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. "Yea, there's this old myth of Gadge," father * was saying.  "We were formed on the body of Gadge, it says.  We were formed like a big ascription on his body, where it moulders like the great grey mountain, Fadge, we're built upon." He chuckles, mindful of the nililators searing flames into all of this and the smooke gliding out his nose like the last increasing gyre of a broken bird. The bird is golden.  We have all similes gilt-ded here; we have all similes gelt, this bieng the Ruptured Universe of the Broken Gelts, where gelts must have once meant simile but is only a placeholder there, not even the finest crust of a rent meaning there.  But that's just words, like a bunch of children, playing with themselves. And I mean that in the nicest way. The cameas * soothe and gloar over the surface of the family there, expiring beautifully, as the nililators of the nililators rain this image oer the faces mindless as berries grinning in condensations of their own idiot glory with this faceless rain oer the Face of Grummilee (the universe is watching, see), all of wish brings us back to the dry, smiling face of father Grumilee, nodding, his Meerschaum nodding as well in lateral discriminations of its father's nod (he is the father, and the Meerschaum is his fine and brownéd son!). * nods, too, and he's smoking, too.  There is some sort of invisible whirr‑‑it sounds like a double whirr, like the inclinations of a helix doubling in upon itself, the crafty helix whirringin‑‑whirring around them, and they want to flutter their hands against the air inside the auras round their faces butcept they can't, thier arms, much less their hands (which have fallen off (in embedments) off in bedding bedments) em having withered from some kind of actions they fought in long ago, actions which have been suppressed by the Action Doctors!!! quite some time ago‑‑before we all became encrusted, don't you know. And * nods and looks at *‑‑who is also here, but more like a phanttom as I said before the action doctors!!! Cut it off‑‑who is also nodding and laughing and smoking, and dig how his smoke's abounding oer the edges of his eye like a sacrifical eye, so he's got one eye closed in protection of this deteriorating smoke. "Cut!" someone says (I am reminded of my old friend Bob), but it just annoys.  Nothing is cut but has been ages ago long cut, and it serves only to annoy. Poor Bob!  He's not directing anything! "Has it ever occurred to you," asks *, with that petitoning poke of his outsize Meerschaum, nodding lie a son raised perfectly‑‑ a son without a mind, "that this all might be some artifice of Gadge?  I'm in."  And he pulls a card out from the steaming deck, like some broken stack of cards long stepped in the moistures of an ageless meadow, or in the dank of the humid glades of the Gladelands of Horeemkeenily (whore in KEEM a lee) Whoreinkeemnally (hore in KEEM a Lee), which some say gon forever, go on for ever like magnificent tears of a compassionate Gadge, still living, but only able to weep this rain we've been having here‑‑a rain which never nourisheth but just decays.  Decayeth, I mean.  I for consistency do mean.  Anyway, it just decays things, this bloody rain... The card slush like a wetting leave onto the compost stack of the spectral game they are playing here. This moisture's wrong," thinks *, his fag drips limply like a depleted cock bobbing right there in your face as wet as the face of a crying child.  We have playgrouns here, but the children hang and weep like little lost gods in there... His partner things a thought just about two notches away (Thought 4518732110167.496K versus Thought 4518732110165.501K, each thought numbered here like some serial number of the soul. We sleep, and yet we cannot sleep.  We scream in our faceless sleep like the Sleep of Screams. Now where is that mouth?  I know I had it here... They look at one another, let the cards fall from their hands (they are merely leaves from a nether tree of the baby forect of trees I once wept at, growing like the forest of my forsaken son (a forsaken son being a dead son here or anywhere), and are losing the game even as they stand up, like two Marlon Brandos bludging their chairs back with the leverage of their back-erected knees. The chairs, of course, gasp deeply inward with the usual "Huuunh?"ing bawl. The family loves them and wants to look up at them as they verify and leave, where verify means acticate by some stupid means.  This is all being translated somewhere, behind the smoked, imbreakble panes of the Observation Lab, by people either eyeless or wearing some sort of eyeless shades.  I cannot tell from the billows of this mountain I am lost upon.  I am without food, and fear I have been misplaced, but there has never been placement, never food... So there is no goodbye, the family encycsts forever there, with the love and the anger and all RADIATING PAPERCLIP IN THE BRILLIANCE OF YOUR HANBD But in any case Wann and Dal are snapping out, so we can all wipe the complex condensations off our face, mindless as the berries of some simile, now lost. They are smiling and nodding, with smiles coated on thier faces like so many disgusting tongues and nods bobbing like one of those grandiloquent dobber-nopplers, mysterious toys of the suprarisch *s [superrich] of the worlds of * [universe of Flowers], with its flowers that kill just for the kick of being a giant flower able to kill in a universe where qualities‑‑the very qualities themselves!‑‑have decayed like phosphorous faces of the phosphorous skulls, dense, dense! into exchanging faces much as the Moths of Lyra * disintegrate into birds, I mean exchange beards and how the moths in their madness exchanign beard after beard after beard. Until no one knows which beard is which, you see? [Ah...the apocryphal dovver-knoppfliyar toys‑‑and not the "dobber-noppler" toys, which existed never also, but in a different, nonapocryp way, were as the author say these bobbing faces like leftover grins, were said to be fabricated from the abraded poor‑‑whole souls clawed up from the dirt of the depression doctors now say would turn anyone to dirt, anyway scrabbled up, if I might say, to make these idiot, nodding toys for the grandiloquent super-risch (and not eeven them, but rather the mensa super-risch roosting on the top of the 99th percentile of even them, nodding with dignity so intense their backs snap back into their own reverse dingity of their snaps, or something like that. ‑‑The Author, His Forgotten Gnode] These toys I was talking about, another allusion snatching my face like some wet, echololiated swatch of face (which is what all the faces here resemble, trust me on that) while I was trying to tell about the dumbfnicking noddings of our dumb, fnicking friends as they come out of it, sitting in Imeatenchyeeoe's latest office (how they always change! Always the same office‑‑the same breness caked * with ornaments of light, nothing but the bare gloss of the glossing light, blinking with the radiance of A sTUPID gOD! (gOD IS SUPID HERE; he makes a rubber suit to crawl in, where he can be as brilliant as he likes, all in the radius of this arc, whatever that means, packed in the idiot brilliance of this paperclip) in the form of this paperclip, radiating right through the bones of your forgotten hand, what can I say that's not been run over in the trains of time?) OK, these toys, let's say, in contrast to the glum of Grum's office, another office copied onto the absence of the older ones, each office remembering the former once in a confounding, scientifically-disproveable way, like I say always the same office, recopied like an image oer phase chasnge of your vacant memory (see Vacant, Interlunar Memory, passim), whose mouth teem with the mathpros of memory‑‑such as the bacteria of spring memory or the memory with eyes beneath the streaming weeds, or memory as this Press of the Teeming Weeds or memory as the metaphor of sad, sad sweetness waving in the warning of the streaming weeds (that's maybe what Goschongga meant in her "streaming like the videos away," in that epic of hers‑‑the last one, I think I heard lost logs of her voices trying hard to say in an age when no jokes were funny, no one could hear you, and even this stupid God returns your prayers in a sort of unmarked, naked way (and an insulting way!) Lost Streaming Videos [from the text, if you must know, so vexed out stakinglay, like the jots of that careless aircraft teased in reconstructions of its own atrocious ruins (this the good ship Shame, in ruins, we might as well say, now that the intention of this passage along with any other passage conceivable in the relics of our lost, forgotten math, has been thoroughly numbed, thus cured, thus transcended, thus done.  ‑‑ed.] so ancient just its fragmental phrases infect you with feelings that make you wriggle‑‑feeling that they used to have that you cannot even say‑‑!) "You guys all right?" says Grum, who seems to be buffing up the bareness of his nails of his fnicking nails "I was thinking how this paperclip reflects the hand of a brilliant God," says *, glancing over to * for his approval but the glance glancing off dangerously, you have to watch here what your words do say, bouncing and bumping * off dangeorusly, even nicking our Imeatenchyeeoe right along the palance of his cheekbone, explaining that cut coruscating with these brilliant but disgusting worms‑‑Lightworms of Contagia, I'd say‑‑that has always been there.  Cuts do that here.  Cuts here just cut waYS BACK to the imprimpus of the start of the subway of time (you glance at the face of your watch‑‑glowing and coruscant with words‑‑and you even shake it...but it has no scope here till the train arrives, and when will that train arrive? Well never, see, 'cause it's the Train of Time. *, now solemn as a [bitter tree], nods his approval, but Grum snatch the clip grom the glwoing hand.  It's all right.  It's OK.  The hand fell off long ago anyway. "You guys are in big trouble," Grummilee‑‑unable to look up from the gravitational field of his nails, for he is using neutron planets just to pare his nails‑‑says. "Again!?" they both say, an audience buried (once-alive) in the aforementioed atrocity, but still lending laUGHTER to this day, if it be day. ...or, to complete my epic Cycle of the Metaphors, just memory in the form of a simple joke, the one no one got, in its simple tattewrs and rags, Poor Memory, its palm out, begging in a daze. Anyway, in the manner of my cleansing anyways, they both received Technical demeits of the first degree, procedural demerits of the second degree, and generasl, for-the-hell-of-it demerits in no fnicking degree, and sent back into the Forgotten Fields (if you can call that swump a field!) to work harder, not enjoying it this time) I forgot to say. They were approaching doors with their instruments fanned like fantastic botic in the sky, where a botic figures as the skies of another novel you are equally incapable of red as you are incapable of being live or dead as you are my friend the Great Incapable, lying and farting like a god in the sofas of the skies, when Ggadge (gnoded down in their records for some unscryable region as "the Apparency of Gauze"‑‑I guess they thought they saw through him.  This was the time, after all, when they thought thy could still see through him, like he was a baby again, fresh from the gauzes of the hatchery (which might be a glue to that gauze-apparency thing we gnoded passing at the spectrals fields of light before before us us us us), and not some seasoned little devil spiced in the mellowness of tie and tie forgotten and time slipping out of your hands lie so many green balls you stole from the planet‑‑helpless as a bunch of goddammed damned gauze balls in your helpless hands‑‑ripened like the fine old Meerschaum your father waved in his outside hand, an outsized Meerschaum bobbing, glaring at you... They were approaching doors with their weapons drawn.  Yea, they'd put in for weapons, some say making their own blid for power, yes they did, and they'd drawn the wepaons, which kept on drawing and redrawing themselves, as the weapons on the cutting edge of the weapons bled on the cutting edge of the weapons drawn and bleeding into the last broke barriers of tie confined to the edges of a broken tear.  Time is so edgy nowadays, don't you think? Time works so hard, so pTHETICALLY driven and hard, to seem OK, it seems to me these days, but it's temrinal.  He's temrinal, time being only but the edges of the tears of a forgotten god who hath forgotten why he cries, tears bing close to anger here, hence God, hence time, hence all of us, eyes edged softly but nervously toward the edges opf a rage so virulent that it blows out our vocal chords RIGHT AWAY, with the tears approach the Doors of the Broken Syntax in a broken way, its will broken more than your spine as they towed you out to earth, your spine stretching magically‑‑only something much more malefic than that puffy word magic much more mousily conveys, but I don't have the time to look it up right now (time is in tears; time is in a rage, you see, time with all these messages scattered bout its spread knees, time in a rage of tears about these messages, all rumors of the Next Impending Torture for him, see, where a litte rof messages tell me even as I write like a billion other idiots sendig messages within messages, each a virus, each telling me the messages I just can't sem to click to tell me time is me. Wann and Dal were in any case approaching the doors to this jolly great house they came on so susupciously in the trail of the gossamer Gauss [refers to nothing here  ‑‑ed. refers to nothing here, ed.] refers to nothing here nor here nor here nor here nor here, where Ggadge yawns in his great etheric gossamer goddamn house, and they are trying to report but is too much statuic, so much static that it makes you made, and it makes you fat, the static of some rage so great that it makes you dwarfed and fnicking fat fat fat.  You are not a reader.  You are not even a reade, so unworthy of reading are you not.  I am not writing anything for you‑‑not after you used me, even while I screamt and you did it more and more.  You are not a reader, you are a torturer, nasty as that brute brother of a bleeding Christ, Christ's punk and wretched brother scratching his boils the steaming irons he is going to shove so far up your ass your eyes cross right where your life begins.  Specific explanations given in the metatext, for a stiff fee based on acceptably prescient questions, paid up-front. Their weapons spreading and spreading like so many gossamer fines, or like the instruments of one of those botics much too fie to exist for long and way too crazy to kill‑‑but that was in rhythm.  That was a complex, rhythmicalsence, breathing euphoric as a mountaineer with his lines cut on the bleeding mountain, the climber cutting his lines lightheaded with his suicide's delight. Waiter, I'll have the Suicide's Delight, we all envy the suicide his delight, topped with a cheery of soe unGod's promised light. Anyway they were getting lots of static from the instruments too peaceful in their own outspreading joy to stop, the conceptof Free Will for All Instruments long ago buried in Rescusitated Village Number 1 and forgot, and so we have only gibberish, later teased out from the melting steam, for reports. And lo, did door within door reope, and did they then caustiously‑‑thier own weapons, their own very power, making them infinitely more fearful than forgot‑‑rock forward from one froward leg to its alterleg, stretched towards the Infinity of Naught, pitching up and back in a sort of a crippled spider's walk (and I mean no disrespect for spiders crippled here, for we have so many spiders crippled here and sidling toward us in infinite numbers from all sides, our wepaons focusing for naught.  