STARGARDEN THE COLLOQUY OF NEBULÆ or ROGUE BRAINWAVES Sometimes one hallucinates wildly. & when I say wildly I mean sometimes & when I say "sometimes" I mean (singing) "somewhere in this cool streaming video of me striding o'er these landscapes of curving grey my mega-legs moving in great lightcones© hundreds-of-meters-a-xox along the astral ways..." ...well, it wasn't astral literally, but rather pollen figuratively, as jöggy old Mögg had a futch about pollen. & in these pollen ƒtormƒ of Mögg, I was a lone ƒmudge of gold, ƒvelte & ƒpiffy in my IdgeCraft© Etherbuckler One©, latest incarnation of the surreal series of Idgecraft ampgard or spacegab or Oofdezoots™, designed to make the end-user into "a superbeing consisting of pearl within opalescent pearl of these irresistible shields, magniMAGNIFIED!fied megalimbs in the form of sensuously pulsating energy beams, ETC." shields consisting of all types of matter & all types of energy, also etheric shields & astral shields & mental shields (my favorite!) & shields of bliss (everybody else's favorite, but keep in mind I'm an omo zapienz or something like that, even the name of my species lost species lost species lost species lost). There I go again, God damn it. If only there were some way to control these things!  But language bends in distortion from universe to universe, as every schoolchild (back before the children all disappeared, of course) knows of course. Or knew.  I guess knew would be right... So I'm testing EeBee-One, changing my mind every ninisenox, which is like a nanosecond only much, much cooler!!!, theoretically invulnerable, invulnerable in mock-up, invulnerable in all but reality I hastntsay. & how not invulnerable, I ask of thee, surrounded as we are in this prose by hyperfields like row within row of poppy in the concentric gardens of words of metaphors of wells of those poppies where each poppy grows inside the poppy before the poppy before the poppy before the poppy before. I'm sorry I repeated that.  I'm sorry I repeated this, or almost repeated it.  I do things strange linguistic things, I know.  Nor is this my actual language I am beaming into you.  I mean mind-you-I-am-beaming-upto-you. Yea, I was a bit whacked.  I was in fact exceedingly well-whacked, whacked quite out of the zone, actually, which happened most of the time, if memory served (though memory did not serve (suggesting everything I'm experiencing may be false (suggesting I may be much much madder than I thought (than I thought). I was extending the experience, which was worth everything (when it wasn't akin to being tortured in the worst way your sleazy imagination can devise). I'll wait while you devise or do not devise such a torture...   Your Torture Here       All ready?  I was not letting on I was a goner, rationally speaking, but was nonetheless giving myself away to the Sticky Little Webs that were monitoring my face. You must forgive these faces I make.  I know I make more faces per square fuckin zetemiometer, which is like a millimeter, I think, only far less consistent, far less reliable, changing much more than our other measurements, which change fairly little, I promise you.  In any case you must extend the hand of forgiveness to a poor lone loony.  I have webs monitoring my face. They will see the look of glee on my puss.  That didn't sound right, did it?  Anyway through that & that & many another unholy means‑‑possibly up to & including clicking on my thoughts‑‑they will have a full awareness of what's up.  These cats can see right through me anytime. So will they pull me up? Well, they never have. Yea, I'm thinking maybe Masters Mot n Ol (not their real names; not their real bodies; not their real identities) up in the sky can click on my thoughts.  They seem pretty damned advanced to me, if somewhat creepy. My awareness of these things‑‑how shall I say‑‑fluctuates?  Nor could I hide that grin if I wanted to.  It was obviously an entity of pleasure wanting to take over, so I says Take over, so sure enough my mouth stretches out wider than my head beneath my liquid layers, & the gargoyle gleaming in the colorless vales must have been some grimacing, toothy devil of polished gold, like a mad Hindu god lost in a dismal fog. One's minds exist in fassing pragments, waving at one or at the mirror of one‑‑buckler:side:shield:effects‑‑& one lonely little particle knew I'd messed up again.  Except for the almighty euphoria of the suit, there was nothing to recommend this latest assignment.  I could write it off (later, when the Colloquy of Nebulæ that was my mind cogulated coldly, when the etherbuckler power shut off) as my Eighth Lousy Suss in a Row.  The eighth!  That tiny blue fragment of Cavv Tormor promised himself‑‑for the seventh time!‑‑he would never do suss work again, for I would apparently never learn to hear the fine print whispering in the caverns of my Dinkydanky Humanoid Brain, even when it was in one more or less functional piece. Suit affecting mind‑‑in a most deciduous manner.  I was supposed to retort to everything to MotinOll Control Control, but I wasn't going to let on about this.  In fact, within seconds of starting the test walk across the surface of Mögg 32, I was yzarc as a nool.  Inside all the layers, sweat tingled on my brow as I attempted to hide any rogue brainwaves that might give the game away. Fortunately, they never asked for verbal confirmation.  Neither of the supersims nodding to the tune of the little terminals in their little heads a thousand thoughtyears into the sky cared or whatever I said.  This was fortunate, as my voice would have come out in a euphoric gurgle & the game would have been up. But the suit made me so loopy I even enjoyed it when I slipped into one of Mögg's signature furrows of pollen‑‑a fatal event in all previous walks arox the moffy planet‑‑for the edge-tech Wufferbuffler, which was something like a Buick in many ways, say a '68 Buick,  would I say immediately hoist me out on exfoliating beams of light, plop me down on the endless grey deserts of pollen, & set me walking again. So on went I, moving like that perfectly sleazy dream you've been dreaming of having, feet sliding forward without lifting & bod zooming BOD ZOOMING! hundreds of feet per stride, as if I were pushing titanic skiis up & down those endlessly undulant pollen slopes.  I bit my lip fiercely to keep from emitting giggles.  I had to keep my big secret. Don't look up, I kept thinking, though I was having precious little by way of coherent thoughts by now.  But I knew if I looked upward I'd be instantly lost in the incandescent sky crammed with stars & starclusters.  I'd be enraptured & would lose track of the mission entirely. & I couldn't allow that. My overseers, Mot & Ol (not their real names: names taken from another novel: names taken from the subconscious: names taken from the Akashic Records: names taken from nowhere: names from Erstebe©, my sexy little Random Name Generator), M&O, I say, {subsistent balled icons} in the corner of my vision‑‑that is, they were tucked into a subliminal sphere in the fabric of my sight, unobtrusive unless they maximized themselves. They hadn't said much, & I suspected they weren't paying much attention to me.  Idgecraft tended to overtest their new devices, & I may have been the hundredth subject to walk on Mögg.  By the same token‑‑since my contractual employers held their cards close to the vest & often rather nonchalantly sent many subjects to their deaths‑‑none of the preceding hundred may have survived.  Mot & Ol probably expected me to disappear in a mogghole any minute now, & weren't investing a lot of attention monitoring another death which would undoubtedly be preserved electronically anyway‑‑down to the last, gasping detail. They checked in on me automatically every fifteen minutes or inutes, though, the sphere unfolding in a lovely, spirographic pattern & the image of the two eerily smiling technicians each within its incandescent cube of glass of glass, becoming the center of my visual consciousness & filling with rich color. But what dorks!  Motnol were both Lishon, I believe, or a product of Lisho, possessing dayglo yellow happyfaces with lipless mouths metropolitan & two solid ridges of bonelike stuff to serve for teeth.  