS THE NUMBLIMBS OF WORRY Dr. Vk weaves out from the dispixilations of the fnilibration to examine me.  He looks at the awful liquid of my face through a yellow tube.  It is disgusting, oily with oil from an unclean world, like the oilbogs of Bopilahy or the unseen oleatography of the bleming Hills Of Gree or ineditable Notfound bosham-sauce discharged in corpulent munificence on those inedible Blue Salads of Superfluidy they serve at the turquoise gloughbars around the turquoise "skies" of Gorque, the inside-out world, down by the huled and buffy cubes comprising the Alleys of Syladinay (the Tourist Secors, so speciefied and so and so zoned by the Council of Ebhoare, some say the first council (but scholars who go IN there, who go INTO the oil, undulatant against the membranes of their immensely sensitive eyes. Those are Dr. Vk's words.  I can't keep the quotes around them.  They slip mucilagenously away. "Someone's killing you," he say.  He pulls his face closer to the play of the several humorous he has tubed out of my eye. "There's so much of it," I say, but he isn't listening.  He has of course filled the intricate \ rooms he has filled me with music most fulfilling and true making me calm and happy as I admire the amount of death someone injected in my eye.  I wonder how he did that, I smile. "She," says Vk, clinking the tube into a perfect tubular stand (that smiles at me!  No...it's reflections of the smile of me.  Sorry.  I apologize and am most sad and sorry *[syl] indeed.  I am sorry for that and will conclude the tale most instantly:) Herewith ending instantly‑‑Eth, the Tale of the End of the Death of Misery. and putting his hands in the slits of his horisontal pockets like your doctors do (we stole that from your doctors, along with the bent for healing  anything...), says. "It was a woman who slit this poison into you.  Pretty craftily.  A mean woman.  A mean and simple woman who has seen pain because of you, who conitnues to wait for you, who is tracking you, who is poisoning and killing you in increments of pain and imperceptibly.  A genius of pain!  A queen of veneange, she!‑‑her bile bred wihtin her over what looks like...yes, beautifull baking centuries, unfilled and hollow, with this slighly yellow love in the form of some kind of dead pollen drifting oer the scallops elapsed scallops of a pain repeated for her (strapped into a chair and with her eyes spread open, fnicked by the screan taht fnicks her) endlessly "OK!  Enough about this woman!  How do you know these things." The Doctor hoods his eyes and shakes his head with a pity much too fluent to be bearable.  Very professional. "Our tests are delicate," he says, with the pgrase tossed round the word like a saffron candy caressed around the roundness of his tongue, dissolved in a double-rape sucking the juices of their bare-naked prey.  You can see that the word is not "delicate," but a technical word, delicate flushed with meanings he holds inside with a tickled and perfervid pride. V!k, in short, has this has this shit-eating grin on his face.  His mouf mudge and fandaddles constantly.  He is pleased he has look inside the subtle fluids of my as it sleeps formelss in the canyons of its anaesthetic imagery ("When you gonta wake me uuup?" Crooned in the groggos of a swoony slur.  "Never."  Spake sharp in a rhythmless spike, although kiddingly.  "Nahh!" the Doc goes on, his hand dispersing everything.  "We're gonna wake you someday. Don't worry."  But of course I can't worry.  But hell‑‑he knows they took numblimbs of worry far away from me...Ah well. Enjoy intangible scenes within the socket of the cave that cushions me...) "Well, who is she?  I can't die.  I have work to do." The Doctor pats my little leg with his Deep Concern. "Of course you dooze," he coove.  "I've refilled your eye (here it is), and have given it back to me.  You'll notice in the morning, when the brittle dawn of the clinic wakens you.  You will wake up with your eye in your hand.  Follow the instructions of whomever passes by [I like that whomever!].  As to your situation‑‑being slowly murdered, by a woman so piqued with malignity she has become ... smarter than all of us But you know how the police watch everything.  They've probably already probably swallowed my report and will probably somehow, you know, do something, probably affixed to your situation specifically, and will at some point something to somebody.  You can almost bet on that (but you better not bet‑‑not in your condition, Zug!)! "Ahhh...That will be six gigs of drucks [which are the nuggets of Our Fair Currency]." (And by the way boy, do I cough up when he press on my tongue that way!) "Just wake up, put in your eye, go home, try very hard not to sleep or die.  