THE SHIP Proving This Is A Science-Fiction Story No Matter What The Author Says This is not a story about a ship about a story about a ship called The Inadmissible, originally known as The Impossible, once built, re-christened The Unattainable, which, once rebuilt, again rechristened The Unattainable, with names sliding off it like a great goaféd awf from the fromes of fawg from then awn. Anyway, The Unattainable! built within its own, top-of-the-line, groove-of-the-arc, crazy-iconic-built-in exclamation poingy-oinks (!), a product of the people so incomprehensibly rich they fall right off the SussScopes®, & can thence & pretty much by the flance of Goddes will it would seem‑‑not saying what that means to the impassible to aptain, I mean, not saying what that says about God's Gospel will or his infurragers or whatnot‑‑buy whatever they want, without moving, or making anything else moving, but not by anything mystically appearing neither. It's just‑‑there it is, in the fog, some new thing, some Unattainable... I meant story about a ship called The Inadmissible.  Did I say "ship about a story"?  Why did I do that, & send you down the tunnel to an alternate universe you were never meant to see.  At least not without going mad. You're not going mad, are you? Now back to the story.  Her pregnant hull & massive armatures carven from the famous "liquid amethyst" or to the spiney little miscreants of that sphere, "liquid brick" we were stealing the bricks & the amethyst, both liquidly, from (though you'll notice you see no moving hands, no wand, nothing...just gone!), mined at costless [O but not costless to me nor you! O no NO!!!] expense [O!] but this dizzying expense so far Beyond Coste© that it come back right roun into yer lil lap again, it came back around, as I say, from its circumnabulation of the Expense Dimensions & you imagine what kind of cube it take to charge up anything in that infamous plot, with its crystal skating pools & its ruleless gaming rooms & its positive attack manic rack-a-toons‑‑or if you can't, your imagination can't Imaginationcant imagionationcant imagionationcant imagionationcant imagionationcant‑‑that sound is so chilly, pestring the eyes with its yea with its pestulent Woolle... & as the imagination of the cant was finally actually tallied, so just then (i.e., now) were (e.g., are) the seconds of our lives as short as nasty little shocks are tallied & are actually tallied up on the up & up, by Mssr.s Céderen, Paskstrertian, Covostononinger, & Smourt [excuse me!] CPAs of an earthier universe gone so far past palming even that clear, sheathy stuff they clear saheathy stuff they have at for money back on Nigel Frore they could counter up your lives with the bat f that single eyelash, lost, in the snow, momentarily, of what was not bestowed. This is all a little obscure.  Obscurity costs money, too, so you can bet there's some kinda $erious $ecurity behind these scury words which ibb & fluowe, though I'dna bet if I was you. But then if I was you, my vox wouldna sidle like the skeins off a colorless cat, etheric, vain, with a purr beyond even anybody's means (& they say Anybody's pret-ty rich...). But getting back to the ship, which like my subserviant companions actually tallowed with some kind of superburgandy fumes themselves too expensive to enrich the very rich, much less the energies of the very rich, much less the rich flagrances of glosses which positiviely owned the very rich. Anyway, this was a Qurome ship, nothing less, built by nothingless than the thousand Most Expensive Technicians hoovering like magnets or magnifying glass over the cleanse-pure surfaces.  It had to be clean, this ship‑‑hygienically free of any body matter.  Unlike most of our activities, the building & rebuilding of The Inadmissible actually had a point, which I knew only when, in a later personum, I stole the thing. SECTOR OF THE UNFIT WORLDS or     CONSTANT SYSTEM CRASHES We five & Intercollating Hunks were working, in the sense of founding ourselves without memory of birth, as janitords lording all over the lordless jaglinqued segments of our own mental eternity‑‑which YOU can DO TOO at only a FRACTION of the proper cost!!! SubsubsubsubBasements™.  Long-looping sexions of Eternity like somesort of jagg'd or jagassed handwriting which it was if you look at it that way, segments in this sector of the segments f eternity (sector Rö) within a hop, a jump, or a short rö aborade I mean aboard a fleet-and-subtle transdimensional shuttle, worth a week's (where "week" is "a constellation shuifting swiftly in the glance of the dazed Timetraveler") pay just to get there & help clean up. Actually... Did someone say something? Actually, we have black-outs. Was that someone saying something?  & who the hell is speaking for us?  Who's doing the writing? A:  No one. O.  OK.  Anyway, we'd actually originated & actually had respective childhoods if you can call the chintzy crap they bought us as experiences.  I could write a better childhood anytime, & maybe will.  Maybe (I'm the guy to do it, right?) I ought to write all childhoods, smelt in the melding oven of bedeviled recreation.  Aliens are approaching. So we had these mass-produced, store-bought where store stores the most goregeous if somewhat rubbery-bubbery image of this most laughable Soap Bubble hanging in space, giggling, laughing up in the stratosphere of Beeloox, the largest city of all, & once we'd et them or fezzed or muubed it or whatever it was but at least it seem'd long.  It lacked detail & was utterly void of orginality, but it was one's childhood, after all, & it seemed to me like one very long if ill-refreacted refracted-reflected reflected-detected detected-infected infected-incollected recollected childhood indeed, full of wind along the rivers & my mother's face, smiling in the midst of that bubble & therefore visible to ev er y soul in Beeloox! unknown as the Big Bee Here are some mubes not to be mistaken for nudes ntbmf lubes I took of our visit to Beeloox.  Everyone has to take a visit to Beeloox just once in one's short little lives, or at least, that's what the Remembrance of Law which is the book someone copied from the book that purporped to be a copy of the original & accurate laws od governance.  Fat chance, though we are pretty accurate folk.  We are quite accurate folk, homely though we are.  For example, you'll note there...no, over there...no...no there in the brink of the alleyway where a certain cluster of gorgeous Gördoonian beelets flee the wrath of am anaimate splatch which is a splach‑‑you know, water‑‑only sentient & self-animate & with,for a form of water after all, an unduly bilious attitude. Well anyway, I'm not very sharp, as grames go, & yet I can safely tell you there were 1301 bees in that murmuring hermitage, an assertion we could test by capturing & killing all the bees & then counting them & then bringing them back to life & then forgetting we had counted them & then‑‑my favorite part, if I ever remember it‑‑setting the bees free. A moment in the alley.  I am sitting against the bricks, & I move my knee. "That was beautiful," I say, beginning to cry awfully horribly, crying straight into the little-written-of mucoid phase faster than a hive of beelets eats the glow in your esuriant youth whily you crouch in the alley, next to me, the phrases from the Second Great War of Phrases flazing over your head where head meant dead solider too overzealous to stop dancing, ruining the party for everyone by killing everyone & then‑‑& only then‑‑dropping truly dead. "A moment of joy in the alley!" That was lovely.  Can we get back to the story now, if you please? Our canned childhoods were simply but amply stamplyed on us‑‑as if to save years, where time as implyed by years purrs as a very light, light blue fire from some sort of small, hand-held instrument coaxing thoughts of a new stylishness & subtlety from your heretofore hoarse & horeish mind‑‑we were five grey guys, only more like sad cracked beakers rolling out a portal into an infinite, infinitely dangerous alleyway (just think: you are going to die in an alleyway), pleasurably cracked guys carved from the Cosmic Plasma which is the depository of our race. I would call it Mother if it weren't so fatherly, & brotherly, & oft like a stranger, too, oft like a stranger, too, so I guess it amounts to more of a big pad absorbing proportions of our heart, & it is very clever, a bit too smart, & has been labeled with the dim yellow Switch of Potential Danger, only it's not danger here so much as disruption of certain sacred formulae, by which this universe‑‑quite a throw from yours, O distant friend & we were not quite four separate guys but were emissions or minions or emission-minions of certain faded areas of the faded areas of the lost areas of the formular floating alone that does not click, & therefore four infinitely different yet also infinitely interconnected fine marble columns, only we or our forms or the jolly friends of our forms which cluster round us like bees exactly half of the time, only the bees were more like some deep irony you felt yet could not catch, like the meaning of life only it was never life, quite, here but columns from a great crystal palace of the past broken & jagg'd on the hillside near the auditorium, or the act of hearing itself absorbed briefly to the shape of a great shell made for gigantic rhythmic orchestras with guitar players breaking chords from hell & the heads banging constantly, only they were the passionate obsession with pine trees, beautiful in their furrows on the famoius Hill of Conntectedness, which was less a hill than a blurred & grainy photograph of something someone once heard, back when they had hearing. We were all also under psychiatric care, but irritated us & we gave it up, agreeing with one another‑‑& tossing this agreement like a ball round the circle of ourselves, which was the Hindu Cosmic Circle of Lies, lacking only one participant, throwing so as to fool the eye, like Harlem Globetrottters of the invisible world‑‑double trust, backwind, handflip, fingertwist, changing record IDs in a record time. Uh...It's not precisely time we have here‑‑it's really a crystal vision of prayer, & it works for us, wherever God forgot himself, right? So the prayerlosing its focus constantly keeps us changing you know & "emanating." We don't really have the spectrum soft to hard here‑‑though I can tell you we ordered it a long time ago & we paid relatively good money (ashes) too cloud cloudthought cloughtthought horizon cloudthought enter horizon cloudthought enter event horizon covered with ornaments, but rather raveled like a superhuman & I say human wretchedly‑‑that's part of what too means in these parts, podner; now I have to go.  I close.  I close & I go.  I go. spine spinning endless down the dim horizons of dawn, if something so unsystenmatically pondered & existing more as a fest of liturgical garments as far as we're concerned can be calléd dawn.  It was like that. & we were capable of some very guy-like behavior, even if we were connected dismal twins from the ghostly firmanment of our central mind, to which we would return if we possibly could, or be returned, if we could possibly arrange it like the flowers in the pot of flowers in the house of flowers of your grand mother of all flowers on a visit on a blooming Sunday day or have ourselves shipped, if it's in the Shipping Zones, only it's not exactly distance we're talking about here but a profound convolution of the heart, & I mean a profound convolution of the heart, man, & the last thing I remembered uh uhuhuh huhuhu only it wasn't memory nor the loss of it so much as it was the fading of laughter, the fading of laughter way down to that nimbus where you think, There is no mirth here, only you're full of mirth, so anyway the last thing that mirthed my fat ass was the part of the mubie where the four of us got our delicate brainstems blown, only it was more like the silken swhish of a spider's web on your face when you entered that cave at the edges of the moon so we got O! O! O! O! O! O! O! (Orgasm deleted.  