Possessed of a desire to ingratiate themselves at odds with their profound indifference, they would press their heads(sdaeh(together)rehtegot)together & lean in toward the scanner which was beaming their image down to me.  These periodic check-ins therefore tended to stop me in my tracks. Mögg 32, arguably the asshole of the universe, required this latest gear to be effectively‑‑not to mention safely‑‑explored.  Up to now, instruments blue dun with moss within seconds, faceplates grruemurky inkstandly in the blöstering deserts & deserts & deserts of fucking pollen‑‑nothing but colorless, fungoid pollen everywhere‑‑& only the most Perfectly Sealed Equipment would work, & even then you couldn't see it.  In scientese, Mögg 32.  In plain Retigulese, it was too much a mess to bother with. MEANWHILE Back besides the stream of the stream of the streaming video, my hyperlink hypertext IdgeCraft twin just sniwts notched & wadded, wadded n watcht, & we were all wondering if (when?) my suit would spring a leak.  I, if not they, was further wondering if I could be rescued in that case.  I mean, rescued alive.  I know they'd vesh me out sooner or later‑‑but in the case of Mögg 32, "later" could easily mean five to twenty years or so. I was quite a vision, the suit flowing mirror-fashion around me, rippling contours of my body like a coat of mercury, & beyond that, the energy field glowing golden like an image of my astral body, with yet another, still larger, ghostly image of me, in an almost invisible purple.  No one told me what that was, but I figure it was an energy field for the energy field, IdgeCraft's patented method for keeping Mögg's micropollen from getting to me. This might be an historic moment, assuming crafty Mögg didn't find some way to slip by my shields, fog that mirror wobbling over my body, & clog my lungs in an instant.  Certainly the pep talks Ghelgy Pang & DiTritius Qo (or was it Qo DiTritius?) gave me emphasized the excitement of it all.  Even after eight lousy entraxx with different companies around Retigula, I still fell for it.  I'd certainly never been treated this way before.  Maybe my luck had turned round.  I even lay awake that night, sweating out some historic words to say, in the grand manner of groundbreaking explorers.  Next day, as they wrapped me in invisible mesh & fired up the suit, I found out I wouldn't be able to say anything to anyone.  So maybe I could come up with a good dance to mark my mission. Well, trenchant words or no, I, Cavv Cavv Tormor, aka Romrot, might be the first creature to negotiate this heretofore unexplored world.  But I soon saw it was another rum assignment, & that I'd once again proven my inability to suss the "fine print" of an suss. The guys upstairs were probably sucking on kalkalial needles or scooning on mellifluor, laughing their asses off & quite possibly taking interstellar bets on my survival.  Maybe the designers of the snazzy Idgecraft One were laying odds against me.  It's that kind of universe. But I trekked along, working very hard, if I do say so myself, humping‑‑I mean skiing‑‑along, sampling & inspecting & scanning, mapping & spectrolysing & collating, bustling across this most weird yet somehow most forgettable of worlds. I try to be optimistic about my life, though sometimes this requires completely inverting things.  My stint on Mögg 32, for example, looked like the depths of an endless pit, but I preferred to see it as a staggering zenith of failure, beyond which I could not possibly foul up any worse. Or could I?  Hey‑‑I was (I mean, I am) Cavv or Cavvcavv oror Tormorormor, up to my shins in the eerie, sliding mosses of Mögg, suavem, branched, bubble glowing in slog or sloughing imglough acroxx longix arx of <grey>, three months into my new job & wrestling with an attitude problem bigger than a tong-clawed Zoftrian gneptor‑‑yet if there were a worse suss to be signed, I would surely seek it out forthwith & sign it.  That's me‑‑always breaking new ground, always questing for the worst world in the galaxy. But even I‑‑for all my innate optimism‑‑would never have guessed that Mögg would hand me a break beyond my sweetest mellifluor dreams. Anyway, there I was, in the cosmic dun of Mögg high noon, & I was at least working hard, earning my keep with a mechanical sort of earnestness that seems built-in with me.  If I was ready to snap (which I certainly was), I didn't show it.  I was, if I do say so myself, humping along, sampling & inspecting & scanning, mapping & spectrolysing & collating, bustling across this most weird yet forgettable of worlds, sealed off from it in my spym, yet pillaging every molecule of the place.  It was all going into the expensive microbrain (an Idgecraft 997, no less) in my head.  A few more gigs like this & I'd pay the last installment on that thing, assuming I were still sane. Have I mentioned I'm omo zapus?  Quaint term, that, but please don't say you thought we were extinct.  You cannot possibly imagine how many times I've heard that.  I know everyone thinks we're extinct‑‑& God knows it looks like the women are extinct.  But I've met a few others, at various times.  We try (but generally fail) to keep in touch.  Anyway, I was at that time a very young, male human, working out my eighth bad suss in a row. THE IMPENDING STORY The impending story has been expanded greatly, on account of its reduction to a mere dot Here it is, safe within its encapsulating dop-plerentical-dotz: .(.).) & here it is again, this time "insulatin' kool" within its turquoise (imagine this as turquoise) imaginary potent ampules of I say ampules of amparaphringeical asterparadisques: *(.)*) & imploxium into realms of if not pure at least berry-neakly peer conditionalisks, such that any xellxaling routes you into one möbius I love that letter lööp within möbiusiltl lööp of influxion-roves or fluxxium-groves, down the azurescient leaves of which we walk like two sleepers caught in a (sh!) sleepers'-wish.  So one has to bullsh.t or b*llsh!t this th?ng a löt. Suffice it naught to say my little pals‑‑unadmittedly but operaeniously puxxled by my little uh "incident"‑‑did alac-together Etherbuckler Two & sent me down into the mounds of pollen, during which toggle-inkidenk they would fain (e'en whiletst contractually furboten) to have me try that devastating little trick those devastating little pricks of of sitting down again. Which I resolved not to do.  I looked around, but couldn't be sure.  I mean, the pollen-storms of Mögg o yea those pol en storms o' Mögg un-huh the-the-the PAH! lem Sturmz o' MÖGG mm-buoy seemed perhaps a mite less hallucinative than they I say than they had they before, but like I was relating like...I couldn'ta be sure. "Feeling a bit uncertain, are we?" came a voice less a voice than  a modulation of sand less a MoS than the thought of the reader's voice less the ToaRV than a toad sitting there in the all-hallucinative sand singing in the whimpsters of the whims there to me I say to me! UNAFFLECTED BY THE WEATHER Fraey Fraey Fraey Fraey! Fraey Fraey Fraey.  Yea, so here's where I meet Fraey, the hidden image of the icon, Fraey, the great illusory Fraey, galactic mogul, hoarder of the gardens of the stars, killer of star gardens, star-geneer.  This was Fraey, beamed through impossible collinations of pollen through me, & he came as a fucking human being, man!‑‑he looked technically perfect, man, like the real thing...you could almost smell him. He was smiling & waving, nodding his head with an idiotic friendliness, & I totally forgot myself & waded toward him, cranking my suit way past the point where my neurons could gauge, much less control the power that was flowing out of me, though I remember impressive gold coronas & solar flares.  I looked like an angry Bodorian god‑‑& their gods are always angry, always bristling with the energy of pain. But I wasn't fooled, man.  Here he was‑‑this small, balding, sandy-bearded man‑‑a human being!‑‑beaming at me from some sort of brightly-lit booth.  