Just sit by the shadows of your walls, and wait." GOOD VERBS FOR SQUINCH Now what happens next, just to putz the brillig bugger in its own fnicking Context Of Impossibilityhermetic goddam, simileas doth the Padget of the galcyon Cyplyggidym um like to pops innumerable eyeballs into the crown of her blossom'd Sockets Of Fertility, which we like to think all the more it is impossibly so, continuation of similelike so many butts of the pollenating bee, takes place as I said within a remarkable archological dig I saw about in the knewswherein inwhereknew's defined as the so-called "soi-distant 'tubing factors,'" wherein we search endlessly for things and search our time moste "dym and dysamlly" (and I am still looking up hopelessly the squnitng image of the poet, Skyntte, for thee) wherein we see awful things and we fail to find such things like so many nightmares we refuse to see,* *though, not to slow things down, we actually "unervved the technology," because in truth the technology struddles from a smaller, found, and quite alien technology, such that because of its Fnoolisch size we have to choke the soft tissues of the tunnels of our vision, see, which is extremely bad and which is why some dead visiotrs call this the Universe of Scrunch, but just so long as we can see (and Gows what lapsed entity reports this stuff to me!) (I will spit this OUT, goddammit) the knowledge of What Happens Next comes with difficulty (or was discovered, or was like "tumored" as the kids say "on the knews") within the so-called sockets of some very awfuul context, see, within the finds within the awfulable, unknowig Knolls of Impossibilityexist existwithin thesehere Ragged Digs along the floors of thishere Scraabalostical Sea (all but lost as we can see can we in the fine and the unblocked passage of my transgalactic (so the kiner dubs have dubbeth-tahme) the Fraxxle of Dygdytheree, der-EE, wherein we see here on the knewsere ...OK, the knowledge of what happens next comes to us thanks to the works of the fervid "reanimate Archologists" of the Anctivated Bosks Of Of Reacademina of the University of Bosk (defunct) in the combed Ridges of Reality the grim-but-at-least-once-living archeologists see (and still see (and still still see (and see (and and neversee) in the dying tracers of an acid-trip much too indelible to be legally recalled, you see, so like the Supordinant here defined as "some government thing that we cannot see," in any case in the form wihtin any case of a poor, ripped memory full of the gahses of impossibility, full of these dead archeologists (that's dead, friend! the archeologists‑‑dead, you see!?  Changing their minds again and again, in the same recursive tics that they had recursive tics they had recursive tics that had them in theirr lifes, if speculation-any, see.  Nonono‑‑you don't understand, man!  They had to be dead to even to get in here, see (sing I, in this hyperhysterical shree?)?  They had to be dead and laughing to study this place, dead but for the rich striations of cackles, not left there as The Most Intense of the Dying Thoughts nor of the Stitch of the Inevitable, see) anyway "What happens next [it says within the brok en stri a tions of Ect Opolis of the Ghoulisht Visages, see] was like that she got like the people of the town come up against me, to recompose themselves and rather sort of rise up and reformulate themselves through retentin of some awful matix of impossibilities, known as The Principles Of The Matrix Of The Molds of Impossibility, which were the gossamer levitational gravhills of decompose The joke being that there were no people, no town!  Nothing just but the Jussbut Oozepis‑‑you know, the dead town! the dead town, known as Cadaveropolis Langfritz nor Corpseburg or Rot or I don't know whatall... ...anyway, so the people coagulayte in these insufferably imperfect versions, see, long antedated software of themselves, you see, squatting on a platform much to dense and squinched and small (there are so many good verbs for squinch!) in which to breathe, yy-yy, and so now coming after me, in vengeance of their dad (for me! and here I thought here I was the goddam dad-yy-yy-yy-yy!) I canexplain this thing‑‑you'll see but lie apparently they thought not (that I was the dad), suggesting I was not the dad, but rather the blondish Ggadge, was their dad, accoridng to the findsings and in all the Likelihoods of Apparency... AUTHOR SAYS "INHERENT NASTINESS OF THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN RE VIVED!"