Author apologizes.  Author has completely cleaned up the place.  Author is ashamed & sorry.  Author is humiliated.  Author will now commit hari-kiri right here relatively close to the start of this novel evolving slowly into a poem.  Work is already written.  Work will continue by itself in ghostly fashion, written by a long-dead author with an attitude waving its magnificent cock in the Gentle Kapha Reader's face, so to speak.now return to our story.) Where someone is talking about this incredible feeling of déjà vu eveyone is having, due to the c cc c c ct tch cntn ytmcahs constant system crashes. so many brushes on which of the four identical faces we were in at the time, brushes that made us kind of spaz out, in a way you wouldn't recognize, except to say that when the nimbis of the webs brushed our eyes only they were more like piercing attitudes of change than corporeal eyes, for as I suspect, you're beginning to see we don't have a real hold on corporeality here.  It doesn't mean to much, & it doesn't appeal to us‑‑rather like a sport no one wants to watch, much less play.  But we were brusheed to a fare-thee-well by these little blue nimbi that you waved round the etheric eye only like I say it is only the white thought of an eye at the top of your big log heng, only it was the open window of a very tall building facing a very vapid light, & the edges & corners of things were very clear, infinitely clear,in fact, thought we don't necessarily (we're not sure) we have "facts" here, though we do have Clouds of Occasion which seem factoidal in the rather snooty heft of their appearance & forthcoming behavior.  So the brush across the poor anemic thought & the brightly opened widow at the fourteenth floor creates in us a sort of pleasurable, driving panic in the form of a field of strings, if you know what I mean.  This was called the Universe of Ghosts Meanwhile I wrestle with the reality by witch I mean spell of being a nun, the infinite, eternal spell of being a perfect nun, white & caped & glorious, flying high oer the cocks lifted up to the sky aching to fucking them.  That was I, where I is misunderstood to be a very long word with some missing sylables. This would all be achingly self-referential were there not so much love involved.  But in a trice:  Sumorr contained my word-hoard, Vekk occupied the digital spies of my sights, my mathematics, Balb was fairly empty, with a discernible clutter of memories winding right toward the cold Soil of Despair the city of despair the state of despair the great & independent state of Despair passes its vote to Despair for the greater mastery of Despair, survivors of the Wars of Despair I grew up within (all those fistfights with mortality, with everyone taking on everyone else (I am speaking of guys here) & beating up despair.  But despair still rules, eternal in the hallways of that school.) & Bictor, so far as I could tell, contained precisely the same stuff as me, so he tended to echo me, a priceless new experience for me‑‑& all for free, setting aside my assets, setting aside my assets to look again at Bictor, containing the same clustered thoghts at me, but without the me.  Bictor‑‑a strange & selfless fellow indeed.  He was so like me I hadn't a clue as to what he was thinking, though I thought to read his mind several times.  Bictor was my self plus opacity of unself-matter minus velocity of self-creation times creative negativity (normally reserved for women, but we were somewhat women, too) to the blissful exponent of nonthought, subdivided by the vector of our lives, which was abducted at inception by some force far too inscrutable to know. So that's the family, here in Poorsville, named after us, The Poor, descendents of General Bixou Poore & the black slave Eva, Eva Poor.   You can see immediately why everybody had the name Poor.  Actually, it wasn't confusing at all, after we got used to it as we were getting used to everything by which I mean the nothingness this huge family had in stock for themselves. It was touching.  I noticed you could almost see the rich, in the same way as you almost see that grey alien phantom pulling you off the bed by your feet without warning, & you could tell that they wanted to be seen, but they were just too lush, too too luxuriant, for us to see, so we spent a lot of time shuttering our eyes to the sky with hand braced against eyebrows, falling over backward, asking each other excited & pointless questions, even our comprehension of our poverty having been poverty having been long sold, so down the river we go... So now you look down at your hands & see you're an adult, a big, working adult.  & we were always polishing & cleaning places that didn't need it.  Poorsville was pretty cleaned out & up, if you catch my drift.  We brothers were the Second Unit, the Redundant Polishers, wading into great cornucoptic stables of dung & making them shine, making even the dungshine!, but we fancied ourselves pirates.  Our pants fell down‑‑all four of us at once‑‑when the idea We Are Pirates first cabined itself in the forests of our boarded-up minds. They were the best ships, the most exqusitie ships except they were not really ships but each an intricate white doilie poised at the center of a solidified, spherical black thought of a thought of a thought, or else butterflies preserved in some sort of perfect white smoke (note perfection motif (note self-referential (protection (perfect protection) againstthe all-ensorbing Janitor. THIS WAY: It worked this way: if you start cleaning up, you're hired.  If it is perceived by the various All-Perceivers (possessed (if I may say) within each jag of atmosphere of the sphere of which we can & have to enter here) entered here.  So we'd just start picking up, in our many-bagged, megapocketed janitor's jumpers, & the ignominous crown of service would form over each of our silly heads, & we would just keep working like that till one of us flipped his lid or blew a gasket or popped his nozzle or threw out his cam or snapped his twizzle nor foff his chump nor doffed his head with his hat, where heads & hats exist as machie parts of some huge Refinery, which was, one simply knew, ultimately & finally going to expel its O healing liquid.  Our worlds were very very big on healing liquids, & faux versions were peddled on one black market beneath another. I once bought a nice vial of "rebirth-agua" at a pretty penny in what I thought might be the deepest black market, Fossolia, buying & sellling far below the second-darkest black market, Bonnswoggle, but you can never be sure.  I drank the agua & was born again forever, so it must it must must have have had had some had some kind of worry to it, dontchya no? & when they straterted letting us clean the grids & faulty outer surfaces of the whiff-machines aboard the Super Ship, S.S. Unattainable, we began youknow pocketing stuff.  Any mini-gaugue or molt of Designated Software dozing atop the shoulder of a chair, if you can call them emotive ravagers merely chairs‑‑we'd take it, as we would any & all thangs that fell as it were withing as it was our pockets‑‑& perhaps I have not sufficiently nor distinctly enough told you just how many pockets we had to endure in these puffed-out suits. & we'd emerge, the ship too clean for use, useless, sans use, half-emptied of its expensive instruments (on account of Vekk, in his more expansive moments, could make things small, so he would, like, shrink & take apart every snaggle of control room into his suit, & then come out), where they would empty our pocketys & take back our stuff, whereupon we were not fired‑‑not at all fired‑‑but forced automatically through psychiatric care‑‑& our psychiatric care here has some kinda hairy balls on it, let me tell ya!   & so it went, day after day‑‑where day exists as a stray wanderinf\g of sleepy sheep from the fold, in the perfect silence sans predators, without conseqiuence, cleaning, stealing to our festering garments, being relieved of our manifold immense & absurdly optimistic thefts, which‑‑thanks to our therapy‑‑were now the cleandest durnd thangs in the world, where world is understood as a defluxive copy of something that was once thought real, but which now exists outside of thought forever, happily dumb, as our minds‑‑as the groteque & rapaciously invasive therapies went on‑‑gradually eased their little asses where minds have thinking asses into the world we were as I said working lowly in. At the point‑‑i.e., the small vial of poison, incredibly potent for such a hypnotically beautiful handglown beautiful vial‑‑on which quit being Vekk, stepping off the dimly glowing platmform & bowing to my successor, the evil crowd hissing invisible in the black substance these exchanges of identity occurred in (because were ashamaed, all right?  Ashamed of each identity, so we switch like this, or rather nature‑‑a gorgeous fishcue, popular on Reticula E, wouldn't you know, of solid gill-less glass‑‑makes us switch like diss, as if to ease the burthen of being any self at all, though they were not selves in the psychological or philosophical sense but rather little ornaments on a building where the wet rain falls (some excited businessman argue below), but it just made matters worse, so our lives (that is, our delicate, sweet dustbunnies) were these descending cobwebby spirals into more & more shame, as if we were the Adventurers of Shame/ But at the point I surrendered my maignant, inertial form of Vekkness, Vekk became quite animate & started cooking up a storm.  I watched him as Balb, my new identity, feeling very fat but looking thin as an insect, the new Vekk SOMETIMES GALAXY Don came in with a barrel of flowers.  They were surprisngly small & dirt-covered & repulsive.  Each one had a bouqet god damn it that would knock your soul right out, not to mention popping the popping the silvered glasses that we all affect.  They were mud-flowers, flowers, that is, of the Great Mud Swamp, where no one‑‑except, apparently, Don the big dummy‑‑dared to go.  But damned if there weren't moire flowers there. "It's no use," Bictor dictor.  "We'll never get out of here." He meant leaving the Foloria, the Planet of Flowers, the sad planet of the multifarous flowers, the sad dungeon of a hundred wreckéd spaceships. We'd been looking through these old spaeships endlessly, the minute we discovered that everyone crash lands here, through some deliberate glitch in the forcefields round this as with every other planet in our Galaxy, which we called Galaxy One, not your galaxy at all, but ours, or somethimes galaxy. Don himself was a flower, by the way. At the point‑‑i.e., the small vial of poison, incredibly potent for such a hypnotically beautiful handglown beautiful vial‑‑on which quit being Vekk, stepping off the dimly glowing platmform & bowing to my successor, the evil crowd hissing invisible in the black substance these exchanges of identity occurred in (because were ashamaed, all right?  