He & his snug little container seemed to have sprung from the desert, but unlike me, this fellow wore casual clothes (a rough-textured vest worn over a bare chest; a burgundy scarf & some optic jewelry around his neck; loose trousers, also of a dark, rough material, & tied by a tan-colored sash; sandals of some design).  It certainly looked comfy‑‑but altogether inappropriate for Mögg's demented weather.  From the style of his dud, I could place neither planet nor century‑‑not that there were many options for us homoze. He seemed utterly unafflected hence uninflected by the weather, so either the booth was shielded in a way even more high-tech than my Etherbuckler One or the entire image was a projection. "Come on into this booth," he grinned, & scattered in gold points of light, & there was ntrhing I mean nothing but black & the soft rasp of pollen against my suit.  When I followed him, walking right into the cube of the antimatter, I sank into some sorta vacuole pollen-pit. The man in the glass booth fingers his chin.  He knows I'm a goner, even in the E-One. ANOTHER OPTICAL-COMMON COMMOTION-EMOTIONAL EFFECT or I AM SIMPLY TRYING TO GET YOU THE FEELING OF THE SMOKE "Nice booth.  Can I really kill you?" & Mr. Fraey like tilts his head, compresses his lips like I was going to poke him, & moves his eyebrows (optical effect) in condescending waverings all over the motionless room‑‑the room temporarily filled with amusing kartoon kats. I'm rendered docile.  No one dies here; there's just a lot of humiliation, wipings, turning into toads, etc.  & as they say, "Nothing at all happens to the judicious rich." This Fraey fellow must be one of the judicious rich. "Hm," he snurtz.  Must be pretending to read my thoughts, I thank.  "Hph!" he fnebz in an artful falsetto or "afratlfsueltto faarltsfeutlto," as the lisping Umduptures would say.  Still pretending, I thought, & then he smacked me like a slut.  I mean, I was like a slut during the swinging of the snout. "Sorry, Cavv.  But please try to stop thinking for a minute & listen," he dedd, & it was the best please I'd ever felt. "You can't control your face," he thanithe.  "You were raised by Favvs.  They have no faces, so..." "They do so have faces!" "Easy, chum.  I've been trained.  I can read your thoughts in your liquid lips, Cavv." "I what?"  Here I was pointing toward the bright glowing asterisk my chest‑‑another optical-common commotion-emotional effect. "It's a common problem, with humans in the sector," he decter.  "I mean‑‑how are they going to learn to cover up?" I tried very hard to secure my face, & I tried not to think. Fraey was obviously trying not to laugh. I knew a hostile hallucination when in one.  My puppeteers were gone‑‑lost in a lavish static, so I got within close striking distance of the pseudo-humanoid dude‑‑none of this hurling thunderbolts for me, I was going for a direct blow, an enhanced roundhouse from hell‑‑& my suit froze up.  In fact, everything froze up, & I notice Seven Things.   Seven Things I Have Noticed by CavvCavv Tormororordor: 1.    a cube of space is forming around us 2.    it starts taking on time 3.    it develops a past 4.    it develops memories 5.    the memories start coming back, then cannot be stopped 6.    you've got lost in just one memory lost in a memory occluding all other memories (Shit!) 7.    I noticed the music in the bar disappeared, the dancers stopped moving, and the polyoptic light display utterly died away.       Suddenly, I was alone in a cube of silence lit by soft golden candle after soft golden candle with the bald dude right in front of me.  If I was within striking distance, he was within striking distance too. I may have the Bucklizarres© occurs to me occurs to me occurs to me occurs to me, just as I notice my thoughts are echoing oughts re choing. I considered smacking him upside the head.  That would start the old chimes chiming, if the head was real & unshielded that is, that is 1) Real & 2) Unshielded, as in not impervious to anything short of direct thermonuclear fucking attack. Yea, I considered jacking his jaws, frapping his mazzard, nailing his ass.  If this was either Fraey or someone clever enough to make like Fraey (but in any case, why bother me?), he should by now be in full knowledge of just what a psychotic series of thoughts I'd (I'd (I'd (I'd) just) had) there just had there, if you know what I mean. I mean even in this exsufflicately unhuman universe we have these Guy Things we do, one of which is to consider beating the shit out of just about any guy you see, unlikely as it may be.  Am I right, guys?  Would the Guy Reader please go over here? But Fraey or this cool simulacrum of Fraey (probably the Bucklizarres©, huh? just hallucinating like I said upfront, huh?) was showing anything but concern.  Vexing past fear was his continued coolness, continued friendliness, continued charm, continued sex-scene-deleted, continued alacrity & fucking animation.  I mean, he moved quite swiftly & fluidly.  The sucker stepped out of his weird shell, took a quick breath, & looked around at the suddenly-dead joint in the cube of space Fraey took awaey just aes quickly aes hae gaeve. Needless to say, he seemed well pleased, like a demented pixie. "Here," he said, "Here! Here! Here! Here! Here!" (what a silly man!) reaching toward my suit (reaching toward my suit) which existed now as a Sundae of loops, jags, & dollops of frozen energy.  The off-outingly friendly, diminutive guy began pulling at my outer stuff, a shell of dormant energy which was trapping me. Quick-witted bloke that I am, I noticed that I was breathing.  I shared in this little gremlin's ability to move.  And, though I certainly didn't want to perceive it, I could feel the panic of suffocation rising within me, & I began unbuckling the inner patterns of the suit, those like Energy Buttons!!! that once flowed so well beneath my fingertips, but which now reluctantly unlatched like massy ancient bolts. With the etherbuckler's AC now idle, I had only the thickest & most sweltering of air, & a superfluity of distracted adrenalin which only made my limbs shake as they struggled at this sudden tomb. Meantime, the bald man‑‑suddenly my only friend & potential savior‑‑was cheerfully separating my static energy field as if it were some sort of semi-solidified latex.  Grunting, his tongue peeping from the corner of his mouth, he revealed surprising‑‑& welcome‑‑strength as he laid bare the material portion of my suit. There really wasn't much more for him to do at this point, so he stood back & watched as, my face against the faceplate conveying a Psychotic Cascade of Expressions which I simply could not snuckerpushKRH, I grunque against my Pond'rous Locks, which opened in the manner of a Most Oppressive Dream, & raised up some repugnant steam, so that I emerged gasping & hysterical from the a rl ss m st rp  c . That's airless masterpiece.  Now back to our story. Now back to our story? What I'm saying is the man pulled me out of the timegap mess that almost suffocated me almost maternally, dragging me through the puckered poison, suit breach & hand-rent ripwrenched stasis fields that had once done so well for me.  He practically ripped off my skin.  The bald dude had manifestly augmented strength.  I'd better watch out for him, I grinned as he dusted strange white pollen off my huff! my Dozhe. I grinned because I was breathing again.  You should know as my mother should have known before I killed her (sort of accidentally; I'll fill you in the words of the days below) that I sometimes fill with giddy, spuming joy for no reason.  It's a flaw‑‑a form of epilepsy no rarer than my species, pandemically afflicted like a word afflix with febrile diacritix‑‑which sometimes comes un handy. The little bald man with the concentrated essence of the strength of the muscular stars in him duted off my knows with a clearly sexual verve, then drew back & lit a thin cigarette, black with golden filter, a Russian novelty cigarette he had obviously had someone less obviously gotten from the Profound Museum of the Novelties of the Idiosyncratic Fringe, & with a sithofa-sucting noise drew in a smoke all-purified beyond the burdens of air. Beyond the burdens of yen, beyond the bounds of karma, beyond the last giggling leap of a very silly child's imagination after quite a lot of hyperventilation, quite a lot of breathless repetition, quie loa buthfuh repegigum, I can explain all of this.  