I mean no disrespect, but it's there all right!) saywhat I may or not, seeing the name Gadge printed clearly on each door, as they rip it off and the ones beneath it off and a off off off... [Gadge throws open a door built a door so membranously soft and shouts, "Welcome to my house!" so they drop their weapons faning endlessly, leaving them to shoot it out and walk like aabies being spread out for yet another round of torture as they walk like the babes alluded to right in.] He kept pulling these eggs off the soft tissue of the wal, only they weren't eggs, they were a child's candies (even now, the child looking under the desk, the sofa, the couch, the great overstuffed chair his uncle sits lauhging in.  Your candy has gone where the soft voice is thrown, thinks his uncle, and the child thinks I can hear that! and knows he is no child at all, but something much more special, much more invidious, and far beyond the tracers in your eye of the first sun ever seen to set forth its beams upon your eye, much more the wounding of your eye, and a being much much hungrier than even those two muches could like a pain forever in your eye assert, like when death asserts the square rot of the death that has, gaily laughing, caught you up like a great ripe candy in his arm. Gadge said a series of vowels I am not allowed to say.  They're in the * [library] of the * [gmt], of course‑‑but then, isn't everything?‑‑and I cannot access that file.  I can not access the file of his syllables, or the slidy sort of diphthong triphthingy polythongisch sort of thing he, his eggs full of mouths, did say. But the whole world knows what he meant when with the ggs melting in his mouth he say, "These are healing eggs I got from Osso.  I'd offer you some, but they'd be more toxic to you than they were to them."  And he srts to laughing, very much as I am laghing now, crazed like a babe in a taxi (and I'm speaking here of the hermetic Taxis of Tevv, which allowed no light in, no air nor even time, such that the passengers were poured out in the form of a great long Registry of Souls (you know...the one we've forgotten here )which means the one we have lost somewhere in the rich green swamps with thier noises, their endless noises as of crocodiles and boisterous birds, their beaks so powerful they could cut you in two, they have cut you in two, they have cut the power cable between your spine and everything we do, they will not listen to you, and the crocs nestle in the noises of the swamp and the crocs just nestle in the swamp and smile and the crocs just smile as the swampt boilsup around them, like some repellant spell, unspeakable as that bolus of vowels I heard despite my self like a chorus of cusses there, wrapped in a coruscating chorus of these awful vowels. But anyway, Wann and Dal, knowing they were never alive nor were not nyet never-net now* (where now means then) then (meaning now) just take their fill of the candies on that rotten Gadge's wall. *Here in the Nevernet I notice Gadge stands there, his shoulders tight and yet slacking down, like nothing so much as a child crushed within the *s of his own damned rage, but he leads them on... He's smoking as he nods into the den.  I mean, his nod, what with the green smoke everywhere around the "substance" of his "head," his nod is smoking so his smoking nod just smokes them into the den, where there are fine things‑‑heads, books of multifarious worlds each breaking language like an egg, a whole sortof sub-den full of them, the Den of the Liars, the Den of the Cancerous Languages, the Den of Puzzlement and Pain, the Den of the Migrains, a simple den or as I tried to say (but YOU FORGOT, didn't you?) a den of broken meanings, a Den of Cheaters, the Den of Bluster, the Den of the Moonhares and the Finnegan Wakes He waves them into chairs so they become like these wavy chair this is a fantasy and he then wincing at his mistake as the gods have I mentioned? just wince at their mistakes, some god greater than them having made it so the gods make nothing but mistakes‑‑nothing but winces and these horrible mistakes, these untenable clues, these laws of physics dead as an egg shot don over water, like the invading eggs of Treedamn as they shot right through the water and then invaded then, this part of their plan from incept of its fsulty seed... The gods are nothing but winces, inactive transparencies lie the smoke of nothingness now invading your den (coming in under the doors now of your invading den!  better run!  better run from your goddamned den!) or maybe then invading your den, only I forgot you don't rate a den‑‑you've got this metal cublicle, you rate nothing but walls of the Nothing-Den so like I said, waving them into chairs of the bleeding den and then like all gods wincing at his inevitable mistake not to mention the cruel stroke of their unmentionable mistakes and their endless mistakes and their mistakes like mistaken macros looping into themselves, macros of delusion that simply will not stop Anyway rewaves them into chairs and then places chair right under them and says "Welcome to my den!" gratuoutiously, but then (meaning now) by now (meaning then) meaning now and then, they're all rocking and nodding as enrichments of the golden auras crown their heads, as they pass thorugh the Den of the Poets, another subsubden (Keats, myself in a former life, all my friends in the lives of their former life, Skyntte, Cheatz, Qualdreth, Predomious Fleppent And then like they flutter like dust into the den the main den and then the teemoing of the den. "I am tired of being chased," says Gadge, waving the pipe of his crafted stem (seasoned through the richnesses of brown to a brown much more perfect than it is, wherein is meant was) at them.  They are smoking these lethally stimulant cigars‑‑the now-familiar Scourge of the White* Cigars of Hanktabadadem (hank ta BAH! bahba ba ba badem, though it's really never pronounced, and even then pronounced like the clack of a bird's edged beak on the cables of your poor poor pwerless goddmn head) *misnomer know they're green‑‑and nodding at him.  You can see their nerves burning out like constipated magma out on them. But they're not tired of chasing.  Tired and not-chasing had beene never been burned into them! "I know you're not tired of chasing," adds Gadge puffing on his pipe like an Orlick, hinching your cracked shoulder higher on the ladder and and deeper into him, getting calm enough to murder you (as the gods can only wince that their mistake!), "but I can make you so.  I mean I can give you peace, which I also know you also do not know." Silence.  They are deeply in love with him‑‑certainly while they're in this terrific den‑‑but he's not getting through to them Gadge wiggles in.  This not going to be so simple as his supple thoughts, he thinks, then re-mark the thought as never-said (invisible and never-said, like the Thought Inaccessible that I never said). And he thinks in the unseen form of the Thoughtless Said, I gotta give these spuds just a taste of my father's grace.  For he thinks God is his father, see!  I mean, that's what we can guess from what was just unsaid. contents of den... THE HEADACHE ELVES And then...Wann and Dal are mad.  They're stalking up and down the aisles of the supermarket, too angry to see, but yet still but yet slamming the heels of their new-found hands right into the faces of the shoppers, creating craters in their brains (not to mention foreheads (shh!! don't mention forheads) I have forgot to mention foreheads) did I remind you of foreheads just then?  Well then.  I have this cratered forehead, see, because of that time on their rampage, see, and I'm almost sorry I taped this thing.  Let's al sit down in my sit-down den (small as the mushroom of a Gigantic Elf [Gigantic Elf ‑‑elf abiding the horrors of his own self circa 19996.a ‑‑edelf ‑‑Alf Elfe (A. Elf)] anelf], perhaps squat might be a fitting word, but who in the world thinks squat is a fitting word, other than my friends Scratchmo, Zip, and Doodles here? and sit down and watch this video I took.  Too bad it never came out in development (and though I have called on the Headache Phone The Headache elves in Development haven's talked yet ever to me), but we can all just envision it in transparency eqals ecstasy, thanks to the drugs I've given them taylored absolutely to thier brains and too the Absolute Brains down in Development have answered me, butcept their reply evidently never met with the Grace of God because it never came to light, you see (and believe me, I've talked to the Light Guys till to put it another way my face shines like the lids of one of those Sapphire Dawns of Azzoor dripping their blue raving like the essence of a tortured man into the "azzoors of your blue," which was I think it Panalaloo, or else Gatchagameeyavu (gatch uh GOM ee ya VOO), or *, or else *, r * or * or * or *, ascriptrions havng wandere here, what with our foreheads cratered right into the essence of our ind, creating lesions of the min into which small vacancies may begin to roam unless the vacancies are minds or are our multitudes of lines I mean minds trying to get back IN just a theory I opinie ee YINE YOINE YINE and so la-dee-DAH croon the relics of my mind, my body folded oer the shopping cart like the fluids of So Many Sappy Brains. Mad, anyway, and taking advantage of their new-fought immunity ("Tch tch tch! Im and the Nonsense Gods which is no sound no one never made do say and-a-soosoo-seigh and a hey and a boo-boo-bay with a Gay and my friend Leonard, just a Goo-Gay which is rarely granted today, 'cause you got to have the presence of a living numiary of the Superordinancy, and have the cermony take place, with the signing of the papers (paper wihtin paper, too!) within the gleaming cube gleaming herself and the dangerously-gleaming pens and the white robes and the incense puckiering up your face and all that, all taking place on one of the Sacred Planets from the Zone de Saceur (ZÖNGUE de lah sack OEURE!), preferably Ganeesh, Ganeesh, who has his own stellar system here, except that we don't have stars; we don't have stars, nor yet no Ganeesh to whom to laugh and pray and pray and pray, with rhe waves (now this is Ganeesh the planet I am talking about here‑‑I mean, after all, what's fair is fair is fair, which is a rose2, excuse me, I mean the cubeof a zone-zone square, gleaming itself in the laughings of the cubes.  I have a book of footgnodes that explain anything coming out somewhere.  I can feel it, coming ut like the Lightworms of Contagia, I'd say. But that is neither hre nor there, which is a relief. Hey!  Don't try to strain your eyes seeing into this perspicuos cube, I say!  Wann and Dal are there, all right, but in a different way... They're mad and they went on their famous rampage, thorugh the desolated supermarket which has been sterilized of the even idea of goods, though there are cans of this cans of this Highly Preserved Everything, and fprtunately no one but me and a few token victims were really ever there, and the more or less sentient ectoplasms walking outside the stoor quickly swept off their foreheads when they saw the angry twins approach them, as in dopper actualities, as Ganeesh, would he wre here, could not but lack not the aspirations all Nonexextient Beings, lacking breath, could not but not-help not to say (which I think doth come out negative, but I cannot say; it's as irritating to me as you, I got to say), that sort of ting (and I hope you're FOLLOWING ME) lost in the smoking Aisles of the Shopping Carts with no words for the breath to say... They wre mad, and they kicked up a fluss‑‑which is a kind of a flosh or fush, which is a kind of a flushing flourish (thank God that, in this day nd age, poetry explains itself!) or the simple, dimpled blush of a Forest Bee in her sweet virginity, which smiles and says I'm NOT gonna give it to you, wnich be the sound no man can bear to hear (though we've heard it plenty of times, I assure). It says {END FIELD} here, but then all fields end, they say. No one can say what happens next.  Everyone is suddenly and suspicoisly dead, who knew what happened next.  But they, wound out on their wounded acids, fell pey to the sitting on the doorsill of a church like weeping little elves, weeping with pain of something they cannot summon back up the labyrinths of time, but which hurts them, anyway. The preist, Goge, comes smiling out of the church.  He is wearing an elephant hat, but it's made so you can see the lips, which tells me what to say.  I have to sit here fighitng with the Cubes that ay, gleaming their little asses, ll of us under orders and hyet much too frightened to say; ikt just goeshat way. "You guys need cleansing," he say.  And he turns back to the church and they trail with the lurch of worms in a different way.  This will all make sense someday‑‑how they followed their own prey into the church that day (it was twilight, really, on Plaike, the so-called World of Magic, where the great gripping trio of the fragile, psychologically damages and thus always prey to the Beatitudes Of Night, but yet stubbornly refusing to sit, like kids unwilling to set, so's to make it twilight all day...)‑‑but he was they only damned cleanse they had, you say. storms raged through the cathedral, storms of a God punching in the foreheads of Love, synthetic Fate and an empty Destiny.   But it was real love He had shattered, anyway... THREAT OF A THUMBNAIL UNIVERSE They paused to admire.  I mean, Wann and Dal couldn't help but admire the taste with which the flowers in the great pots along the wals of the hall of the altar ofthe church of the Love for Gadge (with Gadge making constantly these elephant faces, gad!, as if he were trying to convey some alternate reality to them. And he says, "Welcome to the Alatr of the Alternate Reality!" in crisp, pleasant-serenities of tone‑‑not like your uptight "tenses" you have there, and yes, we do feel ourselves superior to your more vital universe, with its macro overlays constantly running in invisible overlays of pain and of constant pain and of of fource emotive pain and the pain of thoughtforms poking you constantly like these miniature torturers, see, and the planes of reality so much more alive and more intense than ours, and‑‑to return to your great Threat of a Thumbnail Universe (we call your universe Threat) OUT HERE, WHERE WINd doth howl with the Threatof Another Universe: Threat (see my book, which is lost in the tissues that surround us, somewhere in here...ah...anyway, my book Threat!: Threat of Another Universe aching its way round here somewhere where the aches are eventually mild and then go dissipTE AWAY and the arches of light that fly like the great Flying Buttresses of the last Barnum & Baily circus given in the open air, June 16, 1957, your time, also tapering away I say a-WAY! like the great Candles of Forgetfulness existing lie Capitalized Entities (see "Appendix of the Captured Entities, or my dissolved book-in-another-universe Capsized Entities Away, published in another universe from whom I can't get paid with its bushes and its molecules and the constant existence of Pain the great Revivifier vivid But anyway, Wann n Dal paused at each great florid display, each filled within his own house with dismay, thinking thoughts along the line of these parallel thoughts I say:  God!  