Ashamed of each identity, so we switch like this, or rather nature‑‑a gorgeous fishcue, popular on Reticula E, wouldn't you know, of solid gill-less glass‑‑makes us switch like diss, as if to ease the burthen of being any self at all, though they were not selves in the psychological or philosophical sense but rather little ornaments on a building where the wet rain falls (some excited businessman argue below), but it just made matters worse, so our lives (that is, our delicate, sweet dustbunnies) were these descending cobwebby spirals into more & more shame, as if we were the Adventurers of Shame/ But at the point I surrendered my maignant, inertial form of Vekkness, Vekk became quite animate & started cooking up a storm.  I watched him as Balb, my new identity, feeling very fat but looking thin as an insect, the new Vekk was going to make us eat flowers come bust, & this time he was burgering them up into little patties & baking & frying them & puttin g them between two sheets of the strange, disappointing, transgalactic smatter that was just going to have to serve as dough, or pose as dough, like the actors Xeptany & Figgis, who wound their wondrously woinding unwounded unwoundable unwionderable wonderful limbs, so as to create an actorer's illusion of dough.  It was a great show.  We watched it entire lots of times.  Hell, that's all we watched.  I'm not even certain the other mubes would work at all.  We never tried them.  Probably not, because this here flower-infested daisy-bleached broom-dutched honeysuckle-hounded larkspur-spurring little planet did some sort of deal on you.  Our instruments worked, but not truly.  They had been, ah, addled in some way, so they gave out pretty much nothing but sarcastic garbles, so in truth we couldn't figure out the atmosphere (which kept us alive, but only in this deep trance I invite you into too), or how the gravity was so hard (it felt hard, not heavy or massive, even though it instanteously crushed all our skulls skulls into a rather better pattern than before), or what kept all these bloody flowerrs going‑‑liquid essence of gladiola, anyone? bluebell syrup or flax-funk or campanula-oil or columbine-residue from deposits on the noses after the end of their eerie smiles?‑‑so we were a shipload of idiots, with none of that God-given autofood from the Autofeeder©, much less the fine invisible wines it churned out day after day as we careened rather drunk through the cosmos. It wasn't wine, of course.  I just said it was.  It was actually more like (but not exactly) some sort of pleasurable, driving panic in the form of a field of strings, if you know what I mean.  But I transposed it to wine, as I traspose us into "people," as I transpose "galaxy" from its true nature, here in Labyrinth 3 of the Endless Illusory Worlds, in the Universe of Ghosts, in the flights of the galaxies of fantasy & the flights of evil thoughts flowung through some violin-maker's head.  I don't know. So for a while we were certain we had only ourselves to blame.  That was before we started stumbling upon hundrends & hundreds of these crazy SHIPS! Our brother Gip kept molding himself in & out of the Sorcerer's Orderless Disorder, which was perforce a Reordering, which is a minor & quick disease (you have so quick you don't have time for the little sneeze of quickness we calll snik!) we we we have, and‑‑carrying the strand of upstartedness that would make someone do something like this began fondling the controls in a way that made our invisible (because nonexistent‑‑shhh!) lips smack like colliding craft crashéd together, crafting his eerie infra-nuanced "palms" which were energy fields themselves of the finest comlexity, as btroad as a barn & with a wing span rivaling that giant, pleistocenic buzzard flying overhead waiting for you to die just reading this, my kind friend‑‑just oer the burnished silverneer of the layer of massless masss, or more accurately minor half-mass, or too precisely halfassed nevermass© & into the actual solidity of that control panel complex as the map of a vagrant nervous system. We have these here‑‑nervouse systems that nevous systems that just now & then leave their bodies as they slept, leaving them if they got their way forever, which was uually true: forever is usally true, for these here free nerves or rogue or runaway neurons tened to grow new bracnhes‑‑you know, branches of nerves that would make no sense to a living body, thought they damn well made sense to the fucking nerves and also of course combining with one an other, such that our world or nexus or shattered glass plate or whatever you finally land on from yourinfininte free fall through this prose was cluttered with massive, incoherent, bodiless plexes of nerves, which made things difficulty, difficult, as these nerves would zap the poop right out of you if you touched or even dared to come near even if you were safe within the haven of the nexus thinking of nerves.  Therefore one can never give thought to nerves. This is a statement of science fiction fact: You can never give thought to nerves (because the nerves would kill you). There's Bictor mounting the controls like a great sequential lover, making with the bobs & the touches, the taps & the occasional beautiful bouquet of flowers, presented shyly with the toe stuck imperatively , & then he got hotter in a distinctly sexual manner (a manner bound to righteously miff our sort‑‑such that he was even as I describe happening as having happened miffed off himself, & nearly driven to a hissy-snit. But he stood there suddenly in dazzling sequins, & with girls & boys squealing all around like some invading insect army of exsufflicate love, the Rock Star More Glorified Than His Hair, & taking Dynamix Stance Number One, hup, then Positix Stance Number Too, hey! & on to Inevitix Bumo-and-Granch Number Four, with a little singing in the middle space (a dense pocket of amusement which has never been successfull cracked by the Scientific Enterprise, which is a big corporation here), he started to flipping the layed-out artwork of the pattern of switches of rewkidorr to no possible end.  & Bic was wont to said, ripping a smile the width of seven ripped Yrordial rainbows, which are fat as you could want through the evil shades we wore, in lieu, not just of eyes, but of solid facial matter of any kind there & therein & therehownow, the shades flipping from black to eons & from mirroir to ego, all in a trice, he'd say this way & with an emphasis spelling out the latter part of the upper echoes of Lattisimor's Last Symphony No. 6 as threy blew out the stratospheric balconieres, adding to the furious (& unstoppobable (& uncontradictable (& waffleing (& baffling) & tuneful) & spirited) & white-horsed) strain the equally inadmissible strains of all those people dying‑‑at this, or that, the first, & last, performance of this great Symphonic Ego Who Wouldn't Die's sixth last to the last-nth spathy, as I said.  & in like manner would the Bicmeister just bragged on he use Special Alogrithyms of his own discovery for our empty flight, so it would be in the farm of a form of a form of a magnificent fountain of light (!) or     succession of cascading rapids, as if we were you know flying three ships, so even all those cops would never get us.  Now the rest of us (when we weren't being him, 'cause we was still spinnin'!) thought the chances of Gip‑‑even the crafted glass version of the caxted graph virgin of Gip that was as I say working the controls couldn't dodge this magnitude of cops, cause I mean they had some magnitude of cops here, if I could only find the words, each a world each full of sylphlike figures wrapped in wavering cloth, each on a lone rock in the midst of some corny yet incredibly effective sunset, each with a tiny yet real heart, each heart containing within it the emotion that I am looking for, that I need enough to do anything to anybody else‑‑& that's the kind of thought a soldier needs. Now & then this idea that one of us is a warrior [passes by.  It just passes by, on a horse represented by the stealthy beams of a sun shying its way up (or is it down?) behind mountains.  None of this can be explained & I suggest you avoid the thought I cannot avoid the thought you can avoid me thinking the thought you should avoid even when you are inside of me. Avoid this thought. We have to excuse ourselves from time to time: "Excuse me.  I was just seeing myself as a Warrior," at which everyoe would either mutter solicitously, or just eat faster. But Anyway, we figured the Gipper was simply & ultimately freaking out, reaking out into pastel horizons he could see but never know freaking into endless stutterings & stutterations of his stutterinity (or stutterability (or stutterbuggery (or "The Stuts") or stuttification of his stutterosity) or hammer-doubt stammerings, which is my personal favorite, but back to the story now story now sotry now & the story now... ...putting random hits around this Sector of the Unfit Worlds, & that's what we wanted.  This is where we got on the rewkidorr, for reason which I thought I'd never knew.  But we went into clear regions, & perfect ones, & it enhanced the startling gaity‑‑the soprano cackles, brute winnies, & harklebarks of four grames cut out of the great Plasma of Gramery, from which our deleterious race doth spurt. Not to worry. None of this occurs near your fucking sector, much less in your cocksucking sector, if I get the phrase from the endless mubes about you, like you were acting out stuff for us, which you are (which is why you always hear that invisible laughter behind everything you do, everytime you bent over to crick a crowbar & everytime you hogged the ball all over the field, the stadium, the bleachers, the tiny white-haired towheads with their idiot baseball capps & you, you, dribbling or fumbling or punting in their minds.  This tickleth them endlessly, & that t us e, so to say. & also sts, our evidence indicated all & with a clarity so too startling to our world that we screamed & wriggled our fingers at our chests for a very long while, which is dismally unqueeractoristic, once the data got mubed straight into what passes for our hengs & we all knew it at twonce, & we all felt the same dithering little cosmos flashig our ye-en at once, & so you might say it stopped a few processes in our trimadod. Everybody else said as they died & I held their fading hengs, one by one, that they remembered everyfing (known as boasting at the time of death, boasting at the time of death), but the last fing I the one who lived a bit remembered a bit before in fact a long sagging time made out of some oily fine cloth stretched in a sag across the gloomily windowed loft of some artist mad as a rabber, before, & all this while something raining impossingly hard outsign, on the macrorubber streetes that we never sweep (because we like all that crud you see) so hard it hurt, so hard it crushed your toes as you ran from it, so hard it began pounding & pounding the keys of your little typewriter, the little glitz aluminum joke-typ-er-write-er Jeggs gave you as a joke‑‑it was as a joke, don't you remember? Anyway, the last thing I remembered ere I start remembering again was the four of us getting O! so high on these little blue nimbi that you waved round the etheric eye at the top of your big log heng.  Twas not unlike though pretty much unlike your drinking of wine.  It wasn't wine, of course.  I never said it was.  It was actually more like (but not exactly) some sort of pleasurable, driving panic in the form of a field of strings, if you know what I mean.  