I am simply trying to get you the feeling of the smoke. You really need to get the feeling of the smoke.  You need to get the feeling of all the drugs we took in this sector.  The technology of drugs went well beyond infinity & into the realms of black magic fuckin googols of æons ago, man. Now what was I saying? The Smoke© made Fraey very happy, in the sense that existence was suddenly worthwhile, suddenly like a walk down one of those enchanted stargardens he kept more in the wine later, of which down cellar. & he continued to try to woo me, for not only was it clear he wanted or I mean to be liked, most particularly by me, who had absolutely not cracked even the fragment of a smile since the {timeframe} of our universe cracked int the glass of visions into the royal (milkwhite) glass of the frames of the "Etchings of a Lying Life" (from Hogarth's endless obsessive insular Life of Lies), but he was obsessed by my odd & ideciherable I mean indecipherable show of happiness, & so was trying way too hard to charm my pants off, possibly literally. So he was chattering. I was being nattered at, not with words, but with a sort of high-pitched, digital nonsense, & even if the man's speech had been sensible, I would have been far too distracted by the smoke coming from his mouth.  I was thrown back to my childhood, where the Akospombian attendroids seemed programmed to constant hostility.  I don't think the officials knew (& heaven knows they didn't want to know), but those gun-blue buggers projected all manner of bristling monstrosity‑‑insect, dragon, flaring attendroid‑‑for fun, to keep us shaped up, as an experiment, or simply through some insane glitch in their programming. So the only young man in town is psychotic, all right? Anyway, the man with the digital speech & the smoking mouth seemed quite like a monster to me, despite his tiny size.  He seemed distinctly scaled down, more like a child except for his adult proportions, but that only made this beaming, time-stopping stranger seem stranger. Then he repeated the act of smoking, this time stucking a thin blue cylinder into his mouth & sissing on it, sissing, sissing on it & sissing onit.  The device glowed at the tip; it must be the source of the smoke he was breathing.  He's not human after all, I thought.  He needs this substance to stay alive. PRETTY HUMAN STUFF "What's with the human get-up?" I drawled.  I was trying to be cool, if you wanderknough the troughth.  Another Guy Thing happening between us.  This was like the first Other Guy I'd ever met‑‑honest! "Why do you ask that, punk?" "Mocking human shape's a pet peeve of mine, man." Fraey gave a short snort, very close to derision.  "Yea man?  Well, c'mere. kid.  Move over here.  Come closer," he said, seizing me in a headlock which made my head glow & pulse like a vivisected heart. "Have a look, fuckface," he growls, real toughlike.  "I'm a man just like yourselflike." He showed me many things I can't divulge‑‑things, however, which proved beyond the ahdow of a doubt he was & is a man.   Deletion Box Hello.  I am Deletion Box. Begin speaking. Long sexual-slavery-to-Fraey deleted, partly for the sake of the children who may have gotten may sucked into gotten this dimension, but also because it turned out to be quite dull.  Except for the author's magnificent cock, of course.      Pay no attention to the boxes, especially those fucking deletion boxes!  They're crazy.  They make me laugh.  Hu! Anyway, after he let me go, after I regained consciousness, after I was able once again to remember who I was, form simple sentence, & recognize selected relatives & friends, & my face had regained its former color, my face having been rendered purple as a grape for some weeks, & I was able once again to make it back to the set to begin trying to refilm the fucking scene, I gave this invitation the slow & rather sullen response I thought it deserved, for there was no way in hell I believed Fraey was human.  The dubloh features made it clear he was a native Jodorian. I did come closer, but I'm afraid my nastiness grew as I did so.  Teeming aliens‑‑the Pexxems, Doqqs, & Ulalculott, especially‑‑were always challenging themselves to get the smells & textures right, but they could none of them handle the smells... Fraey, however, had gotten the smell right.  His textures kept looking better as I approached.  Were there even pores there? He made the spasms of laughing without the sounds. "You should see your eyes," he said.  "They're so big I might accuse you of being polymorphous yourself." I quickly became ridiculous, a cauldron of conflicting feelings, wanting at once to punch him out (that always made them lose their faces into shapes you cannot imagine) & to run my hands over what definitely appeared to be pored, textured, finely haired human arms. "Go ahead," he said, though I was not sure what he thought he might be giving me permission to do, nor did he elaborate.   Welcome to Deletion Box. Begin speaking. I saw something to which I can only allude.  It was another deleted scene, another extended sexual-slavery thing involving the author & his characters.  What a sicko! Yea, it's pretty sordid, though this one a lot better then the others‑‑but still not good for the kids downloading porn off the internet even as we speak.  Just kidding.      Or maybe he just forced me to watch all of his genome unravel, like he was doing a double-helix pole dance or something.  The point is the scene was at long last aloowed to continue.  The scene can now continue, in which figuereth a a brick. I shat a brick & shook my head. "Pretty good," I said.  This approach worked well in bringing down the defenses of the rather vain shape-changers of the universe, for they almost invariably cried "'Pretty good'?  It's great!"  thus tipping their hands. But Fraey only tightened his lips slightly & raised & lowered his eyebrows in an instant, conveying perfectly a disgust masked only by great patience. This was pretty human stuff. MIMETIC DODGING GESTURES He kept perching obscenely on things, & his well-crafted huan I mean human disguise was angering me.  Yes, I had reverted to the delusion he was not really human.  The sex was too good, for example‑‑way the hell too good. In addition, he was too bright, & he kept changing size.  I was either hallucinating from the etherbuckler lerbuckler erbuck aler or this was a projection of some unknown kind.  I licked my lips & pressed them together, as if I were gluing them... Besides, aren't I supposed to be testing out some kind of suit or something?  Am I lost?  Am I dead? "Lost," he hissed, his all-too-sprightly pie winced in cheery moue, placing his forefinger to his mouth & making a peculiar steamy sort of ulianiting sound. "Don't say much," he said, as if this advice would be the most gratifying in the world for me.  Then me thrust his forefinger toward the sky & prodded it dup a coupla timx.  "Don't want the nerds to know!" I swatted at him in the manner of a cat, but he just kept waffling into photoraves. He made mimetic dodging gestures, always with this insufferable glitter in his gilnistutfefreirnagbly eyes.  I wish he'd change shape, I thought.  Nexons hated shape, or should I shape it: Nexons hate shape, or shapehatingnexons. "I know what you're thinkingCavv thinkingCavv thinkingCavv thinkingCavv," he said, which caused me to reel back, which caused an entire aurocavern of pollenwind whimshapes to cast themselves in <flow <directional <revesever> directional> flow> of reverse dynamic tropical expressive clouds (as as up in their terminal, Motinol gnod off & on, mumberling, "Geek?"). "I have to report back.  Is this some kind of time-dilation thin g we have happening?" "O shut the fuck up," he kunks, pulling out a surging kal needle & (I think) moffingly prock'ring it to me.  "This is like some film-noir detective story in which I shove the ultimate job up your arse." I tried to escape but could not escape.  I can say no more about freedom.  