MY house doesn't have room for all this Moste Colorfulle Stuffe‑‑he can make his OWN space here! Gadge can make his own space, honey‑‑yea. Here hollyhocks, like soft wounded soldiers wandering a lost, forgotten earth (such a Lonely Planet!) wandering the lonely world lioke so many lost pieces of an elf, wherein El, of all things, exists as the whole universe we all want to be, a line of dimishing elves doppler to infinity, each taking its own pulse, nervously.  This all says something or the other untpo me... ...mixed in with References of Blue, those azure-lidded staffs asleep like Keats in the moaning of a poem, and great Peon Lillies, another shadeof blue retrieved by the intelligence of the color of the flower (subdivision of Inteeligence Of Flower, specifically inteligence of the Peon Lilly, subconsort and parallel to the Substance of the Peon Lillies, havng in their velvety way despoiled completely the dulcet (ah! but the Dream of Dulcet, which is this terrific gang e have have here once again pauses everything to everything to play, and to bear my sleeping ass away!) villages I say of the worlds of the Kray Array, which had like the misfortune during another of its consummate-monsoon days, which is one of only the endless types of days that it has, exscuse me, had befroe the yield of the flowers took away, OK, to have if I may may may its fields shorted-dead-outtaway yet another out away {END FIELD}, only yet to now get-yet yet another field {YIELD?} into cowardice, the great achig cowardice which the hapless, also alien, bees of that once-world of serenity‑‑all this occurring as I think I sayed in the monroon rain rain rains from the infinitely sad crashed floral ship (now just a grave (I mean just a shrine and a grave (I mean one of the Medial Shrines of so desperately retrieved from a desert, wounded and forgotten as the soldier, who pauses in someone's kitchen to listen to the blue pot steam and eat some cheescake, just to feed the little heart that beats for sensory consummation O so deep inside Mtrezxinxzamn, in the park more central than any you can say, though your New Yrok kicks the ass out of any other town here anyway, the essence of Fantastic City, Central Park (not to be mistaken Central Park), the abode of nameless gods who have turned into these strangely small, wincing beggars‑‑bt you don't know what to give? All of whish groing over you like a green cerebral fungus, let us say, tells you just how impossibly fine were these floral arrays.  It was like dropping into one universe too purely and imperial to bear, much less to come away, after another universe too peerless and may-I-say "ornately scented with the fragrances (too innumerable even for the bees to say!) of the centralmost bouquet, the divine bouquet, which some line of botanists long since retired into their private desert far and dreamily away, it flows like cream, don't it?, pruned unto fine fettles of recombinant DNA *except it is not DNA.  I have to emphasie that (But I can't!  I'm all tied up here, writing this thing so you don'e fall thorugh the wounds of existence into the wandering meadows of the disarray or the meadows of the wandering disarray‑‑so like could you go back and emphasize it yourself, for a change?  Thank you ever so much in the swells of eandearment of Mine Irony).  It is not DNA but some sort of negation of DNA not even my most supple personal gods have made it possible to design, design for you, much less say in my inventions of say and my conveyances of delay, a sphere in which you hear my voices float arounsd you in their apparelled exposures of the mist dreaming of botanists, themselves these giddy flowers, who have gone away.  Got away, some say. "Please dust off the dust of the flowers and come away," Gadge tels them anyway.  "And pull off those tangles of the vine of time.  This way."  And he FADES OUT as he is walking through the door. We need a director.  I need a director.  Where have Bob gob, adyway? Sighing (see how used to the god they have become!) our friends dust off the green dust of the funguss, nod at the perfect bowls of flowers, and go into the Regions Of Dismay, away. My hand aches from capitalizing.  It is the life force draining from me anway... JEAN-PAUL SARTRE FLUNKS THE CURSE or NOTHING BUT EXHALE Christ's kid brother leans against a pilar, picking his teeth casually.  He is way too casual, if you must know the truth (which will set you free‑‑but after how much pain???), which in this scene takes within this scene within the cube within this scene within the Unseen Cube within the Unscenes of the Seen takes the form of that highly refined rain shimmering down the face (and rather a wiseguy face, not think? its grey yes as if affixed to the middle distance, looking down, looking not after naught after nonafter-you, and yet its sensors out despite all the wise threats of the pain of electricity‑‑which, if you want to "live," you must sample abdundantly in the rain of this miserable life (yea, while this asshoe‑‑soon to be your torturer, in the murky scratchings of that most arduous sacrament‑‑beats you with a piece of cardboard (as Jean Paul Sartre raises eyebrows up in spite of himself!  He doesn't understand!  In all his brilliance, he has flunked the course! and like flips the point off with his eyebrows, uncomprehending, just like that, his reflexs just as sharp but insensible as me and you.  I mean mean and yours.   I mean mine and hours in the amplified hours of the amplified hours of the amplified hours ofthe amplified hours‑‑something like that (I am just trying to clarify, you beautiful big butt head you) background like a Technicolor© thought raised in the beauty of some beauty's eyes, direct above you (as for an instant everybody's eyes, including Slick the Pillar and the Unfound Shinys, which plays music lost lie water down the dissolute ridges of the edges of lap lap lap-dissolving tie, if it's OK that I put it that way, curl up coyly at the thought-balloon) and if not, why, the passage was never written, now was it now?) which is why I say of that pillar he leans on, now and then dusting the showers off, able in this way to seem for a moment clean. Which goes so much to say the pillar had apparencies of a dripping faces (not to be mistaken for Apparency of the Dripping Face, the so-called vision of God they had at Xoudrez, in the province Xudrix, where the later Gameemee Krate lays by which I mean lies like an empty box beneath the rafters of the dripping church. That rot will get to him someday.  "Everyone's gonna die," as Shapeshere say.  I'm betting on the rot...what do you say? Well I beneath nobody as the much say exist within depressions of God's sunken afterthought, quite a metaphor there, and am therefore due to that metaphor that was following me at high speed, Officer, must needs offer myself as the Least to say (where I am the Least, needless to say) how I tried to tauten up the losse ends, if any (as my moneylender lawyer squatting in the rain of the temple begs me to say, adviseth me to say, begs me tosay, for he wants to be afriend, needs me along with my uh money in this richly-textured way, in a need so dire and untranslatable it practicaly slay, all but cuts the throat of the fnilibration, but that I suddenly pull the metaphor away) And the metaphor heaves like the belloy of a blanket1 1an etheric overlay, away...and with relief I cannot say (quote):  "The metaphor hath gone away," for it is not being written here for me to say.  They promised me an announcer, someone with a voice rich enough to cream for, but so far no one has come my way, my weeping lawyer challenged me to say (so I win the bet, Don! Settle, buddy, or I'll track you through the rains of the drifting pillar and the Rains of the Drifting Pillar, in the outlying reaches (the Rain Reaches!) where any and all efforts to move through time end up impossibly marooned. like those bright eyes trying to reach you in the pain of the Impalpable Bushes Of Hell. Anyway, Christ's kid brother preens like a pelican in the drizzles of a marsh, and actually pauses to look at the toothpick he nick with the tarnish of his teeth away.  (Everything is going away.  Don't worry‑‑I have gnoded that.  We exist within a shaped explosion, soe say, but then they, too, doppler away...) I'm not sure that's relevant, but Christ's kid brother‑‑as he dogs me through these novels, no matter WHAT I try to say) exists as the infamous Ethical Stain God had to wipe and wipe and then wipe again (a victim of his own rules! uh...some say) from His peerelss and imperial Eye, a tear of guilt for his fnuck-nups, as the Bible, taking itself in vain, doth say. The Bible burns in hell, by the way.  That passage has been burned out of the Bible, but you can smell it like damp ashes in Christ's kid brother's flesh, which also has a sour smell, not to mention a whole series of sour smells and damp smells and wet-dog smells and help-me smells and opium smells (ah...!) and the smell of a land that has been burned, as Jimi say, and we won't even try to discuss the monsters coming out with his breath in their crisp but sullied array. "Heehh! Heehh! Heehh!! [Monster1 Monster2 Monster3]" he say.  "Got an angle on this kid you're trying to slay." NETHERDAY Now, * and * had never looked at it this way.  Despite the wretchedness of this vicious punk and the rot displaced by rot, or rather, replacing itself with a deeper rot, and the vileness of his intentions and the Chinese dragons issuing out his mouth out of each exhalation (and he does nothing but exhale on this and every day!).  They'd never conceived nor been devised to be able to cnceive the image of themselves wihtin the root chakra of the root word slay, I say the Root Word "Slay!"!, the one word which repeats itself out loud, forming these meta-thought balloons, etc.  You can fill in the rest of this meta-stuff someday.  Everybody knows which way the meta-stuff is going to end, with another meta-fnilibration pretending at once to surround and be wihtin, like a fnilibration that begins with snow falling on your head in a glass ball in your head in the Glass Ball of God's Head and the small child shaking it (we're so afraid he'll drop it!!!), etc.  Please fill in.  I think I cansafely say we'll all wait, looking now and then at the Watch Of Suffering I mean the watches of suffering that watch us in the still watches of suffering the watches of suffering of the suffering watch We watch the suffering.  This God's way... Anyway, even Christ's degenerate kid brother (unless he war a bigger brother; it happened before time; no one cansay...) has this array of powers, cast off like those cast-off alien artifacts melted in the rains of Wheagheigh ("way") like a madman quoting his madness with a strange perfection, Christ's kid brother's Power Array, and one of themthere powers is to imprint this imge into * and * as these two murderers. "Let it fall," they say. Footgnode.  Gnoded adyway:  Never mention rain in the cautions of the wind, for they might strike like the Children of the Lunar Rain, God's forbidden children, I whom of must never tell you nothing of some Netherday.* *Netherday being the day after Sunday implodng on itself, like introspections of impossible pain.  No one remembers Netherday.  I wish you would try to keep up with this stuff. "We're murderers!" they cry at one another, jumping up and down in puddles, and at first we cannot say whether they jump in delight or dismay.  Hell, even KB balks for a moment. Then they start to crying, and we're OK... * and * are destroyed, seeing the big fnortfnick of Themselves As Murders.  As you know, this is always tough, and they need help, but there is never any help for the suffering murders, though we cannot help but love the suffering murders, for God ro something fills them with this aURA OF SUCH VULNERABLE DISMAY, this guilty-stuff too absorbed within itsself to be felt, God or someone'sspecial guilt which makes them much too adorable, like the killer babies of poor, lost-and-gone Tefferay ("TEFF er AY"). SCHRIEBENRÄK We have this fnick, Your Honor (because we always end up in court in these long fnilibratiums), which eeleth itself (looking for a deal!) doubtless from the dense inebriations of water equals time equals the strange and eerie lifeforce of the dead, of which many books have been written, but none dead (it is stipulated none can read in this sector; part I am not supposed to suppose of my writer's reproof in this sector, known thorughout thorughout the Karmalands as my Schriebenräk ..this sour little clippage of fnick, sort os a marlelade, sort of a collage, if you will, writ in its own yellow Spectrums Of Surl (and maybe it comes from the Galaxy of Snurls‑‑we have scientists with radiation blowing like some * Wordsworthian rain through the thorough remnants of their hair (and we have smaller scientists, combing O-sO-thOr)ughly thrOugh those remnants of their hair (and sweeper-scientists, sweeping up these poor desiccated dregs, whistling in the lonely airplane hangar (and we have some of our best men on those whistles (and some of our best women on those men (and special children‑‑you know, the ones we broke out of those old cocoons?‑‑packing ice upon the swellings of this prose, lucid as a migraine, wincing like those defective, lights flinching at the nanoseconds infecting the abandoned S.S. Glabralor (see "Grabbannoure Gadgabloer Cadgenanor," et al.) with the hunger bristling there‑‑just a stupid, endless hunger for nothing but love when there are nothing there but those dead declmations of a lustering love (!), the whole thing just a Ridge of Implantation planted by God's God, the God of Love, as a joke for love all done up as I'm afraid to think I say within the yellow spectra of surl‑‑nothing but shades of misfigured amber featuring the castoff faces of the bugs, the bugs being gods, I mean where the bugs take the form of these awful gods...no...I mean where the gods take fresh formatons as of amber dripping from a dye of  these wondrous bugs. For verily, the Bible says, the Gods [knonw as the Ods] are these lustorous bugs, i.e., bugforms closer to god than they can even tell, their brittle faces burned off in the lusters of a love too bright to even promise not to heal.  This is the green print areas of the Bible I am talking about here.  You don't hav these (except for one guy who spins like a church in his rotating grave, the guy who write these deep green passages, a hand thrus deeply from the deadly green flowers, writing madly in his madness madly off, the Idiot Artist trying to remain anonymous but stuck in the eponymosity of his grave and his grave and his gravey-grave grave and much in trouble all the absolute of time. A fnickle‑‑a fnickivation, if you will‑‑of * and * trying to think (!), tearing out clusters heavy as violins‑‑sweet, dapper, oleagenous violins‑‑of their rippling-but-Promethean hair, wherein new but finfer tufts of a diferent color come out as they are ripped, once meant as a symbol for the thoughts of pain that, unhealed, just keep on coming.  