But I transposed it to wine, as I traspose us into "people," as I transpose "galaxy" from its true nature, here in Labyrinth 3 of the Endless Illusory Worldthings or Worldlike Things, in the Universe of Ghosts, in the flights of the galaxies of fantasy & the flights of evil thoughts flowring through some violin-maker's heng.  I don't know. MANY A DISMAL BEACON'S WAY FROM TALK Gip flip switches to no possible end, drawing forth Propulsive Emissions as enigmatic as the power of Power herself‑‑& with her face as well‑‑sss! Gipid gush forth in his way of speaking, many a Dismal Beacon's Way from Talk, you'd best be assured‑‑smiling through his own special, evil, mirrored shades like the ones we all, but for, of course, the evil, ware‑‑he was using special alogrithyms of his own discovery for our flight, but we figured he was just freaking out, putting random hits around this Sector of the Unfit Worlds, & that's what we wanted. This is where we got on the rewkidorr, for reason which I thought I'd never knew.  But we went into clear regions, & perfect ones, & it enhanced the startling gaity‑‑the soprano cackles, brute winnies, & harklebarks of four grames cut out of the Antibiotic Plasma from which our deleterious race doth spürt. (Yuck!) Not to worry.  None of this occurs near your fucking sector, much less in your cocksucking sector, if I get the phrase from the endless mubes about you, like you were acting out stuff for us, which you are (which is why you always hear that invisible laughter behind everything you do, everytime you bent over to crick a crowbar & everytime you hogged the ball all over the field, the stadium, the bleachers, the tiny white-haired towheads with their idiot baseball capps & you, you, dribbling or fumbling or punting in their minds.  This tickleth them endlessly, & that t us e, so to say. & also our evidence indicated all & with a clarity so too startling to our world that we screamed & wriggled our fingers at our chests for a very long while, which is dismally unqueeractoristic, once the data got mubed straight into what passes for our hengs & we all knew it at twonce, & we all felt the same dithering little cosmos flashing our ye-en all at once, & so you might say "it stopped a few processes in our trimadod." Everybody else said as they died & I held their fading hengs, one by one, that they remembered everyƒing (known as boasting at the time of death, boasting at the time of death), but the last ƒing I the one who lived a bit remembered a bit before in fact a long sagging time made out of some oily fine cloth stretched in a sag across the gloomily windowed loft of some artist mad as a rabber, before, & all this while something raining impossingly hard outsign, on the macrorubber streetes that we never sweep (because we like all that crud you see) so hard it hurt, so hard it crushed your toes as you ran from it, so hard it began pounding & pounding your little keyboard, shoving the mouse way the hell up your arse, the little glitz aluminum joke-typ-er-write-er Jeggs gave you as a joke‑‑it was as a joke, don't you remember? Anyway, the last thing I remembered ere I start formally Remembering Again was the four of us getting O! so high on these little blue nimbi that you waved round the etheric eye at the top of your big log heng.  Twas not unlike though pretty much unlike your drinking of wine.  It wasn't wine, of course.  I never said it was.  It was actually more like (but not exactly) some sort of pleasurable, driving panic in the form of a field of strings, if you know what I mean.  But I transposed it to wine, as I transpose us into "people," as I transpose "galaxy" from its true nature, here in Labyrinth 3 of the Endless Illusory Worldthings or Worldlike Things, in the Universe of Ghosts, in the flights of the galaxies of fantasy & the flights of evil thoughts flowring through some violin-maker's heng.  I don't know. THE DROOL THAT SERVED FOOLS We came to this tree-flower the size of your palm if it turned into a tree, doing that little upper-back bend that explorers always use to indicate (to watchers?  is this being photographed?) they are Surveyong Something New. Balb even took his kadok out & started signaling the rest of us to stand by the trunk, which was way too dark to get any inclusions of gravity, I mean a good shot, a good shot in this or any universe being but an occlusion of gravity, litte-known fact of inter-universe phsyics, little-known branch of the science of vipary to wit, the science of how facts dissolve into pixels when they are placed, using tweezers, from one universe, existing as a petri dish, to another, existing as that {huge blue vase} full of {silken flowers} as you sat in your {grandmother's house}, sipping a {strange tea}‑‑not what you expected from the old woman‑‑which caused you to sit quite still except with a tension, a tension moving from the & into your skeletal muscles, so your were tense indeed except for the odd spike or twitch, & you could see the utility of grandma's Paralysis Tea, as it allowed her to say the things she had to say. I mean, she had a countless number of important things to say, when here her children & anyone else whom she considered still young were hopping about & running off & in general not listening, & so she had to take steps. & the background hallucinations of the tea was the instrumentalizatioon of these three geeks in extra-bulky clothes standing at the trunk of a Tilden tree-flower, a redwood tree of a flower with petals toughened by the wind into these tough sailor types, with few words unless you gottem shtonked, wizened & stubbled, etc., looking up at it awkwardly, not really noting anything but bloody faking it, as if to minimize the fact they'd blundered like a group of drooling idiots there, their drool itself more intelligent than they, a luminous green substance pouring its vectoreded sectors into one Central Drool™, the Drool that Served Fools regarding them as fools, but never deigning to become animate, much less to send its billions of simultaneous thoughtforms up to the idiots' heads, just for the pleasure‑‑nay, the vengeance‑‑of watching the drooling heads blow up from DRO or Data Reversal Overload orro daolrevO lasreveR ataD roor ORD, except the drool was much too proud, & acted inert‑‑the most lively intelligence in the universe, drool, is so proud it acts like this dusgusting substance, a fine substance of study for the science of ick, which is the science of grossity, a science unpracticed but existing like a lonely tube waiting to light. So we looked up at the wideblown flowertree like fripples seen through the eyes of a myriad jyt, its xylem & phloem rutted like muscles or seasonal changes of one kind of light for another Winter Brittle, Spring Dizzy, Summer Butter, Fall a Small Child Crying Wildly, trying to get attention, but he can't because this is his OWN UNIVERSE, something before he was born he would have & may have said was something he wanted more than any world, & now no help is here, not behind the inches-high door labeled Help, now beyond the miniature bushes labeled Help not in the vermillion canyons we see flying at some sort of record speed, but we don't quite know who's keeping the records here, making us hot, making the child cry some more, we stuck in a box with the kid no taller than his toe, wondering how it's going to be to die at the flailing hands of an infant taking us apart for love; this was a Bad Scene & I'm sorry I wrote it, men.  So much for the Light of Spring scuttlebutt light, black-market light, light of illegal dimension & compostion, mixed & crusted varieties of light collected by the Higher Powers of the universe, who are very acquisitivem if not avaricious (please don't tell any of the rapacious, pillaging buttery Powers of the Universe I suggested they might be avaricious, OK?), & all of these kinds of light illuminating the great cells that make up this puppy... YOU HAVE TO BE FLABBY TO HEAR A THUMBP Floating through faint, turquoise Galaxy 99, the all-chrome galaxy, was another galaxy, which this time was a galaxy of an idea, which was a diamond necklace, which consisted of Sumorr getting an idea. We all heard the thump.  We all heard it happen. We all turned round in the bus to slap the numb arm of the person behind us, who was us made just a little flabbier, & asked him if he heard the thump.  He was asking the guy behind of course, but we knew he heard it, since you have to be flabby to hear a thumbp, & the flabbier you are the better you hear the flump, & the flabbiest flump in the universe can hear the Nothing Flump.  It's one of those logical things I ate as a kid; it works that way... New ideas are dangerous, so we formed a ring pressed against the outer perimeter of the convolution the untelling this story was not taking place within.          Figure One: Big Idea The idea was crudely packaged, a clear candidate for Bomb Control Unit Bomb Confuckingtrol, which is why when Sumorr who seemed to be some sort of inexpliquable Southerner from the poorlands of the South even more vapid than we, when he drawled "Lessgo..." he was actually trying to get up, to employ all his words in the effort to get up, thus risking his eentsy Salvage of Sanity so to speak which so far to speak as can be determined determined to be the nature of our world in the first place.  Have I said all this before?  Have we done all this before? Anyway, nature of our universe inasmuch as someone kept creating us again no matter how many times we decreated ourselves, standing naked & confused, giggling with our momentary triumph...then back to work, with the poor 'Morr trying to get up too early for him to get up which is that strange & beastly time before the idea of getting up even fucking exists, if you cache my driff, but anyhow Sumorr's spine way too luminescent spine way too nonexistent for that, which is why the statement came out defused & wet. "Let's go to‑‑wha' they callit?‑‑the..." & he gurgled in his own words for a moment, then turned to us for help, even we were all upside down!  I mean, we were all feet ti him!  & still he asks, & he say, "Whatsat...that...that, you know, place where they have these...these uh...you know...that sector." This caused quite an argument.  Arguments over nothing are always the best kind, & now camera ZOOMS DOWN from direct-overhead view as we pull out synchronously from the fraggy fray to reveal the Unfit Sector. "You wanna go..." began Sumorr, who became Bictor in midsentence, which I believe has happened to all of us, mirroring through false & spinning quantumirrororrs into nothing more than Bictor‑‑the tattered guy, the sadsack of this motely brunch, the echo guy, whose words echoed the thoughts he echoed from others, & very unevenly.  It's happened to anyone who remembers, who believes, and/or who is not afraid to admit, & who was sporting enough (which aren't always are, I'll tell you that mush) to finish, "...to the Unfit Sector?" "Yea!" nodded Balb, like The World's Greatest actor performing a play that was entirely him saying the word yea‑‑that's just how rich & young & well-proportioned this yea was. It is currently onview at the Onmuseum of Cunhouse, down in Lower Lowalellia. & after a few more swigs of punch, going to visit the planets that had before history, before phiropology, before thought, before mistakes such as God (who was don't you agree a big mistake?  