Or escape. Which is to say I saddown, which cause the persistent equalizing pendumbruvial nonspecific gravity of the general periphrasis of the adumbras of my suit to, as they say, "bunch in," causing me to sink toward the center of the center of MöggwithinMöggwithinMögg, in turn causing the clouds of the complex pollen & the clogs of the intricate pollen & the expensive (snuffable) pollen of the drug-trade pollen (which, winkwink, whiz-watch this suss's all about, in't?) to xetrov in like some oenumbral zitz, causing gradually & in causal-lag in turn Motanowl to wake up & start to fleering at their dials, "Whawk?" & here I thought I'd taken the damn thing off... But we sunk we deep in the psychoactive pollenscape of Mögg.  The field of my suit I believe the field of my suit became a RELIGION in which I be LIEVE creates a present-tents cave of hollopollem© in which in free fall do we sit, like a lightless grey guru & his sucky little slave, & in this place there was neither light nor dark. "Whoops," he says in a voice inside the quotings of it self.  "You've fallen into polqlueincksand or quipcoklslaennd.  I don't think your friends can save you, Cavv." "How do you know my name?" "You sound scared, man!  I'm Fraey, by the way." "The Fraey?" He smirkth.  "I have total rights on the name," he said, natter-of-tactly looking round at the nothingness swirling a-roun dusust.  "So, yes, it's me.  Anyway, you'll notice you're dying.  That old prototype Etherbuckler of yours can't hack it.  You might be gonna die, friend.  I'd scan this suss if I were you, which I am." The suit suppressed my primal terror, but I knew it was there all right‑‑like that disengaged animation from the beginning of animated time begin animated time: MARK which approaches your face with an almost 3D burn, or that word your father kept blasting in your ear, as if he were a shotgun, or that wing of light slinging round the gravitational zot of someone's tipsy sun (just before it went nova in a twist of the ploque), or that ring of lime-qolor'd light imitating itself to the point (.) where you (u) keep on staring (*) till you blind ()‑‑& that my head would exfoliate as it war into a compressed gourd of hyperh!steria the instant they powered my deprexxurixatium.DOWN. My only wish (as the metaphoric blindfold folgues mineyes) is that I could watch dubs of Mottundöl wacking ballistic in the oddly tenebroux phoxphor of their brilliant terminex. In Your Honor short, I scanned the man's suss, even as we slagged to the center foteh pollemsw*mps. This Fraey was grinning, his grin flickering with static, white noise behind the grin, itself grinning, & then he widened his grin, proffering the suss, which in this death fantasy takes the form of a glistening ovoid--like a Kelumbrian kartoon klam, actually, slick, seductive, glistening; full of those opalescent subsenstient translucent promises; your mouth wavering I mean waltering & your revulsions of disgust frozen into revolved fragments of crystal nothingness, or ice-nothingness, or abfrags, or something like that. Same as always, so I pops it in my mouth.  It was very euphoric.  Susses are always euphoric for the likes of me, which is why I keep signing the god damned things... CULTS OF DESIRE "Say, fella, you must be cold, standing bare-naked there!" he sounded like he was starting everything over.  Maybe he was.  Maybe we were starting over, in one of his sevenfold cube things.  Then again, maybe had a vörtor, which is a device that glows in your brain & gives you all sorts of goofy things to say.  Some thing 11% of the Nexons‑‑the "Nexons on the line" as they call themselves‑‑eddy round crystalline tables where they exchange vört-induced bon mots so rich in wit they have spawned vast cults of desire, with amorphous groupies in glad-rags of sorts, by which I mean lightshows of a jagged-zört, but something too much of that, if saying something too much of that be not nor more of that, by which I mean what.  I say that just to impress you, but then that's writing, isn't it? Now somewhere along the line he commenced to standing there slapping me, & as always I dinna ken ongoing this long-howfor goingbeen, so he's like he's standing there slapping the shit out of me, & the spaces of existence say The Spaces of Existence form into cubes, suggesting Fraeze fuckin with my mind again, or I'm about to die in the hallucinations inside of this suit. Remember we are really in a suit.  We are in a suit all the time‑‑a suit perfectly protecting us from death even unto death.  That's my best theory. The cubes as I say "The Cubes" went through their hypnotic genuflections (God was having a thought‑‑just a little smile, there!) till it developed we'd been in my ship (you'll remember my ship (you will relax & visualize my ship (you will relax & go to sleep & dream yourself aboard my ship‑‑there's a good reader). An-don this ship was this guy Fraey, who was certainly a recurrent motif in this series of hallucinations proving I'm suffocating in a toxic pollenhollow on Mögg someplace. & this Fraey was slapping the shit out of me, & as he slapped & continued to slap me as if to snap me out of something I was irrevocably in, my ship that I had suddenly been in (was it even mine anymore, with this rich guy here?) flupped‑‑that's the only word, flupt into something more or less a room, albeit a room full of broken azure obrejets of long oblart, the limbs of your robot lawyers, their torn paper contracts fallen like snow on the dintly smiling faces of the dead, & whatever else during the chase scene that my lawyers made me said‑‑all pitifully bedewed with the droplets of my heart. He seemed to by physically present‑‑a near-impossibility in my ship, which gave me goose-bumps & a bad case of the well-nigh-creeps.  I mean, I could sense him...I could smell him, right through the xenon... "OK, fo," he fayf, hopping off the fhelf & the fhelf recef obediently into mift like that uh "m?mory" they leached from the chalk cluff of your croggy fell.  Well at least he was very small... "Name's Fraey," he say, as if we were indeed starting over (were we indeed starting over (are we indeed starting over (has this inded ever happened?), pwoffewing his hand in a Nebulously Aggwessive Gesture.  He by for the way the records held it there a while, then removed it ontologically, so that it had never been there, if you fing what I'm baying or fring what I'm-a-braying, seeming toove expected no response.  "And yes, I'm really here.  Go ahead‑‑feel." & here he's standing with no shirt on & totally disconcerting amounts of white hair on his 60-year-old torso, & here he's giving me the archetypal I'm-a-Strong-Old-Guy grin with the wildly gleaming eyes, patting his stomach as if I were supposed to cum on it or something. I'm sorry.  I mean to pat it or something.  I meant nothing offquuluur.  It just happened.  It's the software, moving between universes.  It's certainly not me... So the old goat standing on the beach pats his stomach, as if I were supposed to rub him there.  I dunno.  Once again, he went back & erased it, so it never happened, making everything I tell you a grey & des o late lie.  Damn. "No, go ahead, hit me as hard as you can," he said with a stupid proudness I couldn't help but think could only be human, but I shook my etheric face through a loophole of the thought, so we have a once a gain a nonexistence. There was a nonexistence silent more a moment out of time. "Your filters are useless on me," he said, with a cheerfulness ill-fitting his oppressive words.  He kept smiling, too, & it occurs to me I have never punched somebody who was not a shmoo. "Go ahead, punch me," he said peremptorily, pretending to be looking over my suit, which kept rearranging itself nervously & into nerves & figneirtvionugsly like a shelf of pink & sentient Tetvian books. "Yea, like you were saying back there before you back there before you you you forgot, I'm basically the richest sot in the sector, short of the luciprant aspirates," he boas, at which my hunger to take a swing at him eat me & I slug him a good one in the chest & knock him over & over. Yea well he tumbled down a great hall, curled like the snail of a Guggenhein, & there were indeed the most heart-piercingly beautiful works d'art (all blue, all broken, all hanging obliquely like the bones of your busted poets) expiring behind us down the right side, not scrolling to darkness, as it were, up the stations of history & on into the sweet ether of sweet ether of myth, no, but P*P!ing out like reminiscent flashbulbs as scene in the parched n painted backdrops of the Receding Ecedin Usée Musée, which made my guilt all the worse. I even thought, & this is just a curlied fancy taken from the pages of Dipple-Dexter'd Monster rendered back in earth's unfamous & inknowen "Stoned Victorian Era," there were lawyers in liquid black suits with their supple ties flying, breaking their bones trying to serve me with their papers of infinite culpability, for which I'd have to be wiped to a hundred lifetimes of tarry dearth & gloam. I had ev id entl y hit him way too hard.  