And like they're wailing, too, and they have charts up and different lists, done in different media of the absurd, ungainly palettes of media we have here, meant once to have symbolized the meaninglessness that issue like so many of your overripened, Kaldyanibrian (kal-da NIB! ree-umng) dawns. wherein sun after berrylike son cometeth up before the face of their preceding sun, and all in these "cool" colors, too‑‑all some sort of turquoise balmy blue, all the faded azure of how we remember Europe after the rain, all like the rain babbling, meant to symbolize perhaps the accordances of meanings rising like sleepy stars, gracefully immune to the absurd they were once, in their coolness, meant to symbolize.  They walk through our dreams like lies, like having an eye gouged out just like my mother warned (and I HATE IT when that happens!) like the Goddess Mother rising, dripping with stars. But it's sad to see how slowly and so little they figure out, up against Gadge as they are!  The gods sit cross-legged round a table, layiong the odds.  * and * seem nothing but sediment fomring on the edges of a stream, and we look at our watches, stir uneasily beneath the treet light, being the only streetlight in town!, and watch the ages past, with Increments of Realization (I/Rs) forming one and one.  They're doping it out, we concede‑‑but of course getting nowhere with thier graphs. "What's this bit with the churches?" wails *.  "I just don't get this divinity stuff." "We weren't meant to get it," says * in the vacance of an interlunar cave.  His face is the one thing in focus, what with those eyes, staring dismally from thier airless cavities.  You know, it may be * has superior brains, and they are not as identical as our readings say.  We have scientists riding the tufts of their manes like a wavering, impossible field. Wavering, because they are thinking more than we thought‑‑I mean, the thought that they were thinking is itself an impossible thought we are not, Your Honor, worthy of thinking.  I mean guilty of thinking, I mean your Honormött...and they are thinking, hence waving, dangerously bigod. Impossible because they cannot possibly have thought.  We made no scope for the presence, much less the persistence of thought, Your Honor.  I rest my ragged case paying off its oxygen debt as they unto eternity naysay.  Your Honor, please... Honormött to protect His Honor from Forgotten thoughts.  (But the judge snickers!  Do we discern an actual tooth in the dim of that judicial veil?  Is that the face of the brother‑‑once again Christ's half-assed peer?) I guess we have a thought-problem here, sir.  We beseech the Superdinant and all its committees for forgiveness and for help. "And where's this 'kid brother of Christ' fit in?  And what's this guy's name, anyway?" "'Kid Brother to Christ' or 'Kid,'" replieth *, whose eyes are beginning to cross with all these other eyes rising like allknowing stars in this endlessly sentient place. Sentient because....but I do not have time to explain anything I say, other than in ways requiring passages of time (lusher than the swatches poor Tchaikovsky heard when he gasped in the essences of love) drowning themselves with the need to be explained‑‑almost drowing actually, then lying round dying for an awfully long long time.  I have been asked to kill myself, but they haven't given me TIME. Finally, their postulates scattered through the layers of their floor like so much confetti, they figured they'd doped it out.  They had this huge graph, see, and it looked pretty swell, and they preened and did bragge upon themselves and they rode through this little, internal tickertape parade right down Main Street of the City, the geneic main street that they druv down there, and they waved the Assassin Seats they were roosting upon, and they waved to all the tickertape falling down so thick it would have roasted any atmosphere, had they not for the purpose of this scene dispensed with air there (that there being no people there) there there, waving at nothing but tickertape there being there no no people there there there. And here's the fnortfnick they handsoely framed gave us of this big, rather narcissistic event:  see, there they are, sweeping up all of Main Street (that's New York City!) with their sweet little pushy brooms, proving beyond the last stab of a doubt, your Honors, that they always missed the point. Mathematicians of magic show us here, where their big formula veered into nonsense like a dancing cab, as they inserted right there these ciphers not just imaginary (and therefore wrong), but virulently so, so their equations had actual, crawling bugs in them, repulsive as those blind bugs creeping their viscid, nemahelminthic backs across the numbness of that log you kicked over with your Numbness Foot (and you'll notice how that foot dropped off right away), so their * gurgled like that stream so high in the *s [mountains] that it flowed right through itself, which impossible as the finest stream God imagined‑‑this would be the stream Unsullia, like a virgin blemished only with her own, unsullied blush upon the sequences of stream* *which is the so-called Stream Dream that comes over all of us a long long time before we die as we move through life's unlikeliness to die. They even sussed up an image of the thing (condensed simulacra of bubbles tittering down the fair cheeks of a stream), and‑‑believing they were armored by the thing‑‑proceeded to pull on their armor.  This was destined.  They couldn't help themselves.  They had been filled with images, like pederasts, panting on the surfaces of worms (their balls clammy like their faces, but equally dry (not even pulses of a carnal heart in there!).  later to be found amongst box after box of this kiddie porm‑‑dirty little fnicks afraid to be born, uncertain blurs of grain essentially stillborn and dry, despite the clammy faces pressed against them like a sour sky Special Node to the Court-up-in-the-Skies:  No, Your Honors' Honors, Christ's kid brother had nothing to do with any of this, by the way.  Shuddering, I must rise to his defense to say the evidence was inserted by Gadge (and now, having fingered Gadge, I know I'm gonna die, as the balls of the revolving pederasts bubble and, like bacon, up and fry.  I am gulping here.  My Adam's apple is convulsing here... So they were like suiting up, like this would be a fight Gadge would find irresistible and hence impossible to dudge.  But they'd been filled with these images of armor‑‑energy armor, apportions of metal, Siamese wicker cat-fighitng suits, the indistinct Weaponry of Var, powered by the voices of the tortured (cf. the tortured voice of The Voices of the Damned, featuring "Voices of Torment," screeched uponeuponatime by a hand dead and nameless and yet not at all unknown, these sounds so similar to us...I mean familiar to us...but you knew that...). I normally hate squishing words together and secretly eating syllables and displacing diacritics and nutwaught, but there is nothing normal in this scene, make a gnoad of that.  I cannot recall if I remember normal, but the thought of normal doth repulse me like the Varmince of Vurm, if you can handle that.  I cannot think about it anymore... So here comes with the armor, also such matters as the armor of Emjec©, passed like an oriental virux from the boundless Simulayas* *which are these mountains of Squent‑‑you know, the armor you inject, so you fill up with internal plates and such... THE INVENTIONS OF CHILDHOOD or WHY THERE ARE TEARS or GODS WINCING LIKE A BUCKLE OF DRUDGE So like, the equations read ONLY MORE ARMOR, and we notice‑‑wincing like a little girl‑‑that Christ, laughing his ass off through the smoke of another cigarette, unless it's...yes, it's Christ's kid brother, the maggorific squir, the squirt of a long jerk in his mother's eye (because GOD DO FUCK‑‑you better believe it!), the jerk of a long orgasmic squirt into The Mother's all-forgiving (allforgiving, sweetandblinkless!) eye, which is Myth 161: Why There Are Tears, which is why she is always wincing so so terribly, OK then, that blockhead interposing into every scene, lie he's trying to seize the novel, like he's trying to take over from my later, therefore inferior, invention* *the only great inventions being The Inventions Of Childhood (tears were one of the Inventions of My Childhood (we all have these deep, childhood inventions we are forced to cherish) God forces us to cherish) God forceth us to cherish!) God helplessly in love with his own inventions) whilst the Other, far more lonely, gods wince like a buckle of drudge), Gadge, mine owner Insufferable Invention my Invention Insupportable the unbearable inventions of one's later drudge, laser-drudge, the baby-god, Gadge the Gudge, but anyway Christ's brother, looking just like Christ! laughing his axles of in the smook of a dreamy sniggargnotte, then breaking into ream after ream of exponential laughs, concentric laughing ashwholes laughwholes winking out, if you know w.i.m, like som godawful fnucking fnong. Christ's dead brother is always there, my friends.  Christ's dead brother's always therewith to help your armor on.  Of course he smells TERRIBLE... KNOWN PNIN UNTENTRED In the murky Regions of Red‑‑the sector this displaces itself in‑‑two *s were coughed up by the soul of a dead machine, 'scuse me, HEM!, and called up and Summoned Unto Quarters, as we like to said, by their boss, one Ouallopyyjjyyoe Imeatenchyeeoe, a film so brittle and so ancient he could not posture anymore, but only stand there, stand there and pretend to fucking bend!, like the formulitic frame of a picture-flame, a close-up of a face standing like a burnt-out symbol in their face as he betumes the harmonies of them them in in and so imtewmnes the consonance of them and tunes them in into his smookey rhoome, by which I mean his office, this little rheume built lie the classic offices found like broken petals * all over this universe of Yyl (gno pnin untendered), and with the mirth of the sweet and gentle insanity of Yyl pulls their storage slickers off and gextures with a frighteneng consonance of these constantly breaking vegetables and in shortorder crying for Adam and Eve easy over on their dying raft (down the timeline when He drownded them, but never mind) and bids them sit like a coupla little pricks.  I mean, he bids them sit as God (is it really He??? biddeth Mary for to suck more strenuously, and they sit, yea, they sit but they sit like a coupla little pricks, their fresh, consolidated bones parked and their backs propped backless on the leaning chair* *WARNING:  SOMETHING LOPSED IN THE MUTE TRANSLAGION, and even with thier hands (well I'll be DAMNED!!!) folded in neater than the Fans of a Fine Bottotic (ill-explainéd everywhere, I mean elsewhere, I mean ZERO I mean THEN). Finally everyone's lenses are fixed and pointed and set (like the eyes of that statue staring outas if staring out as if staring out at the Dustbins of Eejej, dust giant corrupting the orbits of Jen, eyehole turned * adjusted * by technicians with artisan fingers grated on frm the harvest of the fingers of the Artists of Gnemng), and they are facinf more or less (though there's a LOT OF DUST) in convergant direction, and Im as he is called by the Hollow Gods of Doubt, touch his thighs in the connections of zen and says to them: "We have an escaped god-baby, gentlemen." And it's as if he speepe in thick profusive sentences to them (does he care what he's saying to them?  Does anyone?), for his words are booting our friends up, booting our friends up forthe very first time, by which I mean the virtual time of then, by which I think I mean that they gradually (yes they gradually!) start to nod. Im pulls down a *. "His name is Gadge," Im says.  "But he's already formulating new names for himself, already forming these universe viruses with these universal worms eating like vemrin into them.  Need I say he's a threat?  Need I say he has escaped?" "Please," says * (his first words!!!  Please get me a fnick of this...).  "Say it." But Im ignores him, as everyone thereafter was to didde, until afterwords, after the inexpressible end tangled up in its own dead ends and its owne entangling ends and its own dense, wrestling ends and its own unrecognizable unend. It is a glitch in *'s programmig, that he could never hear anything left unsaid. But his partner * heard everything, which was the one difference between them.  * heard in fact story after story rendered over the glum Campfires of Glem by the Mothers of Glem, one story after another proving they were murderers,  built you see to kill the kid. And you shoulda seen poor *'s ears flap at that! And then there was imparted desperate information into them. And then "Go on," concluded Im, flapping the knuckles of his hand like a broken wing.  "Go outa here, you guys, and go down and hunt that kid." They got up, but you could tell they were not themselves nomore.  They were not nothing anymore but these manufactured twins going down to hunt that kid. [the armor, continued] IF YOU UST HAVE A TITLE, IT'S NOSEGAYS OF INORDINANT ALARM or YOU CAN HEAR CHRIST'S BROTHER SING! ...by which time * and * are like smoking, too (but it's not those green cigars which were once so prevalent, like the green stream refusing to dry up till it fossilize your cracked and weeping feet And lo! but Christ by whom I mean Christ2, Christ the Degraded, Christ the Whorish, Christ Who is behid all crook'd and waggéd Thangs, Christ just a cloud of s jocular sniffs not to mention farcical whiffs, who be slapping now on the ludicrous Bubble-Armor of Bnelle, and here on Bnelle it was just this packing stuff!, so that suddenly * and * are wheezing in their own snuff wheeze, that is suffocant within their own green-weede Cloud of the Emerald Leaves, which was the first cloud through which that deceitful child did go, go his ruination on that ride through the cloudworlds of Bejeeve, not to be mistaken for the sad clownworlds of the Emerald Beeve nor the droopworlds slumped like a ditzy throng The Immortal Blues, on Harmgrong, where the real blues come from anyway, and where the real blues go, in case you was wonde'rin' where the blues as they drip from the languor of their leaves, listless of the once-cathartic winds of thw Winds of Whimsey, these being the image of the central winds, these winds of whim forming they say the so-called "Scheme of Inertness" from which all the jetstreams flow, which is why the winds don't you know of all the worlds flow in this Möbius Lööp aröönd And that that that's just the way that that things go, with Christ Sub Tew flowing on now the liquid, always-defective Armoure of Delle (creates defective spaces in your body! so says Report Number Six Sub Too of the Supordinant Subcommittee of the Dismay Array, I think it was, or some of our other Odorous Nosegays of Inordinant Alarm. And the armor continued. fuelded by the power of God in the fist of the bleeding palm (which is an unauthorized belief that we used to have; but we're all right, we are all fixed temporarily now).  Each word in the universe (and there are other words out there!) defining everybody else, the universes being but these bundes of adjectives, each one transparent and defining itself, each one mirrored and definging everything else.  Tehy cancel out, of course, and that shows you what they mean... So they're ready, within concentric gleams of shields, with their cigars snuffed greenly about them, and all sorts of Weird and Special Aires thrown about them, pumping them up lke so many armors we have almost-seen before or neveseen every signal day or else seen in the past with our bodies just these blips in the empty lattice of a screen, in which the present, now the future, blips or will be seen to blip in an empty scream.  