You'd betternot gree with me) been rustled into the Unfit Sector (with no sun but just a single, naked, unfrosted‑‑but obviously pretty big‑‑lightbulb hanging on a swingin' wire to light all of them), & laws passed forbidding visitation, but these were a tye I mean a type of law we have here called sometimes the singular law, sometimes the causeless law, & sometimes a timorous clamor like a great uncomprehending sneeze where you forget where you where are...and these here laws were nonenforced. Nay‑‑it was strictly Against the Unknown Law for the ka-CHOO laws to be enforced, & not as insanely as you would imagine (for you would never, in our terms, imagie insane in the first & manic place), because they enforced themselves.  They perfect, self-embodied, self-upholding laws, constituting 99.99% perƒcent of the laws up here except for some, like The Law That Makes You Fall From The Limb you were high on here‑‑now a giggling child, now a cripple & now a giggling child, now a cripple & now a giggling child, now a cripple & now a giggling child, now a cripple & now a giggling child, now a cripple & now a giggling child, now a cripple & now a giggling child, now a cripple & the cops hated them.  It left them nothing mandated to enforce other than gravity & a few attitudes, so they could go round you know enforcing some basic physics (not much of the time) & hammering us with attitudes.  They were OK. Anyway, sententiously spake, there no cops nor walls. the CHUTspa trepassing law would enforce itself, as always, & so who could resist going in, if only to see‑‑perhaps at one's regret‑‑how the damned thing was enforced, & what this said about the civilization we had going here, & about whether it would just be, say, an irritating alarm soung in one's inner ear from here to kingdom come (to which you, not hearing the call, wouldn't come), or one of those multiple executions they had back there‑‑now where was it‑‑on that quasi-planet of birds? * had a little tiny booklet with the reasons for unfitness of these stars "*, because they feared its flowers."  Raucious laughter.  You couldn't see us, but you could see a phosphorent polymer sust shaking off of us, like we had Comic Dandruff or Cosmic Dander, as the thought of just how funny this sounded leapt into the room, sword drawn, his pale-blue features vivid & ready (& then you got watch those featurees sag as he got slow & he...forgets...) Push-button Guide.  "This is the Mylxiar, the basic flower of love, the aromatic essence galling your juices flowing, the great conduit of divine & earthly energy, the floweer of truth, the flower of knowledge, the flower of having good manners & being a good kid, the slight edge to the essence suggesting darker things...like murder, perhaps."  See See See Mirror Section. SEE SEE MIRROR SECTION Types of Flowers Found.  The Unbanded Noseblough, dressed in One Plush Blue Skirt fandangled oer Another the skryxt, passionate yet somehow nastily generally black with coxcombs of red sort of flower the moesenstryp bitterberry‑‑a plant in the true spirit of molasses, a molted or if you will deliquescent sort of a dawn-rosy syrup of a flower, seeming to shimmy mongst the Stader Breeds the yngsht, which was always glad to kill a rising species, & yet kept through astral means the secret of its insurpassable, unsurmountable, nucleic puissance of poisoninity the yearnling pushover, generally regarded as a plant that fucked, a plant who wore too many tight red sweaters :) too often during our year, which is not a year but rather a series of red sweaters pulled over the face of the One Father you suffocated in the steugh of his own thin juices & the passionate pullover, this time employing blue sweaters, & with a Very Good Rep, cheerleader, would Never Kill her Dad no matter how much he kicked her during his dopplering series of dopplering series of dopplering series of endless drunks oh yes & domesticated varieties of femp, drens, plants so basic & simple they have no spelling, no log entries not even in the incredibly delicate Logs of Meng Enteriety, by Meng Enteriety, scholar of plants for the Quadradod Museum of Jempempety! no phylogenetic classification (not even in the computers programmed to program themselves to roam round doing phylogenetic subtaxonomies of the most fervidly hopeless order), no particular size, dictation of shape, nor color that anydumb recalled‑‑background flowers woven by weavers into medieval backdrupes, & some eight million medicinal uses, such that, without them, we'd have no clabbering world about which to snout about ...moving on to other plants‑‑the swingswong & the dappledeer, which were ƒnooty as that ƒnout I writ into the preceding clause & were holding some grudge against one another, hence Were Naught Speaking, much less growing, in the midst of oneanother's midst (one of them may have gone extinct but we cannot get documentation on this crucial Undocumented Matter) breathing undocumented matter Uh...the gnomenglitzer, which was really more of a machine, & a dorky one at that the purl (A!) Disgusting!  Umm umumum...the flymsy syllable, which was a word uttered by one of the brown earth-gods back when they had utterations, & had lived through all the sweeps of extinction we had ever had‑‑which were at once uncounted & uncountable the neurotic neinheimer, which made a comfy seat & was always in the semblance of a comfy seat (though they did move sometimes...just move a bit, under your butt‑‑where butt is understood as a metaphor for movement underneath the butt, the limping meters we hear all about ourselves) the olaryorchid, the snurf of which would putchya in a tizzy tense muscleboughs, with their veins & oil & divinity, musculabri sasculosua, which'll punchya & muffya the laughing wad the wadlougher the wadloughpolliteripough the laughing percoshie, the swive, the bouffeigh, Dante's Inferno, the hollow dandolils (at the microscopic level all these flowers minus the thrills, which made them all one pasty little flower, impossible to pin down its infmate ramifications), & of course kentch, lollygags, lollwerwallers, & lallapaloozas, as well as pure, simple flowers limpid & tinier than could be, quivering to your slightest thoughts & so capable of being destoyed by your thoghts that you quickly stop all thought! & hold your mindless breath like a mindless berry, hearing things so silent they had never been heard before, & other plants that dies when you slowed your thoughts down & which then flourished as your thoughts sped up, so you had to crank up the old "wetwater machine" & think yourself into the most dizzying circles of madness that could be until you fainted, to awaken with the dead plant lying sweetly on the cove in the glen of your lidded eye Somewhere along the loop of the great moonhorn‑‑for this sun had a great long moonhorn lumescient with bright eversentient yet unbelieving leaves, each with a glistering leaf of disbelief or two‑‑the obsession got going round & round like a roundel of moonmöd gnatz that we had to find every sunken vehicle.  We'd even voice it to our parenthetical hearing: "(Must find all alien vehicles crashed on the planet (where planet thinks, '(Must remain illusion of a great unmustering tower, full of symapthy & even woe for those who fall beneath us; must levitate, musat render myself  as vaniashing as the Master's clown-white cream)' which I believe deserves & believes & deserves explication right at this point,) whereupon one crashes doewn into another alien being, by which I mean the glow on the lamp as it hits the brass, by mean I wish spacecraft, which glower back at the brass & flicker, miffed in their reality.  Snuffling dwarf steps forth. The ships became more & more disgustingly alien, & more & more ugly too, as if the ugliest specimens of all the races in all the regimes in all the geometric constructs of stars were cleansing themselves of The Ugly by means of this flower star, It was not a car, I mean a planet but a star.  A big great blazing blue sonofabitch of a goddam star we were langing on. "We can't just land on a star!" "Well it's not like we're made of molecules or anything!" cried Sumorr, to a positive thicket of weefs of stars of lives of guides of times of belittling tears of my mother's sad, belittling tears, of the great blue tears of the Great Mother flwoing at last down on us, right in this sequence of metaphor, which we did not see but rather felt coming into mocking laughter. despite counnltess numberless redundant systems designed to save anybody's ass. THE SUN TOOK ALL OUR CLOTHES Sumorr, kept shoutring "I can't believe those redundant systems‑‑sixteen...count 'em: sixteen fucking redundant life-saving, crash protecting systems & we're all down here!" & on & on, while * was hooting how we should climb up on the broken ass of our ship, its clippered butt, so to speak, & get a phase-contrast sort of microcosmic (he was into that) view (into that) view of the whole affair, meantime trying to figure out how you climb up the coruscationg walls of a perfectly massless ship, & * was moaning about the pain, all the lost pain he'd received during what the madman depicted as a terribly violent life, with a brutal upbringing & fatherly fists aplety,. etc., all such malarky, & how here & now & for reasons intuitively yet never really known all his buriéd pain was like coming back, & as he increasingly delved his little nose into the opulent cleavage of the notion ogf the cleavage of the notion of pain, he began writhing & foaming in extremis, almost enough to make nough to make the panicke stop. But it did not stop.  We are terriby verbal, if I do say so myself, & Sumorr was spouting theory after theory about what had happened & who was at the controls, while poor sad fat globular * did in fact sit tightly at the broken console marked as his territory I guess on his lap against a needless touché flowery rock. "Fucking flowers!" we bemoaned. But our echoes came back s flowers, fresh & young, as our own voices once so fresh & young, at our own eerily known yet unrecgnizable pretentions of a false & perfect childhood that did not exist, & for a time there even us tunnelmouths had to tunnelmouths had to curb our gabbing & vep in the exflorescence of the wonferdul new rain of flowers that was raining from our own crude shouts raining freshly on our heads.  That sort of thing. So what we did, see was to like climb on top of the busted ass of our ship or the asted bust of a broken-twig shit & looked out on a horizon furred with the tops of the mighty flowes, the sun's undulant strenbgth reckenong them disaway & dat, & lo, we saw buildings, most particularly one tall spire of what we called againsand again to one anothe aspirant gold.  Of course, a sun has no horizon, so we stared into the bedeviled atmosphere, all of us naked suddenly (the sun toook all our clothes) "That tower's not looking so good," ventured *, who was I might add quickly struck across the chops, struck savagely & by both * & * in turn, for the twin fractures of our hopes & dread & fire & lead & dopes & dead & flairs of ebb.  Sorry about that, you big dummy.  So so very very sorrorry a ab about bout that hat, my fri iend. But the meaning-fields around Sumorr meant he was right.  We had a change of heart‑‑it was an ***AMAZING! SIGHT!*** to SEE!, watching our skins turn from a deep, cruel blue to the pinkish, twinky twinge ofresourceful mangement, by which I mean  sudden kindness, pink love going just about as far as a pink house can go, recalled at the corner of that squalid little development with its plat likes in full & naked, disgusting, sexual, unknown review, which is why I say what might seem to be appropriate resourceful management, which is shorter and‑‑even though or even because the words contained nothing but wrong meanings‑‑more resourceful, let us say.  