Possibly my first contact with an FHB‑‑a fellow human being‑‑& I'd broken him.  & there was an suss in there somewhere {possibly already empacted to my brain!}, & I felt I might be chasing Pure Money Rolling, despite my racing tears, down the tiny spiracule. THE LAST WINTERNIGHT OF CHILDHOOD "You're an emotional guy," this Fraey says, after coughing up some blood, very real, very convincing, like this was reality or something, coughing & gradually healing up just as if nothing had happened, nodding pseudo-thoughtfully, the old bugger, good as new, & I register that this is his First Sincere Statement, write large in gorgeous Starray Circulature© & accompanied in all-too-perfect parallel with a gesture, analogous & equally sincere, making me so suspicious I grab his wrist, at which he seems almost sexually pleased. "It's OK," he says, nodding some more as if in echo of nodding some more, as if in.  "Sorry I busted in, man‑‑but the locks on your door are just miserable!  Just kidding!" But mirth there was none. Heechoes of nodding some more has himself a good long languorous lollicking laugh at that.  It would bother both me & you to tell you I was in a twisted way just starting to like the polyduplicitous dude. "Anyway, I was excited," he confessed, actually ripping his face off (a casual rich guy's special effect), causing me to faint & he to wave some sort of zeun-shapéd vial of essences over by doze, reviving me & slowing down the scene to the point where there is no oxygen. "I'll make this quick," he gasped, bold enough it seemed to use up precious poetic air with his airy lies.  "I got excited & came here myself.  I have Le Job pour vous!" "Excuse me‑‑are we doing everything twice?" He nodded, now very masculine, & I couldn't help but notice out of the side of my aurafield© his voice had lowers some octaves.  It's been corrected on the tapes, your echoes of his nodding & yet some more honormore. "But as I was saying, no more squatting on shitpiles of moss, my friend," he says. "Collecting pollen," I say in a voice which just doesn't come out, like it was Deliberately Sabotaged or the signal De ib rate y S bota ed! "The groint peing, friend Cavv, brother Cavv, dipshit Cavv, you & I are going out & find the human race.  There is a human race‑‑an extremely large human race, existing somewhere.  & you can kill me if this isn't true." "Kill you if what isn't true?" "What I just said, focksucker I mean cocksucker." "Well.  Thanks for correcting it, anyway." I think Fraey slapped me around some more.  Fraey had his way with me, did some foul things to me.  This is normal for my class: this is normal for this sector: this is normal for someone like Fraey, who obtains all sorts of easements & comforts & contentments from the law.  We don't have money as such, but it shouts at us, roars at us, just as muckin futch. His face was that of a very silly child, & he seemed to lose control of his body & clap his puerile palms together. For the first time in my life (unless I've been luumed, as the Epilusians of iospace'd say, & unless you count that life) I restrained myself.  Up to now I'd let my muscles do whatever they want. I'd buried my arm in countless blobs of flesh‑‑it felt good to them; they wanted to do me after that.  I had no mother, no nothing.  I was the most (amusingly) violent thing in Nexo, next to the Inglios, Bauns, Jaborigglios, & Kreefneffs, needless to say but too late to say, needless to say. SNOWY PHRASEOLOGY or DREAMS HAVE NO ADJECTIVES "There there!" his zunny voix was zaying.  The crazed geezer was starting over again!!!  Old people certainly do like to repeat things, don't they?  So with the cubes magnifying the hallucination times seven, etc. & so here he was, bright as the fireflies cumming, now in a very impressive suit, such as there are human suits in these here parts.  Don't get me started about the clothes we have to wear.  Just one word: baggy!  So I mean Fraey's lookin pretty well-tailored all of a sudden, pretty nifty, pretty cool.  He suddenly looks like this captain of commerce in the umbrage of his suss, selling it to me, zetzing in the spottle of a gold sun, the snow receding in unhinged concentric manias around him, & his pores so thick & vivid, his smarmy refinery this time defined by the gorgeous smolder of his ultra-maroon kimona, dragon-strewn in a veritable swoon of golden dragons ramping the air like vanity volutes, & an indolent feathered cap rakishly revealing the buff of his big bald head, as if it were something erotic. Well I gasped.  Let us in the usual way back Uckfaying up here for a moment.  Normally‑‑now This is normally I'm talking about, so STOP LAUGHING‑‑you sit besnowed in a slight Cezannean slant, your features uprucked in these Great & ipept brush strokes, in a great but Seated barenaked but night-enshroudéd shawl, Your superconductive nerves seeing themselves Jagged like the fragments of your most Meaninglessly beautiful ornament (you know: the One no mother lit like soft golden candle after Soft golden candle the last winternight of Childhood, the deer antlers snapping & the Snow lost in your hair & lost in its opacity and Lost in its snowy phraseology & your paraleel Laraleel selves dancing each through its own Cracked brokenhearted dream I can explain all This but not in words can I explain all this but in The vivid purple feelings you feel when the Psychic touch your wrist!!! bu-but enough of these Falx maimoiries), each through its own great Slam-bang thunderous dreams, only without Adjectives (shhh!‑‑dreams have no adjectives) and The ship with the touches of a beautiful mute Nurse bathing your numbness away, draining you Of urine ("odious human trait!" their untheem Voixes runagape) & whatnot (for one produceth Beaucoup denoughts in the tepid xenon Atmospherics here), pretty much unable to fulfilet A sentence as I (I!) seem unable to complete this Jigseeing dream, while the snow gets fervently Thicker, like the pale blue beliefs of Christ before His antediluvian father murdered him, making Him one fucked-up, holy kid... ...until, hopeably, comes a gig.  I mean, the snow forms to my coagulate crystalline ice-sculp promptress, shaped like a babe right out of your rooting aspirations or your tooting astral phantoms or a unniverse of parallel poets, each fatter, each greater than the last & hooting out his great fat lines or her great burgundy stanzas, doing it yet forgive me for diverging, sitting with her eyes I mean her legs crossed on my dash, the fluffy dice interchanging existences lynched from the rear-view mirror offering the mere-view rear behind of her, & in her last radiant puffages of frost says, "Opening." Which generally puzzles the general hell right out of genera-me, & she responds with patience, slapping me & insulting my nakedness, holding up sarcastic signs & sprigging me with expletives, synonyms, fragments of the possibly-morphemic wordthings the Favvs intercept in the endlessness of their "stareyed space-nets." "A job," say synthetic She.  "There's a job for you, Cavv.  Would you like spex empacted to your mesh?" "Yes please," I always say weakly, the ship melting in some sort of pugnant reparody of many implanted Michigan springs, such as I know them, & my old man's temporary arms tentatively plucking on some pretty tacky clothes. I have a gig.  I mean, if I sign the suss‑‑which like a fool, I always do.  "Never take a job when you're freshly thawed," they say, but I'm always too frosted to listen.  