I have no screen on which to screek mine empty scream. The gasses of battle, I guess they are, made their voices funny, even for this world where all voices are funny, and Christ Xub Tuoo! comes down speficially to hang around this world, just to laugh‑‑butcept he loves the singing.  He des love the singing here, and comes down with a Strangely Spacious Look to hear (and no bod mentions this, but you sometimes even hear him sing‑‑on *, you can hear Christ's brother sing!  Luckily I can NOT describe the nature of the music here.  It's like a jetstream, "streaming out the Bay of Indistinctness in the morning," as they so very carefully say).  This love part (not to mention the unmentionable singing, wink-wink mudge!), this love part of him puzzles me. We have heard the rumor that he is really Christ, disguised as a brother immersed in the Apparencies of Smutch, which apparently so goes this theory he like needs. But I don't want to emphasize that.  Let's not think about that. [THEY HEAD OVER to GADGE'S PLACE to ATTACK, BUT ARE SUDDENLY IN A SITUATION WHERE THEY MUST BE NAKED.  THEY HAVE to GET NAKED ALL OF A SUDDEN.] HUMILIATIONS OF A DREAM They have never been naked!  Look at them!  I mean, check out the pecs and spectorals.  Check out the abs‑‑flat as the bed of a flatbed truck‑‑and check out the old dorsal latissimus.  Latissimi, mean I.  Check out their sheer evasiveness, enh?  Note well, sirs, how you can't tell sirs where one piece leaves and leads like a dangling modulation to revise...I mean leads like the sum of nothings to another, swum in the unfound jellies of a different languid stream, swums as at were unto a not-ised surd.  And but don't they stare at their analogous torsoes so dumbfoundedly!  the words "What the‑‑!?" issuing forth thier lips like these comical cigars.  Just but observe how they rotate to inspect their butts. Then the lights but lighten like that burden of depression you helpd for nineteen thousand years, lifted lie Christ's (if it's Christ's) arms rising, gifting the terrible blessings of bliss that you can not know (I mean, it's too late to know.  My life is over.  It is way too late to know...). Yea, an eerily cobweevil'd limb reaching out lie the blessings of a bow reach round the broken door you will notice everything is broken here, its neck snapped from the hanging, lo these eighteen months ago, and the voice still croaking its snaps and crackles in the terrible voice of its Eighteenth Voice.  Everything is broken and the subtle nerves have snapped.  There are these unhealable holes wihtin the fabric of the sheathes (I can feel them there!), so I don't think it matters of Gadge unless it's someone snaps on the heathes. I mean lights. Which be the First Revelation of their Nakedness and the Birth of Shame.  Book One of the Birth of Shame: They are revealed inspecting their nakedness.  The dark has made their nakedness seem brilliant and clear, seem elusive, as the palm slips down the muscle and into its newrve and into the nadi lurking somewhere to the finer vision there and somewhere through the Möbius Loop (uh I believe I've mentioned that) unto the [alleg'd] Nothingness of Zöt or Zmot or Znur (sometimes spelléd Xnur (sometimes (elsuive as a butterfly in the dark) we have butterflies) not that we have butterflies) here in the dark. Yea, they are seenand inspected and revealed in the light of their nothingness, I mean nakedness, and all of a sullen to the brothen breask out into a dither of sweat, only it's more like snot, only it's this frightening shame and humiliation as of wounds that can never cure (think about it:  this means there are wounds God has decreed must never cure (but then no one listens to this (no one listens to me (no one will snap on the Great Light of my Shame) only it's more lie this humiliation dream) it is more like like humiliation of a dream) and when the light snaps on like a wound * there is no dream) nor humiliations of a countless courseof interwoven dreams‑‑you know the kind‑‑that keep you sleeping hard as you can all night, until you HUUU! wake up UU! breathless as the Dream of Suffocation which (just think:  God hath decreed...) is our very first dream of the Chosen Dream be the Dream of Suffocation, if you know what I meam. The Dream of Suffocation God has chosen for us. And if I may revert like the memory of * broken software (reopsitory here) of the Broken Software Dream to an earlier analogy crimped * like your face in the scles of a serpent in the scales of the adrenal alarm awakening ayou (but not in time, huh?, now then wouldn't you not know knew that you not-not-knew!) not quite in time to meet the Councils of the Lord broken like your face locked forever in the stillness of a frozen stream like your face smashed shattered in awkwardness around humiliations of the rock, I mean the rock of humiliations, and damn that syntax anyway, or your face lost forever when you looked too much in love or like your face lost forever in the razors of a scream (it is your own dark scream, forever tortured, forever examining itself (this is a novel about torture (all my stuff is the script of metaphor (all writing is the script of metaphor) the eis no writing) we are much much too ashamed) squatting like ciphers in the dark, which is God's Humiliating Dark, which is the cipher of forgotten dreams or the cipher of the holes the wounds have lost you in forgotten like your fingers touching your face (My God...I'm like DEAD!!! (with appropriate screams) with the tenderness of blades or the face of Münch who drew his Scream Scruzing the Life Out of Itself or your face lost forever like that singular dream of elation you had in the petals of a stream, or that had you (and just think:  God gave you that dream.  Why?  to make the ruin worse?  This was my thoery* *till it, too, was taken from me (as I sit in the dark with my palms rubbing * my shoulders, waiting for God to make the dream worse, wondering where I was and afraid to know what I did to deserve this all) or that my hand hung in the wind did never have) or that merely dreamt you as part of the dream it was given) We have lost ourselves now, now then haven't we?) within the fascias of a dream. I am in any case not going to count these turnings-in, these open-sesames, if you will, into the bubbles of a deeper, inner stream (which is an old game we are much too exhausted to play (not that it doesn't continue to play (like a stream, dried up in its magic, more like a stream, dried up in its magic, more like a stream, dried up in its magic, more like a stream, dried up in its magic, more like a stream, dried up in its magic, more like a stream, dried up in its magic, more like a stream, dried up in its magic, more, less like a stream than nothing less like nothing than imaginings of a stream, it is the stream of my own humiliation, lost like petals tossed in there by someone behind me I SWEAR I have never seen So let's review, shall we? (By the way, we have a word here, by the way, which is pain.  I mean, we have a word that does not mean pain, but is.  And we are forced in our shame to keep * on thanking God we cannot say the wordnor could not never no preach his word of shame.  But we have to pray it.  It is the word of every prayer, the so-called Tortureness of Pray [this is raw translation.  ‑‑ed.], that is the Torture of Entreaty preying on you down thorugh the centuries.  And you can HAVE THIS WORD for JUST $5.00, mail to Kirk Hampton, 3101 Harris Boulevard, Austin, last seen dead in Texas, 78703-1421.  End of dream.) I said let's review.  * and * stand naked as, preceded by his arm, comes in Gadge and his laughing pal Jesus. You can immediately if not instantaneously tell...All right, you can immediately tell Gadge has a job to do, but Jesus2 does not.  Everyone perceives this, and we all laugh about it for quite a while.  We are in the Laughing Room, enjoying a break, which gets so brittle and bright, well, it just has to go on and on. But, abandoning the Happy Room, return we to our story do. HELL (NO RELATION) Syntax got broken during the so-called DreamFires of Nine-Ninety-Nine.  I don't want to tal about it, but I'm used to it, by which I mean my face gets thrust down these holes (with the Great Hips butting me!).  None of us round here wants to talk about it, but the tourists keep asking about it (like it's the only thing they ever heard?), and God, do they ever ask so very sweetly to hear our fnilibratiums on the Subject of That Moste Strangfesteste of Warres, and whether we do or not (but we always do), they their fnortfnicks and immediately turn away, sighing, even at the height of our ost susceptible sentences, and we get sick for quite a while.  But it's youknow like a tourist thing‑‑a tourist thing you get in these sad, tourist universes, Yyl (that's us), Gossamer, Furl, Mel^tudd, Hell (no relation).  They come here for the blue and the sound of the blues emanating from our hearts, and the azure (on God's Short List of Favorite Words, available at Tomes, BookGog's, Skepps, and other outlets at a retail orb NEAR YOU!!!) For God did write a Book‑‑and, lo!, it was a blockbuster!  I mean‑‑what's you expect? Which is why we act like carnivalites here, and you can damn well figure that out for yourself. My editor tells me I must cut out my heart and place it in these brackets [     ].  Apparently, my heart has become a footnote in the unhallowed Footnotes of Hearts. So the DreamFires© (now a wholly-owned subsidiary of DreamFire Corportation, a privately-owned [but by whom?] multiintermensional subsidiary [holy-oaned, I think, but have been checking forever on that] of Zug of the Sectors of Red [where this story displaces itself again and again and again]. And the remnants of my face flush down to nothingness, which is how the armor affects you.  Our little fools have donned what they call Les Armores de ReveFeu (Look!  Their heads look like tiny pins!  All this makes makes you realize just how puny! are their special heads!  Someone gte a fnucking fnit of this...), the DreamFires of Yore that you can't stand our talking about, or us talking about the DreamFires you can't stand us talking about, or turning your derelict backs at the talking about, OK? ...the DreamFires, anyway, being our only wars, having gone round consolidating all of our ancient wars (for we used to be nothing but wars back then!  But not anymore).  I mean, this is the Then of Not Anymore, sometimes called by the natives, also known as viruses also known as these dead people walking round (and all with these liitle, pin HEADS!) but I simply can't calm down and my face has shredded and I CAN'T COME DOWN, who call it War for Short, or sometimes Short or Not or Notanymore. For all war is owned y someone faceless, turned away and taking fnorts of another war... Now this was inappropriate armor to be wearing (I mean, how did they get it, anyway? (Most of them quite septic on the subject of Christ2, sep tick on the sub ject of Christ, His Younger Brother, Christ2) It was inappropriate (it was shrinking their heads) and it was illegal (as the trials and the lawsuits would but indicate) but was a weakness our tw friends were subtly constitute to possess, and so possess it they did, but, like the truly possessed, they did not feel possessed, and ths to continue the story did they march * to Gadges spot * with these giant fingerprints. I meant footprints, and I really meant leaving these giant footprints...but it illegal to revise.  We can only amend.  Anyway, You can still see the footprints on the Map of Fingerprints‑‑which is a mighty big map (information which I throw within for free), later amended to the Map of Footprintsof the giant Nits [perverted favorites of the Nonsense Gods]‑‑which was printed...you can see them here...and here...and here...like elisions from the memory of a flood, not so? No one pays any attention to our many laws, but we obey them anyway, which is why we act so strange.  We are only obeying the law, OK, and a little respect would be justified... Hell, Gadge's fortress looked like a squishy birthday cake now!  And their hands quashed thorugh it like the cake that never rose, the cake that was seeped by the atiwue rain.  That's the only way to put it, but where do we put it DOWN?, when their godlike hands on through. They stood their there the there eating this fucking wet cake for a while, and they were furous, you could tell.  That's why I used the word fucking back there, which God in his pefumed breath, taking me aside in the prison, whispers, "Fucking is a fal from grace."  He is Holding my Arm!  "Don't use the word fucking anymore unless you hear it from me.  Let's practice." And He whisp'reth "fucking" in my ear. "Fucking?" I say.  God noddeth.  God nods off, knowing nothing for a while.  And while sleeping, whilst in this most deepst sleep, he mutters It was a fantasy‑‑what the hell, and everyone at this awkward birthday party‑‑in which birthday party we the attendees are thought apparent thoughtly thought to be these kids dressed up to their mothers's versions of the nines, in my case featuring this garroting bowtie‑‑the kind that clips on you much as the skin of the Phioldigeeque clips on (disgusting cretures!  disgusitng creatures, just think, of God!) as we are poor malignancies of a passing God, poor murmurs of a dying God, Whose Heart was never Made Right, poor God a figment of a momentary God, poor Momenatry God, not dying but going insane, His last act this universe in which Nothing Can Be Healed, filled with god upon god‑‑little, confused gods, endless * permutations of the Big God welling with this wound He creates all creatures of, us, we, poor creatures of a disgusting God. There are some sort of flies seem to be cursing rond his wound‑‑you know, as those special White Flies of Dying (and I'm not saying these were those, but my big, loving Boolean friend assures me there are distinct these-those possibilities (on advice of my lawyers, "possibilities" I naturally say)‑‑that seem to be falling into the wound. God shakes my arm a little.  He is smiling specifically at me, as the showers hiss distressingly and the other prisoners heckle me.  This one's GOIN' DOWN, they would would it in their power to say say.  This one's DROWDED [sic] in the love of the Divine.  Butof course, of course they cannot say‑‑as I said, they can only heckle. "You fell asleep," God whispers.  He is standing much too close to me, and I can feel my skin blooming off with eruptions of dismay or else my poor skin burnt away in His disgusting Gushg of love, and he say: "Lt's try again," and whispers the most mellifluous little fuck into my ear, and my ear comes amazingly.  In amazement, for a while, I watch my ear, writhing alluringly here on the here onthe suptured ruptured ground. Lo, but we do Lose Signal here periodically, perhaps * of some ruptures in the pulpit say some rup chyers in the PULL pit he was preachig from...anyway... "Fuck," I say, and God comes closer and He whispers in my ear‑‑and "Fuck!" I say, and he is pleased as he bends me over with the shower ensemlbe bursting into cheers, rhymes with tears. "You gonna have my baby, boy," He grunts as He cummeth unto me, and I'm having one of those laughter-tear spasms that we have so much in here, but for the first time in tis place I will have no fear.  They may jeer and snap my ass with whips and cables and towels as I swing m hips on by, bedizened with my jewels and dresses and this thick wig of dirty brown (God's color choice‑‑just like this gown) and y lips painted absoliutely * huge with this lipstick stuff they have here that makes your lips actually makes your lips too big, so that they pout and pucker and lick themselves like a coupla red whores preceding me.  