We pinkly pulled up our friend, who was of course crying & covered with maggots & the color of a bruise (we take a lot of physical abuse I think on our trimadod & in the constantly oozing, eternal endless Wall of China of the glob we were once all fashioned i.e., departed from.  Pink hands pulled up a twisted, maggoty mess the color of a deep blue bruise in in indeed, but * had the hallmark of righteousness which we knew would sooner than we wished heal him to his wonted gold, his wonted fucking gold, & we gazed forth once again at the tower of perfection in the city covered with the very best breeds of the best species of the best flowers on this world, I mean trimadod, I mean sun O! Sun of Flowers! O1 O! Stolid sun!  O! Sun betrayed by transfixed pollution of Others, such as these bruise-colored (for, lost in the god damned phtrase, we were all bruisishly tinted too too too) parasites arrive, arrive to eat the flowers (eat the flowers?hell, we'd never thought of that, not even when * was cooking various forms of them & actualy tasting them with his neck fucknig craned over the ladle like a buzzard bored waiting for this boring carcass to to...transdform itself, by simply & finally, slowly, dying into something glorious & edible indeed). Yea well, we turned again o the tower, the tower the tower the tower, severely closer now.  Wait a minute...far more closer than it shoulda been, given Sumorr's comlex & notoriously, obnoxiously calculations of distance varied by weed-trim corrected for whim-spin (which is a hell of a correction to make, like when you''re wildly waltzing with the bride of someone else whom you severely love & you lose your count & start dancing in the dreaded four four) Yea so we were beginning to not precisely see‑‑because the lightwaves aboard this cross, resourceful, funny old sun made pure vision, unobstructed & shattered-like-a-crystal into the universe's finest sand, now available at your local sandstore or Store of Sand or whatever you walked on desperately through the duns thinking, Where there's desert, there must be water, over & over to youtrself in pluperfect synchronization‑‑the work of the devil‑‑with all the others marching or having marched with you or who will marfch to death with you in the future, finding no water, never seeing water agaiun, dying with their little skulls, little skullls, as it were, full of water & the watery thoughts of water & children who have just had lots of lemonade sudenly got lost playing in the water as you watched all your future children die within...the lightwaves weren't straight, nor very longlasting.  They were more dull rocks than waves, more mounds of flushéd light than any quanta... ...well anyway, we came to perceive through various clever visual or even eyelike moadlities‑‑I like that...eyelike modalities...I think I'll put in in the title of this section which is clearly going to expand like a redwood on meth into a whole essentially pointlesss fasntasybook of a fantasy book of its own now available at your various fantasy sandbook smores‑‑began to "see" I like the brutish white flowers of our flowery May may say in what had seemed a permanent facade of grandness shielded by a million redundant-mirror mirror-systems (we love redudant systesm, as the redundant systems of your eyes flashing their nexus to your brain should tell you that; we like redundancy, & we build it & insert it manifold into whatever we're doing, whether whatever we're doing means I mean needs actual reduncandy at all, like this) flowing through & through the excandescent foglike air of this flower-sun. But lo, how cracks appeared in it, how the huge, vacant eyes of lunacy & the pinprick, tiny eyes so packed & filled to their teeming brim (yet too dry to cry!) with the lunancies of gods & the falsehood of all prophecy, & this triangular castle began mre & more to look like the crashed shattered, verily rendudant & yet wholly clobbered ass of a ship of an ass ship sticking in the air! & when we got to it it was another crashed ship.  An alien ship.  & wait till I tell you 'bout the remains... crystal shattered into the illusion of a thousand faces. This one ship was filléd up with diamonds.  We walked through diamonds up to our knees, making the same crunching sound you make when you crack cold cereal with your remaining, crystal teeth. ALONG THE WRONG CONTINENT Flowers have twigs like glaciers have blue splinters, so we were walking along lovely-crackling if chill-rent mosaics of parented slush-o-silences© if splints science if density print if skids of pure blue ice & it was fracturing enough to make us all feel all full of ourselves, as walking through the strangest mum of a great pine forest doth give one the wonderful feeling of the mums, the feeling that only this "one," here actually a platoon so lost a pla TOOM! so LOXT! it was trodding like so many soldiers along the Wrong Continent, about to die in the next landslide, the landslide of their cries, in fact, the landcries of all the cries of the fast-slaughtered "junk-children" we are about to mention in the cavedoor of anpother roten metaphor will be in at slanglide, about 3.36 minuten away, ergo ertho erlo erjo erko erpo plenty of time to finish all but my most ample sentences, so we were feeling the abyss of silence in which almost none but the mass-claughteres waist within‑‑I mean, you can just count out the sound of your breathing after you've gone over whatever precise number it is at which God, or Satan in God's dapper drag, counts as True Mass Killing, as opposed to the slot below that, whch is just a Holy Mess, during which believe me you can hear any silence, not tomention every drop of the mess from the tooth of a fresh-broked unspoken "bone," and‑‑getting back to us, I believe, or one of the many groups of yokels who pretend to be us for no reason that either they nor their highly specialized psychiatsists (flown in from their frosty studies along every planet of every frostrim, which is where your interspasmodic, just a joke there, innergaxic shrinks spend all their time, now gathered with plenty of elbow fights & jeers in languages so foreign they are foreign to languages, now gathered, I was saying, around us, & shrinking & regrowing us, each time we are regrown into more & more loathsome approximations of what we once were, yet unending re-dilutions constantly & routinely‑‑& in many a languiage beyond words‑‑so we keep coming back as pock-marked, eye-sptrocketed, tooth-crocked monsters used to scare,not to sleep, but unto a blithering, completely unrestful, & yet at least fucking quiet little trance, to be placed in the closet where the cupboards grow, or in the cupvbards where only tiny simuacra of Byron the Rapping Bulb to glow, there to grow righ with the finest webs, called Skeletons on the deep Asian black markets or blarkets where they the ex-kids They, the Ex-Kids, take their shushed & stuproous children to & their parents soliciting for their childrentaken those children, too (it's kind of a mess with all these childrenhere; I can only make out a thousandth of it, at which point it already looks lie a problem‑‑don'tlook at me‑‑the universe has, a solution this cogarette-smioking universe knowning I mean loking like nothing so much as Humphrey Bogart flinging a ridiculous, unburnt twig to the pavement there being no smoking here, & still looking like th most phantasmagorically cool guy in the universe, so you know we'll have a few generations of kids who will somehow succeed in growing up, despire our efforts at black-market sales, not to mention genocide practice, practiced very day, genocide practice, PRACTICED every DAY, to‑‑can infer much less out-and-out fucking guess, & think twig-flinging is the coolest thing in the world.  Which, in the hands of Bogey, it is.  Or will be son as whoever's at the time machine gets it started after all this...uh...time & gets time moving again so the sentence can die a natural death & turn into natural, ever-breathing time again again.  We were were walking along thick twigs & there was no noise is what I'm saying. I'm saying it quickly‑‑before the hawk of sentience monster come & bagus in his talons only to start another sentence, beating with each droplet of our (silently falling!  silently landing!) lood‑‑that there was a silence around us, which was underscored, for me at least, when * moved his lips & no sound came out, & I went on a Necessary Digression (not like most of my digressions, which are strictly illegal in the Cosmos of the Stopped Breath which I as a poet call disdainfully "the cosmos of the constipated Vörter, which none of the little selves inside me, in their tidy little grey suits & ties, calls anything anything calls calls anything anything at all) to remember how to lip read. "[It looks like sound's being absorbed in here,]" xoft his zoft and, I notice casually, beautifully shaped if somewht too wide or a tad too large, if possibly according to the laws of mangification that enlarge I mean gorge I mean govern this strange little dirtshack of words I call The Universe of Ghosts unless I've changed my mind since then. * then said soemthing, but his lips didn't move.  What a jerk. We were in fact approaching another ship‑‑which was so predictably crashed I refuse even to grace it with the epithet crashed‑‑lost but for a rust-sheened bumper-shape deep in the earth. Yea, another crashed ship.  It had really crashed fast, huh?  Unless it had the common Universal Burrowing Devices which burrowed the thing‑‑landed according to the most exquiite coordinates or otherwise‑‑deep into whatever it landed on, if it be at all burrowing, which the dirt dancing on the surface of a sun was, certainly, if not the sun itself.  It was not something to be known nor even imagine, so don't expect a garth of verbiage from me on the untenable subject, nossirree. This buried ship, then, also encompassed in an orb of silence, which we could only presume was caused by the fetid black insects that buzzed through the blackened air over these awful black flowers‑‑possibly the creepiest yet‑‑which kept nipping our ankles with phenomenal tendrils build like roots with claws or claws of root or somesuchthongandoranother. Sumorr was tired of being blown into abominable faces of his own Suavely Nuanced Emotions (he was the clever lot of the rat or Rat of the Lot in a Vat of Alottarats™), & cuffed up the following plan. "It's simple," he announced, as we huddled, football-style, amongst the mothy stadium-lights of the cell they kept us in between unconscionable abominabilities.  "*, you make *, *, *, & yourself small, then I'll stuff you in my pocket." He saw at glance we were not comprehending the first letter, much less the ultimate essence, of his suave & clever plan, but were rather frowned at the magnetic tube of force which was writing out, intricately, our next play on the empty field.  We did smile, however... "They'll frisk me, then put everything back into The Inaccessible," Sumorr, who actually preferred incomprehensibility as not marring the pluperfection of his Immaculate Plans.  