This is my life. I'M SORRY I CALLED YOUR SOUL A WORM I wake up in my ship, the Title, seriously doubting any of that ever happened. So like the Idgecraft General Binding Upyourass General Suss had had turned out to be like living amongst supermorphs in general‑‑like falling into a Nexx of Hysterixxa.  After the job, I was in the zone.  I was In The Zone & Being Followed, so to speak, & needed time alone. I'd become incredibly d I s s o c I a t e d ! I needed incredible amounts of drugs. I figured to call to Fraey to call to Fraey after time spent falling down the labyrinth of another universe.  I'd meet Fraey "on the other side of the great grey universe," & then see about his gig.  Assuming I was or ever had been at all sane again, of course. So I didn't contact anybody or log out on anything.  I didn't follow any procedure, but au contraire, didde diddle with Dame Procedure from stem to stern, sodospeak, zipping in a way I'm legally bound to keep inside to a place I'm tortically restrained from mentioning (which is why my face is always puffing gout or poughingought! at you), & just dropped out of everyone's screen at once, also out of everyone's ememory also out of all recordings on all sorts of media (we are crazy with media here: & you?) & all myth & fantasy & all poets' dreams & off of all comely maidens's smiles & off the Akashic Records altogether & out of this manuscript entirely & in short out of everything but the mind of God. & we don't do much with God in this sector I am writing from this xextor. So I'm on sabbatical all of a sudden, I'm free.  I could do anything, do anyone. I could kill anyone.  I could kill a whole series of people by some means too heinous entirely for literature, so I'd have to skip that part of the story. (Scene omitted. No one knows much about this scene.  We considered trying to retrieve it, but it's been deleted by the best.) So I'm cruisin the zone in my nifty darkblue unregistered ship, The Special Cocoon (& a childhood friend of a ship, my Special‑‑a ship of memory if of memory of there ever was!) lightzapping from one system to another, then easing the joystick this way & that, zooming round many a planet like a shopper in a weightless crystal mall, just looking, not landing.  It seemed most Nexors came from inordinately massy planets, anyway, so landing would not have been much fun, walking about in my compellation suit or compsuit, bobbing with each & every step & letting out those crazy pink clouds of megasteam that made me suffer, gliding like a sick mosquito through various inner galaxies of embarrassment‑‑& you'd sell major segments of your great wormy soul to avoid that action. I'm sorry I called your soul a worm. THE SPECIAL COCOON My pal Special was it up this morning with a handsome yet humble grin, a blue but pink-tinged, warm yet intelligently abstracted grin, a grin of movie porpousodistortions yet "somehow suited for TV" (Demarl Nidian), a huge yet cuddly, concave & yet embracing grin I had had had programmed for myself, or‑‑to squeak more accurately‑‑had caused to have been programmed by Waerance Füül, Oscar-winging director of My Wincing Dreams, A Grin of Soporofocness, A Grin of Control, a grin almost perfect but for one tiny antigrain© of bitterness back behind it cast from bitter universes destroyed by their own ne'er-existence cast behind it back & of control. I pressed the grin control & fell down a long, illusory glass tunnel during which my neural nets my neural nets my neural nets of my neural nets were peeled most temperately off of me & placed in their special cocoons (see Special Cocoons), & I landed finally like a xentient xnowflake, as it were, in a blizzard of space, a blizzrad of nothingness, a blixxrad of sweet relief & a bilxxrad of swoons & a blixxrad of a bl!xxrad of joyful, hale fellow-snowflakes with their homely bones broken in their own joy of their loss of the preposterous preposition of of  the Infamous "Blizzrabs of Control" & in a sort of "absence blixxard" of of empty space.  Also of rhythm.  I lay for one solitary unhappy adjectival mo mo in the confort of infinite space. But "cold & hot ran I this on," & after that humiliating gig‑‑the pay from which I felt not yet no joy, you'll excuse my frigging French‑‑I toggled my stupor'd thoughts as the stooped & stupid poet ought to've thought to the apposite control & and & and we cuddled humidly, me & my ship, the Grin or the Title or the Special Cocoon or the Special Control which I squöze like one of those Arcordiore synthetic, semisentient breasts, squöze hard as if to crustit so this ship glowed in the neons of obscene & was, man, ready to go, by which it means the allure of the songs of the phermoans of the outer stars had beeped it, & this baby was headed deep, cruising like a glintz Queen through the ethershavvs, knocking off wender fenders like some sort of spacey bait, getting in mix-ups in which mix-ups there was this gross, quickie interchange of raw data, bitter-apple knowledge from the dead & pollinated brains, interracial jujubes, impossible lincks in impossible linck positions, splits of the logistics of the impossible linck propositions all done in the light dome foaming amd the light dome foaming a-a-at jerk projections of the median of each ship involved in uh the, um, cominh unh "incident," & many a morsel was saved‑‑like drawn underwear off the tip of the conqueror's So Painefullye Endlesse Sworde‑‑& still my ruddy little shi- mixeed it in. Smart ship, the Special Cocoon.  Filters Felloll Travelers as Rather Fat Bees, innumerable, to be sure, but not murmuring very loudly if you must know through mouths kvetching-a-long their round outsides so they look like great stripey bee auctioneers whining through some tube of sweet etheric flowery science-fiction space at one another, & me smuggled in placidly like some sort of soporated papoose. That was the way I wanted this time.  I wanted cozy isolation No. 29062, & I also wanted the gripes of my fellow itinerants to the stars #392‑‑& when I say stars I mean things as different as the seventeen different tints of the Haiku Planets of Oroazaon or the eleventeen diffring cuts of the swiss-gnix of longlost longcut cutlost cutup Porrop, the flavory cannet-coup or "cannéd soup" flavory planet‑‑the better not to hear my own rather veinly self-critical cigar-pough-toruses of your or my half-assed thoughts.  You or rather I could still hear or rather feel one's remorse, chiming with the course of voyaces of course, which was all simply my simply technologic way of not much wanting to thing about it... The unfimished portion of myxelf I qoll my Rough Psyche appears in the form of a small-woman ice-sculpture with a <mission porting> of her skall smull, which leanded 'gainst me acetabulum & say‑‑in this daisy-flacey sort of jaded-andoghr-satiated smutter which just kill: "'here 'o, 'ap'n 'avv?" i.e., Where to, Capt'n Cavv?, except her poor ice mouth can but only just can but slide just only into words... ...Andxthen rollxher eyesxup forxreply.  She have no eyes.  