They are hot and they gots to jeer, but they can't hurt meany longer in the shower. He as healed me.  There is this exponential fear growing like a wound, flourishing with a beauty that just aches with your rising cum, but so long as I swallow His Jysm and gasp * for his deep * rams * into me, I am * like tha vapors of death regarding these wounds that are eating me.  God cannot take away the wound that I got from he. God cannot cure our wounds‑‑He grunted that to me in his breath on the nape of my neck, as insufferably hot as the jysm spouting up my spine. Thus my special relationship with God.  God whispers "Fuck" to me, and when God whispers fuck He is fucking me. My doctor is throwing up by now.  I have burned up his illusion he could heal.  Poor, heaving  doctor!  There's no more feeling of meaning in his life, but God hardens my heart, and I do not care... * and * are being good boys at this party, despite the obscenity of the chatter going round‑‑blasphemous, sexual stuf about God, when anyone can see that it's Christ2 fucking with him in this way.  Yea, there is this terrible drug going round.  Someone writhes naked on the table, thinking he is being fucked by God. "This is sad," they are both thinking but refuse to say.  They are about half the size of the other kids here, like a couple of Fnools fucking trussed up in these bowties.  This is a very sad party we are having here, what with the wetness of the cake and the impious perversity going down and the bowties and sour smell of Christ2's sweat like warm oil flowing down the crack of your ass (* and * stir nervously!), and one's uncertainty as to what this party is for. "Just a prelude * to war!" says Gadge, his mouth dripping with some sorta comecake there!, wink, says cheerfully, if that's Gadge at all, with that halo of the finest white flies around that head. Here * doth cup his Testicles and in the mannerof bucking up (so * pulls his sort-of up because he saw * doing that and wants no role in the maing of the story), and he "Nice party, kid" doth say. "Can we put our clothes on now?" Gadge, unless it is Christ Sub Two, laughs in the breath moving silent through his throat, and pulls our heroes' heads to either side of his groin. "No," he sighs, surveying round the table the dominion of his part andthe party's realm, the party's empire and its dignity, like China in the dynasties of Yin and Yang, the forgotten dynasties, when they tell me all of China was this stupendous party going on, the words of the party and the party's gala carried from village to village on a horse or some pre-Khan critter (this is lost to us) and the shser scope and massive sweep of the party as it had established itself, beneath the canoplies there (which canoplies would snort in the winds thrown down as wanting from the Himalayas, spring winds dusting their rainments of and proceeding with existence, rollicking across the plains before him, with his eyes collapsed in that peculiar * Oriental smile like the smiles of many a rolliver the plains all over of to come, and the majesty and the splendor of that party, not then quite fully known, though I daresay sorrowfully which is not to say remorsefully intuited, known as I think it safest just to say without further comment that most of us to to speak "know" it as it were "now," and the compass of that party seeming like the Woodstock haze before the haze before the knife cutting right through the smirking fogs of Altamont‑‑Forgotten County!‑‑writing itself in blood unto oblivion, the nether reaches of the fog when we all fell from our days of grace back to being human again, back to human again, back to the rent flaps whistling with the smell of mint from the Mintsmell mountains‑‑later known as the Himalayans, when, rightly or wrongly I cannot say, we no longer smelled the mint, yea, and the monumental fog that clouded I say fog that clouted Altamont...known to us now, I was going to say as Gadge's Farewell or his Farewell Party or even as Gadge's Suicide (but it was gonna take quite a will to suicide to die at the hands of these big Lunkes, as sighing like the winds across the Great Mint Plains of the plains of the China we called them as. "No, you can't put your clothes on, ever again," he said, only now he was holding one's face; I mean, the young god, so infolfedin himself, he was holding just one sphere of an empty head, smiling like a great rolling lobo'd dipsyberry rocked by its cheeks in his rocking hand, only it was both of them.  I mean, the big head he rocked its cheeks between his hands was * and *‑‑but it was his dream party, after all, and he waved his arms across the plateaus and the rolling tablelands, the steppes rolling off to prairies and to‑‑somewhere in the distance where a wildcat did growl‑‑the knolls groant roun like toadstools to the Himalayans, themselves but foothills to the Fist of God, amongst the rumored Mountains of Sublime, lost in the so-called sleep of the Winds of Oblivion (behind the buffer of their veil, Fist-of-God) withing whisch swisch does the Prophet Niven sigh into yet more Winds of Oblivion, this time sighing through me me me now (where me me me equals you) and where parallels clarify till we are almost blind. "No," he says *ly.  "You've got a lot of sucking to do." comprising the Labors of * and *, a myth myths-of-myth tell us's held in the Fist of God.  If you could get near t without going mad, as dozens have done‑‑gone mad in the Mists of Oblivion as the mists cleared on that Hand... MYTH NOT FOUND, so we go on to our plan. "Knock yourselves out," Gadge says to our wet-skinned weasels. "Yea OK‑‑put your armor on," Gadge says now, flinging both heads away.  "Clean up and get your asses dressed, you guys.  Sent to kill me, huh?  Well then let us rock and roll, my friends." ARMY MEANING NOVEL The Battle.  Our friends have picked their armor (or rather, been picked up by it in the Respectival Gallery where their faces, lit by the glass, sorted the armoration through, were picking out their armor.   I guess we have all forgotten real armor picks out you, plucking them respectively up beneath its their respectively armor-arms and stuffing their bodies like awet, recessive seed inside, then marching out for to kill the little god. So like, *'s wearing the infamous * Derangement Armor of the erstwhile Armies of Gadd, a sort of sorcerer from another army meaning novel, army menaing novel, no relation to Gadge He come up to *, whose armor is psychotically ornate with ornateness of the Devil, you can tell‑‑not the Devil's meddling sister Twappe nor his pious little nephews and benieces niece‑‑neither Neesh or Neese nor Meede nor Jikklaghyeagher nor Pok nor Ning nor MquXaellaeye‑‑but the Devil himself, with his butt contraposto in an alleyway (it is The Alleyway of Broken Meadows, see, the alleyway you may remember full of great whole chnks of people's bones, bones still held together, like they were bodies, noyl chunks, just chnks of armor quite boneleike in the like of the bleaching alley, the Alley of Meadows, as it's known, wherein No One Singes‑‑none of this "glad we're scattered shit"‑‑and the Devil Himself, as I say, more powerful than God nor Gad, reaming his teeth with a needle representing the saffron peaks of our aareness, occurring right wihtin the plummets of our bollix or the seizure of our ruin or degradation of our public botch or any of another thousand thousand thousand facets of forever, all in that needle there, constituting more or less what the needle moreorless wepwesents, wemember his teeth bog as the Mountains of Madness, his teeth like figure-teeth, like God's representations of his evil teeth that chew up Fist-of-God right at his inception (as a little glake-of-God, I must suppose...). Now picture this: ol' Gad's up to his sternum, even with his noze uppointed nnTHUSnn!LY, even with his Strange and Emerald Telescopic Bones and his Strange and Emerald Telescopic Bones and his Strange and Emerald Telescopic Bones and his Strange and Emerald Telescopic Bones and his Strange and Emerald Telescopic Bones and his Strange and Emerald Telescopic Bones and whatever naught that he daugh naught haghve, and he says "You armor," he says.  He says, "You're armor's rather ornate, my friend. Which to the armor‑‑now this is to the armor, now‑‑is like the greatest insult in the rotten world.  Keep thinking This is the armor they dropped like nothing so much as a bag of vacant bones‑‑you know, the bones not even used in the final product, and thus, not even private bones, no bones with a history, and here this armor, this armor, see, it had a History, in the misdt of which we must needs include therefore forsaken worse than the Jyzmyzian "Mines of the Abducation" abounding with rich forgotten poisons or the Rotten Minds of Plorra, douched full of rotten thoughts and the thoughts of evil and the worst thoughts of the tourtured, Eeleelix helical world of the world of worlds, much less the Forgotten Mines of Titan or the Mines of the Unmodulated Aafk‑‑mines that maddened, killed, made their their irrespective worlds, worlds hunkered helpless * in the Devil's Alley, worlds all hooked up on these IV's of incredible heroin, Dope Alley, some would say, what with the hookahs lying like these broken backs (for indeed, these were made from a broken back, with the green smoke flowing * up Sushumna...) And in any case laying these fucking anaglogies like the blushless Blooms of Zaroom, or the Glimmenblümen, gushing with cum, or the dithering, so-called Blossoms of Derangement of the Xchinghiaenne Flowering Madness Cult O! yes the Flowering Madness Cult U? yetzthe Flowering Madness Cult‑‑laying these I say, "fucking aside," as Voolgdyrchil was was wont toto say, we speak of theis most angry armor, armor laid aside when they were trying youknow to "clean up" after that last unconsolidated War (I mean of-core the DreamFires War), but which to Destry, our armor here, seemed more like the Fudge of Abandonment [the Sludge of Abandonment?  You tell me. ‑‑ed.] [Preceding note shifts in translation.] [Preceding note phase-shifts in insalvageable mistranslation.] [Preceding notice the mad infasnt lost in the mistranslation.] [Preceing note snuffling with a very bad cold.  [Precedind notes] so faultlessly at bay amongst the caves of the Vacant Interloom that they dropped him on‑‑onto Lumna, to be precise, the moon that's as big as a planet, big as a concise little galaxy of words leading you down into the conciseness of madness, the concisions of silence, the terneness of malice, the sunbone or the lunar gnome, allbleached by rays of the nameless sun (too mighty say the native say too mighty to be luumed, by which I asswoumbe they mean named, so it in it mightiness you see must needs remain unnamed unnamed (and when they toss names around it's neck like a mighty wraithe, I mean wreathe, I do not know what I do not mean, it just shuffles them off! like so many wraithes of the supple flesh, just shurves them OFF Which all goes to say how very bleached in its demonic glporifications was *'s armor was, long rayed into purblind nothingness during the Desolation Period after the war, then afer the memory of war, then after the shock of the memerbelss wars, then after the unreeling shock down egregious hazes of the memory‑‑during this period when we were all heavily into repression, madly depressed, unable to get up in the morning because there was too much morning!, with our boots well-nigh rayed like razorsplays into the lazorsprays of nothingness‑‑this armor bristled with the images of God (Satan) and had been baked like a pot within the kiln ofits own perfect lunacy. Friends, this armor was mad! DEMONEYES or SOFTWARE OF EMOTIVE SORTS I write this stuff durng the latent Dusk of Dawns, that is, during one of the false dawns that rustles up just enough light up to raise the faint Pollens of Madness we find ourselves amok in here, then goes away.  I smoked these ahsen cigarettes.  Like, they're already ashes, yet I'm smoknig them, man‑‑further proof though I forget the rest of them that proof that we are dreaming in anafter thought of God.  But in any case, I write long after the lush languages of Keats and the various Keatses and the analogues to Keats and the Other Keats (including, poor-adhample, the Keats who took his pal Byron's advise, took the cure, got him a big Italian wife, sixteen children (and how much poetry wentinto those pumping boroughs!), and wrote his plays and epics‑‑sixteen of each, each one nsong the next up the next ledge of the mountains to the consummate, unconsumated Fist-of-God, of which no living critic but there came upon and choked), and the Keatses with thier faces pale as the blush on a Japanese fans, with thier passions hushed thorugh gentle dispositions of a Japanese fan‑‑all these dying Keatses known like lost friends to us (whose faces we keep painting, over and over, onto ever more subtle media, exquisite sublimations of those gentle cheeks, those flushed and limpid eyes, betrayed to the sadness of a blush at the end of the universe, betrayed and blind and yet with God knows what poetry coming!? in my Recurrent Dream of the Keatses gasping out their hearts through the many universe of the Supple Analogues.  My friends are dead, as the rock star said, "throughout the Keatsean universes of Yore," which is not quite what he said, but then his words blurred down into the watches of a Dali landscape, so you couldn't quite hear and so you had to make up what you bloody heared. I just said hered, but you know I was bloody provoked. And Gadge, to get back to Gadge was probbing *'s throbbing chest, still in the lockerroom, with the siss of showers and cries of the young men grunting in ecstasy‑‑at their bodies, their rich and jiggling balls, if you don't mid my saying, or "their rich * and juggling Balls," if you don't mid my quoting (Fafterfnanch, "Lockeroom," from Fnanch and Quawling in the Lockerhalls, which is a book about a book of poems about a book about the long-forgotten ritual once called high school) , and anyway, Gadge is like trying to provoke *, who doesn't know this *n armor he's got on, this armor rather unbinds the pumping of the great emotons‑‑you know, the unclassified ones, the rippling array of emotions they cache frm the oriental fountains of the periodic chart of the emotions back in high school andf the chart of too many metaphors and the chart of my faces as they go thorugh such amusingly myriad types of pain not-so-amisng pain now is it now? But Gadge has done his research, man, and he knows the history of this stuff, and why it was called the rmor of Dyktillyeaze, the Warrior Who Blew Up (kind of a funny story, if you tilt your head this way (no?) the only myth told round the eerie fires or the heatless campfires we do not build but actually find burning for us in the dusk of the yawnings in the sleepy universe, here and there. I mean the fire, not the universe, here and there.  It has beocme too dark, and my referants are squinting like demonds into my eyes!!! and I have panicke in mine Demoneyes). So poor *‑‑who has not even a "gutcard" (the card installed on your motherboard giving you the "feeling of guts," I believe they call it), much less an emotive driver, much ven less any Software of Affective Sorts©, so, even without Gadge vaunting, he has he has this this this echochocholalating affective disorder of the vomitve sort. This is very funny. "I'm gonna throw up," he says in that comocal jurge I mean gurge we all have when set to barf the cookies of our sorts, or go into "diced carrot mode" or "buy my Buick" and the old heave-ho or the bluprparolas or whatever next term have been issued to the kids. How do I throw up inside this armor? he thinks dizzily.  