He was making markings in the grass we were all looking at... "The four of you will then be in the Inaccessible!" he cried, cried, cired, around the trithried echolalia of the resplendent, silver-and-gold stadium. The Inaccessible lifts off to the tromboning of Quurian sirenses, the scambling of eighty-trillion star-powered trickster-devil-cruisers, the curxing of that dwarf what came forth a while forth, the evil, mean flicker of the candle of doom upon the buff faces of the unused irons, & I mean torture-irons, the madneff of maidf & more weighty madnexx of wixes, meaning wives, the leaping on horn-tail'd demons into nullifying cruisers whiter than the hue of that first airless moon, naked in her interlunar cave, the squealing of ointment & of pigs, artists besplattering their soft pallettes, in fricatives so madly incensed with the vision, distant Boschean cities aflare as if in ugly face beautifued off the pure polish of the succulent cruisers or the succulent fires, the sound of fires going superosnic into their own firey thoughts‑‑thoughts which are to the mind of fire as fire etc. THE POCKET HE KEEPS IN HIS EMOTIONS WHERE. Never ransom your size to your Sorcerer Older Brother‑‑no matter what moony crescents & dancing waves ilulant blue in the air he may display, no matter how sublime he shake his shaft & no matter how many entire worlds that smite empeach empoach emcroach, worlds each with its own set or mark or significance, or something...100,000 bare worlds in a barren & a starving set of wives by each of their sides) shrink you down into the pocket he keeps in his emotions where. Never let him speak to you in that burglarious, desperate tongue (you recall‑‑the tongue of the Gods that tortures the tongue to speak?  The tongue of the Gods that tortures the tongue to speak?  (I don't know why I like doing that, unless I connect with the second breath better than the rest, where rest equals first) Do you want me to say it in Sanskrit? like some lousy, browbeating undergod tormenting the callers in the antechamber (pause while I amuse myself with balloons‑‑written on each balloon the tumorous Words of God, hilariously expanding each into jokes; here, I'll blow you another...) Because you might end up with me, a soldier in clothes of a drabness so intense they not only refract just the odd Caprillario of Light but bore you boreyou boreyouboreyou into forgetting them, so the Opposing Side just fuckin yawns & goes away, or walks into the huge bags, called dumpwunples, we have waiting for them off the starry end of the Cliff on the Edge of Time, or it seems that way), & wounded, except you cannot no longer understand the signals your body be sending thee (you see?), so you're not sure reaslly what it is that's coming in from a very highly specified (yet still dizzying (yet still dizzying (yet still dizzying (yet still dizzying part of your organic form, which would seem to be the nature of your form, as the bartender calmeth me with another tall tumbler of fezz. Anyway, I was crawling over hillocks supple with moss, clumsily overtunring a mound here or there which would instantaneously 0stop the thought & someone or something that is trying to drive us crazy sent me crawling through passageways made out of the pure twilight‑‑you know, those old alleyways like they had back in Benzadrobrio, of that fanciful meterial which not so much let the sunset primp within the beauties of its own inverted face but also dance among the gold balls which solifify positions in the fictional space, like this period here.  You'll notice how it works, how the stone soldier boy keeps forgetting his boy, I mean way, though if you ask me, whoever I am (but I'm wounded, something like him, yes I are!), he's landed on a pretty plush place, in his brother's pocket.  One may be for a short term raped as they say of long-term memory & some basic motor reflexes such as closing the I, but, hm-hm-hm, he'll be all right. He was afraid to stop crawling.  That's strange.  He's crawling through a ridge of impossible flowers, crawling & crawling (& you vets know how much hard work it is, swallowing the guts that keep pushing the back of your teeth & the muscles we dreamt were only lizards' spanged & gloam, & yet as I say he is alfraid to stand up, or even crawl like a proper cat or dog (& you should see how proper the cat & dogs of Preeipeole get, with tuxedos & bumbadieres & flashy humps) as words come clanging & claiming to be clanging to be saving to be clanging you, & so the words clang you good, & the words save from another, depper, more troublesome surface of worlds, a stratum of the Ocean of Hygnomnic Words that troubles you because, while it means the same thing as every other stratum of cource of course, it hadn't occurred to you. He crawls along the bases of gold-angled jetchuriums, each with its little cheech or hums or full-throated little grasshopper (each with a life of its own (in a manner of speaking) lived in unspoken Japanese).  My writing is gettig crazier‑‑perhaps I've been in the isolation tank just a little too long according to mine owne span of consciousness.  But he is still afraid to stand up, you see, because the sentences are too long.  They zut! & they soar right at head level, aiming for the neck, eager for beheadment.  A long grunt could stand his ragged ass up & get totally fragged by some sub-sub-corrdinative snapping him in a snat yet with the fling of a fleur de lis, suggesting a sport of beautiful terror & even‑‑yes, despite amnesia‑‑a fair share of, not nly memory, but of brother-love (I suffer from it, too). So he flops on his back like some crudely resting cat, & he catches the sky.  I mean, he lays back & loosens the grip so tight it approachéd identification with his rifle‑‑a nifty M-16‑‑& catches the pouch of his brother's sky. I'll bet the bastard's casting spells right out there now, he smiles, & he is quite right. * finally calles us over to crouch down & hear the finalizationed versionization of the artfulization of his planitization.  This one‑‑which he calls Version CGX-1-8 affectedly‑‑passes through the thought-gears of his sylph-computer swifter than butter through the laves of a licking knive, & I say knive deliberately, & hecalls & he calls to us...unlike the likeness of a bit too likely mother to her children, that Mother Who Was Always Never There floating above the city so impossibly big no one grows there, staring out from its center of unlikelhood (which is the corner from which you'll notice the memory of ones mother always stares), while the kids sayb "(Why the hell's she stare at us like that?)" it's getting harder & harder to type, so we converge. "Sorry about that, everyone says," everyone says, for no other reason than this is what we say. REALITY-BINDING "*," * begins, talking more like Daliesque accelerations of a quarterback thranging in the thick of the press with the smudges on his cheeks befooling the randomity of the stadium lights within stadium lights within etc. seven times that's the kind of lighting we had here, even for non-events; that's how advanced we once upon a time were were than a janitor fooling round the latrines which I hasten to add, we had spiffed unto smithereens so you can either watch the scene, or wwatch so many loving variations of the scene reflected in & off the piping & the curves & the tubeware there tubeware there tubeware there of a ship designed so perfectly it could not be flown. That's right‑‑to interrupt my flow of thought for a change. It had been mathematically provéd by whizz-rabber Wrong Emduftion that The Inadmissiable an alternate name‑‑for in the same equation in which he proved what I'm about to tell you when parentheses end, Wrong proved that you couldn't stick this spiffy ship with a singular monikker, neither was unflyable.  It had, the report glort, "too mucking futch attitude." So they just abandoned it & sent us in, where we'd actually been cleaning, inside, alone & three-fourths miniaturized a common technique in my novels, to shrink cleaning people‑‑hardworking, good people all of them‑‑to three-quarters height‑‑albeit thus making them only three-fourths as hardworking & good as before, so as to make those tough spots easier to reach not that The Insuffisiable had any corners, being designed along the lines of an endlessly unfolding sort of Doric repetitive Doric French curve of sourts, something like that, something like this (watch my hand), whooooooosssshhh! and my brother had a plan to steal it, which he was rattling out real fast, like someone burping out their number on the message machine. & it was this:   OK, this is it: *, you, *, & * shrink me down & stuff me into your, *, pocket, while I'll shrink you‑‑*, *, & *, & stuff you into my shirt pocket‑‑you know, the one right here in front, the obvious one, the one they never think to look in, & this is because this time we'll be nervous, & rather small, what with you shrinking down sufficient to fit me into your poash & me running round back & shriking you down et cetera, & we'll look listening & preoccuptied & guilty & illegal, & so..." "And so?" "And so they'll check the poash!" cried * in domndoddly triumph. "So what then?" asteriskt, putting hand which was the best smile od a beautiful thirteen-year-old girl's little life, with plenty more to come from that bouquet on head which was what the last bee smelt when he bent down over the fragile flower, that sort of thin, thing being the first sentience of the first current of the scent of aforeshed flower. "So," * continued, seeming strangely worried,as if we were going to atack him.  It may have been our tattoos, our tattoos or our shaved heads, heads or our watches, which were pretty threatening watches, let me tell you, each ebony face slashed against the wingtip of your secret or the weapons in our hands pressed par TIC u lar ly against the soft flesh of his face. "S-so they'll gather you up from my pocket," he sprockit, in all sorts of Quurved & Qoollated Syllables, nothing important, never mind the attentuations & eliations of those sounds, forget them, forget them right away, forget them right away or they'll become an obsession these funny, yet strangely pretty & oddly lyrical little a cappella arpeggio's of scintillating brilliance & terror, the sounds used and this is just a personal theory, meant in no way or wise to impugn, imply, condemn nor notherwise compromise the reputation, name, or well-reknownthefuckingness of the Composer heretofore referred to as Name, not meant nor implied in any way whatsofuckingever to be reality-binding in Perf's "Darpaguean Rhapsody," you know‑‑the part where the singers of the chorus start to compress their faces & lips every which way, producing impossible polythongs, gradatios, & paregnmblombs* *variegated footnotes of the original major notes in a minor sort of key, or at east a Doric sort of one, the dimished seventh of the flush of the Jack of Solar Diamonds It might have been any of these things, destroying the structure of his sentences, as he blubbered disgustingly out the remainder of his impossible impossibly brilliantly impossible plan. & he foop:  "So they's chuck you boys backin after checking my poash & then," wriggling a bit in the discomfiture I'm sure of lead masses pressed against the flesh of his ledeanlurned little head, "they'll check my posh!" We pulled the guns & the pistols & the Uzis & the cannon away, but I'm afraid we still didn't get it. "They'll still find you in my poash!" * practically shrieked. "A-a-and then they'll throw me back inside. * snaps his fingers, exploding the big lightgold marigold above his sudden head.  "Yea! inside!" "With whom?" "'Ew‑‑listen to us!' With you, stupids!"  This plan is stupendously accurate & made out of Stupendous Static Plastic.  Anyhiw, accurate.  It clicks (waving his powerful hand-sized calculor which looks not a little bit cross to be used in this way, making harumphing sounds as if to regain retainéd dignity, bouncing up on the balls of his little calculor feet, dontchyaknow, & actually going so far in the dark of a great rogue moon hide the answers from the calculoritor!) it goes Without Calculation much smarter than he.  