I am still, throughout this little nick of a crescent universe, looking for eyes, as aren't we all? "Nowhere," I said, staring straight ahead & petting her blue begougéd bald ice skull like some paternalistic putz putting the moans his hegemonic cat each moan like a loose-lumped chessman, see, & the board rather off-the-line as well as on this unplumb'd flying plane of a deadgag board we do play (within parentheses of play (& play & (play) & play) & play), where "nowhere" indicates a "free orbit," which is really a sort of low-rent hanging out sort of thing which we workingnex do, avoiding the Scylla of the hoi-polloi with their tincancored dead-en-dung'd timelies of surmise & the Charybdis of the polylineated "marble ships of the gods" the Richies of Euphoria, cumming again & again in intenser lodes, their surfaces as white as the cum of the porcelain slabs baked endlessly in time-circles endlessly in time in circles endlessly of time-hottest time-circling inner (joy), such as The Hoot & the Holler all beshat through space with the speedy-linking teethies of the rich passing infinite times the instantly given test of the infinite rich, the so-called Euphoria Test you pass through by laughing through the marble steps of the test, falling laughing rich down the sumptuous hell-halls of decadence, though I bet it's Pretty Fun technical term (Pretty Fun (technical term (Pretty Fun (technical difficulty here (Pretty Fun not supposed to have be have like this (technical problem here (Pretty Fun begins to look the way we've always wanted) like death (Pretty Fun) who is saying death here? Prof. Fun, who they say invented the uninvented fabric as it were of Nexo in the firstisch (1stisch) place, would seem to've once again adumbrated his mainman mortmainic hubristic chutzpah love of his own funcucking name, thripping the two of us, Actual Eye (hi, there!) & Fictional Zip, into one of his lovely unfunctional aetheric tumble-clusters...a bit like turbulence in the pockets of your haunted air heh ih! ih! ih! ih! ih! ih! ih! ih! heh hep  heh hek eh ahem & heh. Yeawell anyway, fun or not, I couldn't afford nonadat, so it was one strung-out afternoon after another in dem Küchschippe für me, blohbling dub upon dub of old shows laughed with their shoulders, o so phunnye did they thank they thought, me needled like a kalucine a, ah, and, ah, reeling from the sticky little microwebs of that last suss and, my glowing horns dwarfed, cruising the lovewebs for another hope. MUSH LESSON SWELL Anyway, I cuffs the rough head of my ice-sculpt promp into beautiful fnicking fnmithereemz, my ffaceecaff bleeted with bleeds of brood in the ELECTRIC ZOOM right into my pores.  Yuk!  I reached back my hand to my neck for to stretch out syntactical Kinks of Symmetry, as the laughable physics text gloze, & look out my portal‑‑a blinkering great replicant (groan by my moron buddy Moady of Buddy Moady Moron Enterprise, Unc., more on Moady late) of the central crewman's eye of the Queen Mary, a class act much easier to replicate in genes than to follow as she sink into the concrete of her own great rotting grot‑‑& view the multitude of bees, like some recurrent metaphor from the depths of a monstrous alter. Yes, I say there, coozy & relapsed amongst these brokered azure ice filamentios as the minuscule Fnools© fool like faggy Hovers through the atmospheres, cleaning it up, dermatologist chips activated to place microbandaides on my scores o' nicks for, if you know, smashing prompts n' statues‑‑particularly the dicks of your ancient greek statues in your ancient ice-greek pure-sculpture sheer-icicle noble freon icicle "issi-ikkle dreams©"‑‑is a nervous tick or psychic release of mine which the monumental Ice-Sculptures of God ha' classified as one of my too-many psycho-hobbies & eye the many bees. I eye the fat, striped bodies of the bees, & I remember the earth I have never seen.  The earth implanted like smuttered filigree amongst the round microcosmos of my genes keeps casting forth translucent replicas like intrusive dreams‑‑a form of snitchophrenia my unseen ancestors bequeathed me these genes as wakean as our cancerous neologist, Joyce, & the unseen "word-deformation demons" in his brain (implanted in the ill-lit dais of Etherea, an infesting, beautiful, alien world) that made him do it so, have crassifiled as small madnesses or gentle fugues.  This keeps me out of the indescribable rings of the hospitals but keeps me scanning for these if I may say cheesy susses. I do whatever it is I do to call up cheesy susses ON WHATEVER IT IS I SCREAM.  I MEAN  on whatever passes for a screen, the thing that not so much embraces your head like a limp baloonoo nornor rings you like a bubble breathing rouns your limpid neck, much less anything that, you know, disgustingly inf*sts your bra!n, but scrolls to me any rotten jobs my shapely Nexon keepers I mean brethren might have... NO SUSSES (no jobs!). So...I...get...to...sit here, hallucinating bees, unto eternity?  I panic‑‑another personality trait you musnt't gnoe mush lesson swell‑‑& am pumped till I gutter with Retadray©, my torporic torporifical torproious "fume of hibernial choice," ah yes, my "gash on wish I gag of lethe-voix," a es, "me gogh o' langeur de func," a-a-an option just as free as "any" here in Nexozzznnn...herewith sleep... Anyway, as a black Kopajjian jellything palpates sans heart through the ice of its quantum galaxy, which is a very small galaxy, so would I wander thoughtless & lightless & breathless in U.S.S. UniverseSpaceShip Special Cocoon, my oversized goblet of a ship, complete with retrofitted overdrive & limitless light-spashing underdrive, not to mention such marvelush amenities as mass-deviators, tachyon ovenrings, & insanely entertaining infinite story-formers, with dimensional flexors & optional-nominal miniature solidity meters, this hefty Special!Cocoon! totally aireated like a glossy kite blissfully forgetting its meaning, much more its scary bearings, in the ultraviolet shimmers of a Candambrian aurorian dawn, & then I'd be beset with the opposite feeling‑‑a savage antipodal compulsion, an absolute sickness covering me with that weird & silvery sweat you get when you're chained to the visions aspect of the Koanundrium Flu, with its mind-swelling fever sending you laughing into various zones of etheric madness, & briefly covering me with symbolic platinum furlike unfur‑‑the unremitting need to be with people!, what though they trembled like globs of mercury in a levitation cube, even if you could see diverse distortions, not to mention mean parodies (deLIBerate parodies!!) of your face refashioning itself into perverted, wormy fractions of your back-reflected head in much the same way my redundant superemotions spatter themselves so deftly to infinitudes of romantic mirrors, as silly as the silent methods of murder we all dream about, like the joke-mirrors of merry Merydium, where you never go lest you be flushed down a foolhole, surfacing in ditzy cosmetics & that ill-fitting bunny-suit, so emblematic or dear, that would get you cobboted & electro-chainsawed in the wink of a New-York minute, or even a Dardelardian mystic minute‑‑& that's time that hurts! (Not really chainsawed, but it feels that way.) In short, I would put down with all the otsug of a zapped trög, the Cocoon adsorbed in the tissues of the ancient Vyryrial Snatcher‑‑a device as smooth as a singing spoon as perfect as a melancholy fork‑‑a most symbolic machine used without exception everywhere (except, of course, irrational-obdurate Oloquion). It made you very sleepy, like the essence of the avatar of the mother of the world of birth for those who had a world of birth who does not last. This fills you in with Grief Everlasting such that everyone freshly arrived from, O, absolutely anywhere... not to mention nowhere in the soi-disant & eerie Districts Unimaginable, that has & doggedly uses its own transpositional language, not to mention or even think about its sublanguages nestled like milky parasites in the clouds of the inner mind you know, the mind that only speaks to itself & cannot for the life of the inner mind understand itself, the messages getting scrambled in contusions of disjointed chance, so it only sense that it is swearing to itself, making it a most unhappy, diverticukate subworld indeed indeed ...everyone descending into this wavering Vyryrial nest, I say, walks about like they've had their hearts torn out.  We've gotten used to it‑‑& you will, too. & then the tougher, rhythmical task of wandering about their vapid rococo cities snailing into themselves like the polyfurcative fucking miracles of endlessly infolded Zirado, where no one can quite finish a sleepily receding receding echo of a thought exthought, much less a sentence, much less a life, & much much less than death (& so they never die), & trying, as they say, to relate to these contoured curiosities, pumping their snouts & thinking outlandishly & loud let me tell you LOUD that I that I was the queer one though I guess after all those variable lightsworded swashbuckling thrillseeking eggheaded crepuscular goddam adjective-clotted morons were right. It became a habit hardened into the very chromosomes of the genes of the nerves of the sad mental nets of my heady head that‑‑suffering the agonies of a sentient & much-scruzed washoclo