You can see the sweatbeads clustered on his face lie magic bees, each one howling with a face of (this comical) dismay! Ha ha ha ha? Ah ha ha HA‑‑how do you vomit up, indeed, O helpless warrior. * [the other guy of the pair of hunters], by contrast is chilled deep within the famous Armor of the Xexperdeies (EX pur deeze), sometimes Experideies (ex PAIR uh theeze, in a frosty accent), accented in the Armies of Frost, based upon his Armor of Frost‑‑as worn by Zezlexiquque, the sort-of-pilto who drawing his armies-sort-of off into the drips of the deadless night.  They never felt anything, you see, so they never knew they'd won!  They conquered great continental drifts ofthe Archives of the Lord‑‑these are supergalaxies of superglax we are talking here (no one's talking of nothing here!) and became the famous spacious Landlords of the Döerrhomez, but yet left the landscapes‑‑brittle with this special static the stagnant Stills of Stagnanticity vast, incircling puddles of electricity, steadfast in unwavering curents to nowhere, with an arm on the seatback and a chatter of charged inanity (like your dad and nothing less‑‑you see!?), Anyheuough, this sultry electricity their wepaons left, O-yes, the cold ness of their WHE! oponz transfiguredinto some sort of torn snow and thus thereby left therefore thereon. It was something to see, let me tell you, etched indelibly on thousands of trios of these frosted, dying eyes (wincing, to be sure, but unable to WINK, you see)‑‑and poor * saw it, too, for too late he saw it coming‑‑it here being here the sad and the utmost need here to quench emotions to the sociopathic mode, and he is in Sociopathic Mode, a pair of eely eyes on rods peering out. with the smoke of sublimatic helium flwing out.  I can kill anyone, he would think, were his thoughts not perfect corpsicles for which I thank the mighty Niven.  I can kill a god, the way I feel.  I could really kill a god. But now up comes Gadge, smiling.  * [the first brother]'s rattling like a slapdah rattletrap of a tin steam engine, already ready to ready to blow in the background there. And Gadgelike only it was not Gadge picks up this frozen thought and turns it over and back, employing his thin wrist to perform these actions here averred upon, performing them with the slowness of a craftsman lost in his oriental wizardy and yet ignoring his own action, lie he'd lie removed his wrist, man! and was going so far as to ignore it-his-write-it-it just to signify the poor frozen thought's insignificance ha ha, and he was doing that Battle Thing in which the crowing ghost of the warrior stinks within the tents of his enemy, despite the mintflaps itinerant army gardeners'd had placed on the veitable flanges of the flaccid entries thereupon‑‑er...that thang in which he does psyche them out befouling the very corridors of thier own thin dream, the within the HISH and whisper'd Corridors of their Vacant Dream wihtin the nebulae of the Vacant Lunar Dream, within the spaces the *s had conquered and yet never claimed. And he tunrs it over the thought and drops it and then thinks the awful thought Let's bop! And they bop.  I mean, you thought it'd never come to this, but they really did fought, *, the Emotive One, gurgling and aflailin' for to mug him from behind, * of the Icy Acumen slipping a needle...slipping a poisoned needle, friends, right into his hide. Right into Gadge's hide slip he the dross * Poison of the Gods or the Bane of the Illicit Little God or Godbane, the poison thereof framing therforeto and in the NEXT FRAME (I am directing this from the inside, frame-by-frame, explainth Director Bob BayAeuergog of the GogDeaeighereeugongues (Hey‑‑Bob!) heybob) heighbaughweughbbe, Gadge he starts to laugh like this was medicine, like *'d slipped him morphine aka "Sweet Fluent Nectarness of the Awful Gods‑‑you know, seditious goddam gods like this Gadgeling here. But he has only one frame to do this.  Frames are very tight these days, you know?  I mean, this is currently quite a vendor's market in frames, the crystallization of these mneonic, fnickuvatifying cubes occuring within those Siberia of Seasonless Cold, wherein each wind, nub with its hubris, vies to be the coldness wind, nilling the cubes, as the Cube Gleaners as they harvest all the cubes but dream they say (dream, actually (dream, actually (dream, actually) dream) actually, for they do not say), for when these creatures say, they do but dream_look! thier dreams asleep lie viruses in the cubes!  We never realized that before! Please stop the story.  Please do not go on. Next frame shows * [the hot one] bashing Gadge's face to ruins, whaps an entire city block onto poor poisoned Gadge's reeling head, what's left of his rotten, grinning head, if you must imagine, and while the box inside *'s vapruptroarious and imglriux head, hexed with its periapt of battle like a periapt of battle grossed en in its own deep sympathy, I mean empathy, has * this picture of Gadge's brains flwiing right out to the floor, mixing with his shit thereon, what happens, really, and enough surprisngly for to make both our heroes blink deeper * to thier peerless blinx is that the facets of Gadge's face flow down scaddingly, wich is an adverb we have hewre to express how a ountain crumbles unot facets of its own express, special facets, express facets, deathfacets making all the expressive faces, each respectively, you would make at your mother's funeral, if you could. You have to make those faces afterwards, don't you‑‑in that room where the waters sing? Yeawell, Gadge's face explu-ode.  The needle like a canlde gutters the lifeforce, also like a candle in this fandangling metaphor (see Sin of the Fandangling Metaphor, passim), gutters his lifeforce out, i.e., temrinates the waves of his dying * diaphrahm, and the facets of his face‑‑detonated by that grey and vacant city block our friend * slammed onm‑‑loses its mobility of deception and shatters like a billion little Gadges chattering down into the Gutter of the Gutter of Noth Nothingness into the Gutters of Nothnoghitngness. SIRENS EVIDENTLY FOSSILIZED "Glad he's dead," * trills from the piping ash.  * and * lean forward and tilt their heads like dogs.  Like the head of two dogs, incomprehending their abhorrence by the souls of men, by this sudden hate and abhorrence, with the men in the dark plaids tracking them down (these the men they would die for easily! uncomprehending dogs!) like, well, like uncomprehending dogs, awed at the facily voice in the soullessness of soke. "'S that you?" listeth * his head, pricking with his gauntled thin reminiscences of soke. "But it might be trick," * chatters on.  It might be some sort of smuff-candello script writ in Apparencies of Gauze playing back here. But why wouldn't * waltz down the zig of one of those little doors like the gods have their sectret doors through space* (so as not to like soot their godly robes, right, themselves by any sort of grift through bedizenéd shades of space?  *Only God or a child can find these jolly popping ports!) like through one of those untested Doorways in Space the Pilms or the Nynakros always want to cut you a deal upon, cut upon you a deal like a smirk moving like a dagger through the ices of antarctic space, this all taking place in the Anarcticas of Space where the lazy arcs expire in the glow of their consumption, expire like the arcs of shape, which must be why we have no shapes!, like God and his entourage (Mary looking seemly down, droplets of cum or something on her face; Jesus, looking cocky there and hitching up his crotch (those drawings of him drawn by these concrete blonds, I guess, for he swarthy much more hairy than I'd thought‑‑look at those woolly arms!), two big archangels obviously packed in their seersuckers suits (they weren't seersucker suits, of course, butone must say seersucker suits before one dies), seedy Jesus Two, moivng his shoulders, looking back, scanning his back like a gull cutting through that special arc in the faces of the dawn (you know...the arcs only the birds know about, those special arcways in the corridors of dawn the birds, especially the gulls, most especially the Gulls of Luster, Sheem, and of Flouirsche and Fuxter and Gloah, groundless sirens of alarum mute in their purple silent as the Sirens at the Luxtrogoa* *sirens evidentially phossphorlized, stoned in their own lost soundings, one prefooms, or if ever sirens at all but just art in the guise of the sileces of) ...ambling to the stage in the faces of a painting (meaningless!) just to congratulate himself? I have this emptiness of head.  I need some serious oil upon my head. But wouldn't * come live to congratulate himself?  I mean, them himself?  I mean, we have no recordings here‑‑everything is live, if you know what I mean. * and * are holding this stump of candle‑‑turquoise, no bigger than a votary light‑‑and jar it a bit, as if to hear it rattle with these tiny bones of Gadge.  This candle all that's left of Gadge?  No way to calculate that, even in the whirr of most beautiful numbers, imaginary numbers tossing up their skirtses saucily enough. Anyway "You better check," hints the voice in the whisper of the smoke.  "You better get dead and see if he's down there‑‑you know, disguised as dead in the Galaxy of Dead." * and * exchange this look‑‑radiant, orgasmic, and, they realize, their very first look‑‑and they stand up straight, still buff with armor, except for these tiny heads.  * carefuly places the candle down. The smoke's huh still trying to talk huh HUH but doth hohhoh abetted by the ruffle of someone's airy hand dispersive hand fanned hand angled hand, dissolutionsof the hand dissolve in the snuff of the terminating smoke (still trying to talk, but ut dufperfef unto fmoke...). "Funny he'd leave a message in the snuff like that," says *.  This is the first sensible thing he has ever said to *. "It is a tradition, isn't it?" says *.  VERY...LONG SHOT:  Contraposto heroes with thier helmets at their hips. Now * and * have to sit down.  They have killed a child, and, oddly, God has not come down to congratulate. They are not allowed to think, Either he's not dead or we have done Somethig Terribly Bad. "He must not be dead," they say together, standing up.  Their skulls roll like helmets under a deferential bench. "We've gotta go after him," says *, nodding, nodding, agreeing with the smoke. * agrees with the smoke; therefore * need naught. CAPABLE OF REMARK They moved like terrible, inflated skins thorugh the underworld.  They have to use thier old schoolhouse compasses to navigate‑‑the little pointy ones, and you wear these like jumbo-shades© (the famous JUMBO SHADES OF DEATH!!!)‑‑shades with redundancy of thick such that you might well be walking on the sun. For it is awfully bright down here in death.  Not dark, as the books apprehensively expected, in alarum pressing their spectacles past the borders of their bone, right into their noses as they meet the frozen bone (and don't forget that there are no noses down here in death‑‑no noses...just like they said), not dark nat noll, not-nark-gnat-gnaul, mnaught-mnarque-mnyat-gnyawl, so perhaps not God's frying pan; in which death doth cook you up; nor the dismal stupors of a half-slept Lethe, in which your former soul is dozed to nothingness; nor the flowerings in a poet's face, tiny as a bee in the face of these full-flowerings, dauntlessly yawning at the screen illuminated with the vision of this flower; perhaps not the fashionings of phrase so involved in the windings of its own streets cobbled in wordlessness like sleep, in a wordless wordlessness like sleep which istself did lead unto the selfsaid flourishings of sleep; but perhaps God's beamless Sterilization Light‑‑Exalted Light!‑‑under which death is a form of sterilization with this blind purity of selves rejuvenated by the jargon of themselves, and the dream misconstruction of a compass makes you like lost all the time, like the woman lost in apologies, apologizing for God and for herself, her listeners twist their noses as she talks and twist their noises with vocations of their mouth as she try to talk, which being lost all the time and squining at this cmpass as you hold it up make you make those little, cursive faces wiht your mouth, like curing but without the gush, which make you mouth these little faces with your curfeleff moufh, which forms these faces somehow all by its mouthy self. In death, they found, you keep on yawning.  This yawning irritates you no end as it irritates you from sleep.  There is no real sleep in death; there is only yawning.  And when you "yawn off," you become a slightly different person‑‑not quite enough to count so far as the Different Perosn Bureau of the Missing Death might have not been concerned, but just enough so you step into a stream.  I mean, each new person in the wordl of new-personed death doth death doth step immediately into a stream, and itis always a slightly different stream.  This is very exciting, oddly enough.  Oddly enough, this sliping in the streams stuff is oddly exciting, with a sort of sexual, mackeral oddity to its smuff. Vapid streams flow everywhere, and you can't see where you're going, so you step in them, and draw out this foot like a mangled little moon or wound or womb or doom or croon or swoon or cavity in the interstices of doom [old child's comic, never read by a child, found in the toybox of a little child, the toybox never found floating on the great Flood of Wounds, the poor child's toys of the child who never was, full of the toys I never bought for my never-little-child, my poor drowned dead and wounded child like the dead world of my past I can feel within me now. "You OK?" mutters *. * is doing that bit where you swallow and hold * your hand just before your throat, as if *ing the aura of that throat. "I feel something in my throat." "You feel like crying," says *, doing that bit where you flip the polarizations of your face, swip-swip, as if to check things out, but really just to see how badly you're ignored.  "I know, man.  I feel it too." So they moved on, sweltering in their suits, stiff in their ties and bigod stepping into every bygob stream (which would be noticed were the dead "capable of remark"), and they keep pricking themselves with these things. Well, lucky our boys enjoy their suffering, much as we enjoy to watch within the throbbings of that moste fulsome Laughtrack of Heaven, filled with the yuks of the dead gods chuckling and the dead angels alughing all the time. "This place is full of dead angels, man!" whispers *. "No it's not," says *‑‑not because it's true, but just to help them get a grip on things. "What do we do if we find him?" "Kill him dead." "But he's already dead!" "Then it should be easy then." And in ths wise comforted themselves as they walked tripping on their caution through the bright forms of God's Luminescent Death, which is the sector of death we are trodding here. Whereupon they both stop, pricking up their ears at the narration‑‑starkly visible here, I'm afraid, in the death of light, the deathlight...you know what I mean‑‑and pulling off their even shadeses off. "You mean there are other sectors?" they say. "Well‑‑yes," I tell them.  "But you needn't concern yourselves with these." "But like‑‑where is Gadge hiding?  Are we in the right sector?" "You're in the goddam sector you belong," I say.  "I would appreciate you leaving me out of the conversation.  It completely destroiys the realism of this thing‑‑the realism I have so carefully rebuilt from the mud of the realization of nothingness which is the silt of nothingness which is the silt of everything." "Sorry, man." These guys are always sorry, you'll notice. "We are, man," they say.  "But who are you talking to?" "Whom.  Whoughmm, guys, and I was talking to myself. END-MEMORY or SECTION BEGINNING, "I PAUSE to LIGHT A CIGARETTE" in SECTION ENDING WITH DEATH* MEANING TIME ...in the Bogart Fashion, except it's not a cigarette but some sort of terribly potent, sexual drug comprising * the dreams possessing us rihgt at the end of sleep, who then (clever-clever!) wink into the guise ofthe other dreams, just like wink into the guise of another dream. Which is why you always think you have had another dream, when en  actualidad it was this dream, this dream I am coughing out here, in which you are bent over this steaming machine while Dream pumps behind you into its terrible load. I may have got the prepositions messed up back there, but I have a singed excuse from my mom, my blond mom with the long-dud fingernails, my mom you've seen in a hundred facial splatters, mom the facial splatteration of the scene, mom who is always taking a load on the face, mom who always looks hypnotized (when she isn't singing), saying in so many burbling words we don't have prepositions here, you understand?  Prepositions would not last in this caustic atmosphere, rife anda ruffian as it be what with steam and cum and sarcasm and hate (I was going to say "Love," but it's mostly hate (I was going to say Love butcept my purple lips emquurve unto a heart, a sort of a heart- lip- Shape I save for blowing the cock of the little brother, who has his Brother's cock who has his gather's cock, and so on, cock upon cock, cock poking the behind of proximate cock, weird cock for bubble curve round the root of the chakra of my yang) yin hate), and I have therefore this Yylian accent, to say the least, bespeak within the manner of the Yyl, for whom there be these sweet, windy sweeps of immoderate grief like that cat carried off in the whims of a hurricane of grief, that long-caressèd friend thatd glided off your whole heart, suffused with grief beyond the ladles of your rich surmise, and share in any case this distress on the matters of these things, preps, which have this impulse which distinct-psychotic here, this pulse here we pulse-here cannot we control, much less "codify down the stairwells of our time" [Skyntte, Cheatz, Qualdreth or Cheatz or Skyntte, I think, and I think he meant fate; he was a great poet but he used the wrong languages all the time {I think he means words‑‑he means languages for worms (He meem words for languages, in which languages are these so-called Worms of Fate, all-hallowed worms eating down the densities of time, hence the fragile density of time here, time here which is perfect yet all times set to ready to fall a fall apart. So my mother says, then turns away, already bending to her crouch, pulling her hair back with a hand and grabbing the shaft of the latest cock.  Personal circumstances aside, I was talking to * and *, you'll recall, all the while trying to ease my way from the picture like nothing so goddam much as a Tulminarium Eel, which is this sort of sociopathic eel much wrriten about they have, shirking responsibilities through the equally sleek leaves of its native Gawb, where it is always raining these droplets big and as luminous as catseyes, blinking griefless to your face. But I was saying as to said just before I slid like sidewise  again again, I was doing tht hissy thing where the smook pooth outdistended sides of your mouth like that, I do that secondanry thing (which is difficult:  don't try this hard at home) with the branches of your hand wherein the fingers like branches motion in a sort of motion over there. "Gadge isn't hiding, you goosey guys."  There is a terrible echo sudden over there. " He's right over there." * make like to cup his conchéd ear. "Beg pardon, mister?" he says, having clairly supped the steeps of irony, sussing the sweeps, the dismal heaps, if you will, of a heaving memory like a heart heaving its last with its langlaxt memories, sussing yeas the mesmerées of weaving end-memory. "He's right over there," I say, moving my lips even as they vanish so carefully-liquidly why you could cum by just watching them. And my friends do come.  I have distracted them like a dizzy little god on my own damned right, smiling and coming as they nod at Gadge, knowing this time they'll have to eat the little prick, wondering as we all do vaguely about something we had lost too much to even frisk ourselves, doddering in this ache in the fields of time. EACH POOR TOOTLE OF THE FLAME It's not going to be so hard to eat him as you might think, for Gadge is a sort of an enormous jelly here, as death transports the varios gods into these forms of formlessness somewhat like the vision of a perfect whale we have at issue here. Death transports the gods by means of a bus­a very loud and new York sort of bus, creaming with pride and details burrowing into nothingness.  God intends to bore the Gods to death, or into the imperceptive hell the gods must know as death.  It is useless to speculate. FNICK AT TWELVE.  We perceive this on the knews, we who have smokes the screeb nor yellower nor a madder of chains. See my forthcoming book, What That Sentence Means. Here's where * and * approach * wearing fangs like predators.  This is the scene we all saw in the fnorts, within the snorts of our media dreams, the scene in which * and * approach the gelatinous god who is nothing really but a nothing really but a face really qiviviereringing ing.  Ing.  Gadge looks on with fear as the stalkers come for him. They're making the most of it, too, stalking in these giant steps, worthy of a Whoomsey cartoomb, like the one where that candle, Woofus, cakewals toward the margins of his own * pointless fame, I mean the one in which he stalks that prodigal flame which has detached itself from the candle (that fat waxy bloithering thing­the blue candle, Boe by name, a personage like me qho barely caught the flame even instantly, groping terribly about in search of his flame ­­Certified Funny Stuff), before Woofus quite the show on advices of his lawyer (later skinned) and the interests of his funds (later comfuscaded, those fund$) unto nothingness, those themthere fumbs, so for years kids had to giggle at the hole where Whoof had been, the flat handles and anchor points comprising each poor * tootle of the flame flame (see my book, The Forthcoming Tootle of the Flame, in which nobody plays games). They're listing back, these two, with these flowers in their hand, "dilation sunglasses" from the reaches of the war, more flowers (it was Gadge got them into flowers­you recall?  Go to sleep; you will soon recall you motherfucker you), fangs I'm sure they picked up at the five and dime somewhere down in the Sector of the Little Shops or else the Sector of the Little Mills or else the ector of Poetry­where you can also get fans and fangs and the other accourtrements of poetry such as we know it here.  Know poetry, and also these Equally Outsized Spoongs­­‑‑ lo, and how they list back all but on the points of their reclines, dilating each a leg out frontadem, tiptoes dabbing the ground like some sort of cold comforting.  Note the excellent form:  the elbows out, the teeth gritted in this Rectangular Goddam Grin, and the glint of the spoon like a fashion show.  Note then how they rock ahead O they roc a head so far they all but slope the reaches of lunacy (and this is upper lunacy here‑‑not your vacant lunacy or your cave lunacy or your murk and torturous lunacy much less the faces you amazingly wave within the reaches of your vacant interlunar cave: I negate absolutley all of that...and I feel better, really I do), and canter forward toward the ground.  Sometimes their faces force themselces upon the ground, I have heard reported.  And they grin as if grimly happy wiht themselves.  This is the big stalker moment, and with thier big steps droing frorth the elastical spannins of their space do they draw it out for Gadge.  It is making him quiver so! "You're...not gonna eat me like a jello, are you son?" he says, but they just hiss through narrowed srotas of their nose, which is the predator's way of saying Yes I sure as hell am. Spoons, smiles as leering as a steely beam and a quite phenomenal beam, ridiculous spoons the size of shovels brandished like a cheerleader's massive dick I mean toss't baton, the yells of the dead, whose attention they have with thier shenanigans captur-ed [], smoothed in sadistic take after take after take (Stanley Kubrick watching it and saying, "Jeez, man‑‑let it GO!), all just to torture and torture Gadge, which is nothing anybody told us or tossed about.  Tossed us about.  I mean, told us afuckingbout. Snort syncope (which is a snort ofsyncope that we have‑‑illuminations of dense perversity inflict impactions of a sleepy ground), then * is making the first stab‑‑excuse me, I mean scoop (excuse me, he meant swing), allright, making the first swinge then‑‑at Gadge, who buckles back, his concavity parries the of the flowing bow I mean the nip of the garring gash I mean the thrust of the intended incision or the scoop or mar of the notches of his bluster'd cove or score. * clips in from the other side, but the Gadge's quiv'ring flank doth tuck him in, so he looks like a teetering great lava lamp right out of the hashish of Alice in the Wasted Lands (not to be mistaken for Alice of the Wasted Lambs), and he shuns again the slashes from the other side and shimmies him off the inclinations of the gashes of his other side, and the now-thrusting dallies of the other side, and he becomes in his action like nothing no much as this great and Standing Froth burbling, "HEY! Don't bloody eat me, you guys!" And their heads are filled with flowers.  I mean, this is a sudden feeling that they get, in the midst of their little caperings of for or Frolicks of Nonce (for yes, these were the very first Frolix of Nonce), a feeling of like your mind like these frozen rocks suddenly filling with this warm and frothing fermention of unmentionably tiny and perfect anf pefectly gorgeous flowers, the famous Flowrs of Euhpria Gadge was getting them on about. And those spoons become very heavy as they rock, dizzy and huffily, now suddenly filled wiht a tender love for Gadge (who says he had nothng to do with that‑‑that he was really happy, I mean helppless, and that, one presumes, the sudden and unctuous mushiness is the Achille's burgeon of our heroes, who come to think it as we must must have a weakness that is sweet, somewhere in there), who is making gurgling sound like the animated washer that gives up on trying to chew your clothes, if you know what I mean, on the washing of your impossible clothes.  "I don't have the teeth for t," the washer, Adabadaboup, says, but this is just Cartoon. THE ACQUISITIONS OF A PASSING FISH So they took this fnonograph of the mind‑‑I mean, a photograph of the still-uneated child:  1) one with 2) each of them posed next to it like a fish‑‑I mean, standing next to thier own god like he was a bleeding fish!!!‑‑and 3) one of the both-a-dem taken by the fish, and 4) one of all three of them taken by a passing fish (never have your shapsnots snotted by the Acquisitions of a Passing Fish), and the last and mysterious 5) One of the Passing Fish‑‑who as you've I gues guessed was Christ2 in simulacrum of a passing passyfish, which is a type of lucid, lucent fish we have here in the Waters of the Here, wich is a spherical lake like we have here, built in the service of the Sphere, which is this eye we have here, looking in upon itself wihtin the surface of a Moste Exalted Sphere but only the one ponograph of the rotten child comes out.  They get blown away or something, or forgotten.  I forgot.  And it like just quivers in the wind, singing a little mantra much to fine to tune‑‑though if you like we could have the thing ENHANCED... But there is just the wind.  There is nothing to enhance, which is so spacious of a great relief it makes our friends sigh, adding * to the quiver of the rain sighing on the faces of the photograph... You can't even make yourself out anymore, now can you now? The image of the picture called in sick today and will have to reschedule.  We are all so KNEEPLY SORRY a bout that... But "never more sick than when you've eaten a whole god," or words to that device, as they Do Not Say.  And well, they've eaten at least a half a god anyway, minus Gadge's dying gurle (preserved for us forever, not by electrofnickulation or nor phase-contrast fnortograph, but by this filing of the eels of night that was going on by scientists of The Reviv Technological Institute No. 1 (short for the Scientists of the Revivification Village No. 1 Technolgical Institute No. 1) with anaesthetized instruments and their lights of dismayal and their Lights of Disregard (short for...), whose hysterical bandwidths caught the ravings of the dying god (hyserically dying god, too!  Even the canned laughter had to bustout and open its goddam can, so you had like this dead laughter effluorescing‑‑a dangerous DangerCirc One (short for...) I believe I believe (short for I believe I believe I believe I believe) short for DangerCirc One short for DangerCirc One and Short for DangerCirc One, if I may coin a deliquescence of these coignered phrase [Zez.  ‑‑ed.], and several children dying, not so much in the way children should die (CHILL dren should DIE) as in the way I should have died‑‑guts ahemorrhagin' away, as they say, athorugh these slices right along their charming little viscera (Let us tum) which is loghng foghr a silent tughm oror prayaying for a silent t!m, or absolutely naught as the case may absolutely be And yea, but though the novel's end‑‑I mean e'enflough though the novel's end, friends, they roll right pas the Steppes of the Dead, as in:  they hunkered down there on the Steppes of the Dead, with the dead all round them too dead to applaud but still watching them, and but barely (the lusty brutes!) did time they barely have to to to start licking their fingers (a Dangerous Process‑‑see Ahead) when their fingers came right off right there in their bleeding mouths!!! which is hordrid I know which is they rolled over all over dead, as in "as if dead," as in Glii his sweet Intemperacies on  the gleanings of the dead, locked in the coilsof the locked in the coils of this coils of the Möbiac Metaphor on the so-called Harvest of the Dead, in which coils of the Möbius Metaphor on the Gleanings of the Dead [see spomething I forget to see.  ‑‑ed.] did depict the morbid wrestlings of this as Heidegger callth it this "seeming-to-be-dead" in which poor * and * (now here'a an mage now:) roll agroan down the endless steppes of the dead, while phalanxes of dead stand all around them in a gauntlet of the dead dead metaphor dead I realize this is hard to follow in the Metaphor Dead in which intemperate metaphor harvest dead did they retrieve dead pieces of themselves again again. This occurs throughout several rumors‑‑windows, actually, outside of which a doll of me‑‑a little doll of me!!!‑‑wakes up on its face with dew on its face in a dew-alarm. Novel by Kirk Hampton