I mean, the calculations work out." Though they seemed in directive of some kind of basic violation... We made our getaway by accident.  Always the best approach, if you can manage it.  See, brother *'d excitedly pocketidly poecidtly the rocket...he'd pocketed the rocket, which was then diminished down... The wealth & the money arced up.  I really don't know why.  The wealth & the money just sort of arced up right to us, so we had it all.  I really don't know or care why, but here it all was, like a droplet from a little fingertip.  One did not have servants or desires, erased I guess in the backwardnest of time, which is where we nest. It all wound down to this dark crux of sarble, this dark green thing so rich it owned us in its essences.  A reuben crux of sarble leaning back in its own ease.  It is full of perfumes.  It is ful of stories.   One glint off it's neither nedge indicatedes a whole life wasted in effetful works. Digressing further down sometimes down to even to a cruxt of arble pellucid material numin'd in the nimbus of a nuxt of gnarbule!  & that one great ship distilled of it.  It would take us anywhere, if we could earn it. The details of my birth‑‑which I was a privy party to‑‑produced the corollary that I was or would be too perfect to be born, thus, perfectly stillborn, which I in the glimpse of mine owne corollary, was. They had to introduce a flaw‑‑some sort of flaw, any flaw.  Even a perfect flaw would do.  But of course by this time in the sotry, flaws were too fusion-foo, flimsy-few, & far-and-by-between... but one such far-between'd flaw did they perforce seize. down the marble rivulets of many a deadly book did they charge, & quite a few died, which is always desirable.  Then quite a few more, they died, & this was commiserable & good, & we did profit from the dead.  We profit frm percentages both of the death & and of the dead; that is, we cut a deal with death whereby a certain yet unnamed percentile of the challengles leftover by these customarily early deaths, creating a challenge, creating an energy which at once fighteth & braceth death, my teef gegging skuk betweeng the thithleth of mine theieth! & so they entered my flaw & I was born.  & the first words I spake to my Globular Green Dad were "I want to be poor." He said nothing, fused withthe effortless thought that this was one thing we couldn't addord. "Aw, but dad..."  & thence, even for me, the awkward childhood, full of sullen lacks like the latent leaves not falling off on not-your-face from a shadowtree, the tortured adolescence with my dimpled wealth destroying every single friend (even though these friends had been both bought & built‑‑bought moistened in their cases full of lavish glee, built with imaculate buffers soze to withstomb'd the nasty little warpages of my fortunes, & I would weep but for the worth of each mighty tear, each one falling, each one destroying an heir, a family, a hindbent universe. I felt adulthood come on in the form of illusive dry latitutde in the ever-cream'd hemispheres of my face.  I didn't have to lick the Fingerfull of Butter to know I was a man, where man stands for these highly nubile, subtle subliminal cardsworth.  I mean, I were not a man as you speak it but a shuffling of a thousand potent identities, the mearthing of a thousand thousand bent tears, the faceless value of a thousand bent spheres, a divergence unto the meaning-isles of a thousand acutely symbolic cards.  That's what we mean in these parts when we say man, & when we are so imprudent as to say "Parts," we are really saying (in a harsh, killing-but-hypnotic whisper, nothing leath) the sum total of comeupances of death we get from that deal we made back then when we were poor enough to be be making deals with death. No death here, just profits from his own countless & cumbumbersome deaths, worsthe than any fleasth (& there go my teef wedgying yup ynto mine Crawe a-gaine!), that our brilliant, long-since-obsolescent lawyers engineered for him, better than sharks in a garden, purer than hash in the raches of a cellular pipe, clearer than the thought I want to be poor which instantly killed my dad. It would be a missile, I mean a missiled statement.  I mean it would be a misfall into the fallen Glades of Forever, I mean it would be a kind of linguistic boner to say I came into some serious dough.  We have to carefully translate these things, & for reasons we are afraid to know, there being a great deal of fear no one foresaw in this consolidative incrementation of hyperindulgences, if you will, a fear hanging by you like the blood pumping visibly in your own god damned throat involved in this process of getting so irresistibly unwieldy in one's own perfervid lavishenss, so that every carven sarble falling from one's palm is very like a slash very close to the throat, so this business of earning everyone's earnings was a subtle one at best, & pretty damned bloody the rest of the ruddy time. Time ruddies forth.  It does.  No, really‑‑it really ruddies out, which means roughly rolling out in the form of large & roughly sphorbical ehres of rust.  That's how time moves here: it ruddies forth, at which point the mathematicians trying to place just one point into the future all die at once & it behooves me to somehow disburse all at once some theretofore unfrothable eructation of multinomial stolthx, which would, had one sane, living, at-the-same-time mathmaxicians to imvisium it, embother at once the bliss distilled & the filth extracted from. Hence The Unattainable.  Hence the ship that would break me & break me free. Being rich means turning an unviable mood of blue through which one purchase other & others' immoderate moods.  To become poor I was going to need an artist & the only great artist is a starving artist, so I had to seek out the one who most between most perfect strokes of dying might die most perfectly, while at the same time [condensing * something for me] really pretty nameless except for some sort of wafed ice-creature. So he made device upon device for me, each making me by staig-mogrifications© (he copyright that© (I see your copyright & raise you two©©)©) fold©) microdegrees closer to those breaths you have...you know, those prosaic moments of flesh...that's what I was shooting for; that's what dire-iced rockets from the dying poles indicated on my cerebconscious subindicators, that's what the patended feel of flesh would be...that's where it would lie. & so he made for me such mystical bits of clothes or mythical bits of cloth I coulf wrap right round myself right within the process of waking up‑‑devices & contrivances such as the since-notorious uglification pouche, which alone itself in the gasping of did all but pull on the pullings-on of silk the pullings on of something very dead. He gave me cachets of dead flesh from some source he would not name, but which was so howlingly obvious even Christ's kid brother, that miauling rat, would understand.  What a putz!  But nevermind. Each morning I would arise & wash off whatever holiness I had intact in the holiness intanct within my one leftover leftoff gloricating eye, then swab on this burn-cream he made out of, he said, the baby's memories of some real burns, & some leavings of a real burn too, from the real ground of a place where place where real experiences he had. Thus far would this artist detain his dying thux to go.  & I would paste upon my dolorless heaviness Excrescent Swatches of Dour which I would swoop in dense crescents under my breasts & giant eye.  He gave me this Giant Eye‑‑a ridiculous facsimile of a true Star-Pointed Eye, one filled with Liquids of Agony, or at least liquids of great mistrust, misjudging from what I thought I ought myoptically to be holding in to store, as in this world where nothing was literal did he make me literally nothing, pore by sorry-ol-poor.  It was almost enough to make him start to eat. "I want you to be poor in everything," gaddered *, mixing his madder.  He looks down at the madder & then he looks up. And he painted me a face with his starved essences.  He painted on me the smallest grin, one of those dusturbing, just-barely grins *... Strung out under the lustrous tunnelless flannels of the unctuous vox of none other than the Mr. Odun "Sim-Somng" Tonng, following ahead of your head if you know what my head means, solemnizing the corporate joy of his own thum-thumderoux voxcal quoids, this most expensive of all voices praises the ship (& praises the ship (& praises the ship, I might tadd, within the confines of a precisely measured little goblet of poor-doubt time) in a precisely mannered little sinking amulet in the sinking little minuets of time & of of doubletime. & he says, "Your new crackpane, pop-character Starcast© SpaceMaster© Model XL Plus is comes teeming to its beastly jimbles what with wings white as a hoarde of a hoarde of albino dragosaurns, robust otto-options blurting disconcertingly out of each & every ripple, unabashed luxuires within its every rafter teeming with temble, not to mention every little handycrafted bubble with a little anonymical Master of Bubble signet on it, & luxuriant rendudndancies flourishing in the timbre of its every fluent rafter.  This singular your ship, no?  I mean, is this a ship or not?" It was true.  You had these crew.  You had these crew who would pop out if you wont.  You would wont, see, & your crew would rupture the sound of their own erft-time solificiation & burst a gasket trying to serve you in every way, even though they could in no way see you, so tightly-strung to serve were they. Yea, the ship was crack-panel.  All you had to do was crack a panel & it would act things out, & * was cracking & paneling, sand th ship would crack act or do things out.  Crack five panels & you're slushed, though.  Nevertheless, we got right to work in earnest in the ruination of these faces that we cannot have, & we waltzed through the doubledecks & the Eye-decks & the Planar-Decks & the Rolling-o-o-Folio portions of the subdex & the dexter ones, too dumb to wonder, & cracking panel ater panel wuth a knuckle, with a swervely plafed back of the hand, & a panel would crack into, say, these crazy leaves spinning off a tree I've never seen! or this great collection of little bottles, made by the eople of the bottle worlds.  Or Jimmmy'd crack pane & a long view of horses sloughing down.  It's foolish for them to run down that hill, but there they go.  I want not to see the edge of this mubie, Jeeves, so could you put it on Unseen for me, & so we see. This was the sort of vessel that never let you see where it went.  It would show you only the faces of places with these rather pleasant faces we had never been. "How do you work this thing?" whined *, straddling a gemmed array of panes set up along the console there & smashing them all with his elbows whilst he spoke.  Good elbow work, *. The ship did & said, became & bodied out, many a thing at that, none of it answering his question, but every bit of it aimed its little beams into his dead, till it was like Pictures of Guilt Slide Down which once was the mubie I could never stop washing.  That was back in '84.  Wasn't that back som'eres en 84? So we're inside this attack ship which wouldn't be pure if it weren't theorietically on fire.  Anyway, whenever whatever it whatever it was was, I like to think that, from the imagined outside, it looked like