!!! or THEY WON'T BLOODY TELL ME ABOUT MY HAND! Wann and Dal are seen in the fnortfnicks of Unauthorized Anthropologists in turnt aking pictures of their own of the little village, like *, here, shapping the pictures of this family, fighting, so  typical of The Nastiness of Those Who Have Been Re Vived ...as in the background, blurred as the distance of a yearing eye, Yerbadow of the Yerb of Fantastic City, where I mean Yerbadow sproth like nothing so never nas the insect arms of So Many Hairy Sprouts like the Sproutbogs of Od or the handsome insects (preening their arms!) of the steam-fissures of Qiqqiqaqikkadee (impossibly concavving into themselves like your insect-furrows!!!), or the Vistas of Cool Neem, cool and quiet Neem, mum and Neem, slowly freezing your ass off with its talk cool and sweet as a mint julep poisoned with neem... Yerbadow sprouts UP! around Revivification Village No. 1, or Reviv, so you have the vista of, say, * taking a fnick with one of those cheap Kodaks we scored a shipment of (I mean the really cheap Kodaks‑‑not those insufferably afforadble ones you got when you ended up getting), back in the Dust Days, it was, I think you, or the early Astral Years before the Great Comeuppance, or after that, during the Twilight Hour, the purple one, whose color dopplered into your face evan as the color dopplered into your face as time unfurled fantastically into the furrows of your face, unfurrowed phantastically in the untrenched spans of a long endless furrow revealing for the Scientists of Time (perfect!  uniform, placid "heads" floating over bodies stripped down as a rockdrill of unfurrowment unburdeneing itself to you in the night, with lots of tokes on the green ciagr (import from Osso?  Pelaxxo?  Pellaxxio? perhaps from the absurdly unclean burroughs of the Epilusian iospace, leftover frozen iospace, where apparently Maintenance had apparently broek [sic] down or else forgotten uh how to tidy up ANYTHING?  No...none of these, none-nana-nun-nun-NUN [sic [sic] sic]...) some of the secret arrays time O! covert Time!!! can exhibit, now as it were that it did have time furrowing endless in the sweat of its brow‑‑not so much from work as from Kekteyedough (kek TIE dough) Tekdiedoe also known in which too much information comes at once, leaving you with your legs spread out right on the streets of Yerbadowe! They (and here I am referring to our heroes, dusted off from the so-called Attic of the Vivisectionists we are forced to clean, wherein my hand, pudgy as a child's, or maybe a child's hand, or maybe a dissected, leftover hand that they gave to me, or maybe just the image of a hand, or maybe a hand (did I say that?) hand THEY WON'T BLOODY TELL ME ABOUT MY HAND! hand sweeps away a lustre of dust reveling the secret codes of another luster of dust secret codes of another luster of codes of another luster of another of, an ancestral code the swiping away of wish declares yet another further deeper and (more secret) layer of another cluster of lust, I mean dust, revealing with a few soothe strokes the clean surface of a smiling book with nothing but pigeon tracks of time, which, swopt aweigh, shows another naked cluxter of Dufft, we are never going to clean)... OK: they have completely forgot about the hunt for Ggadge as Ggadge, standing above with Jesus, with each arm oer the other's each shoulder, laughing much too hard to stand, Goge and Jesus standing over them‑‑in that invisible way your gods have of standing over them, laughing in great roars the roars which caused the mythical Tears of the Laughing Spleen (as if they had spleens!) standing over them, the gods' standing sort of over them and slashing * tears down onto them in sweet turns of the Melancholy Turn, which is where the gods go to sit on the benches and cry, now and then thorwing something at the locker of their defeated team, which goes "Ow!"  Tears flow out around the cracks of the locker doors.  Nothing can stop them.  They are filing up.  Nothing can stop the gods' if-that's-what-they-are's own tears, not even if they, still-sniffing, shove the doors into airtight certitude with the elbows of their deserted turn. The gods die drowning with tears.  The gods die in the locker room, drowndinning with tears. They are wearing thick glasses‑‑not so much to help nor to hinder the search than because Ggadge and his pal Jesus (holding even He no mercy for them, but holds their nerves in disgusting, cleans'd clusters in his hands) think it just adds to the funniness, and you can forget all that stuff about the godsthe godsthe the Nonsense Gods, drowning in tears of the greater gods (O! so much much greater! HA!).  Here Ggadge doesn't even have his feet wet, if he manifested feet at all (but we do see FEET there‑‑quite explicitly! I think), and Jesus has this phobia, and will not have anything to do with water or with feet‑‑that's just the way he's come to be. They've made so the glasses get small all of a sudden, or slide in mucilage right off their nose [budget problems; we could afford only one nose for this scene  ‑‑ed.] and crack, and change settings‑‑all specifically to blind them, for that the gods love to blind, O the gods just love to blind‑‑just to makeit funnier, and it is. You nor I could never watch this.  It is way too funny for us and has been somewhere in the tuxts of our hidden universe somewise. THE SLEEP OF SCREAMS * was playing cards with the * family.