The Vloid GOLD LOZENGES OF GLOW Yea, my sister come out in the plasmic body of a vloid‑‑complete with the drop-dead Eyes of the Glowing Void of Eyes, all silvery with her exquisite vloid lines showing the make & the model & the inclinations & declinations of the vloid vloid vloid, & we behaved completely artificially. I mean, that was how we were at that time in this particular fine line of the multistranded limneal polylines of time.  We couldn't take anything straightforward, much less seriously, so we larfed. Yea, we larfed & larfed, at first.  My & Dy's Incredible Clique of artsy-fartsy: soi-d santly clever-clever: "Friends" think it some new work of hers, involving deception & the taking on of a luminous gold polyplatinium frame with the fine lines depicting some sort of vivid instructions in some Glyyssingz-like clip & so on like that.  "It's Dy all over!" they cry before I kill them!!! Well my God! This sudden & most unhappy vloidhood on the part of my Big Shwester was like any other catastrophe for us, but which I mean to whisper (say:) we were constantly on the densest drugs we could synthesize and/or find and/or/or lift from the latest squat Glyssingz punk with its childs toes invading the sand of the broken jags that have long since the fall of God invaded our streets‑‑drugs, I say, desgiendslow slow any & all neural junction from a quivering snap of wet pain to something more like the Imagined Sunset on one of those Golden Cubeworlds some Unknown Forces keep ieing us about ieing us in the downloads to our minds we constanmtly & rather compulsively if I do compulsively say-so-myself downloard perpendicularly into ourƒelves or perhaps this is that is this is that is this is that is this is that of these Gold Lozenges of Glow that illuminate our minds with the scintillating smokedreams of losing our souls on the shores of a molting beach somewhere on a planet (ha!) we can't even reach, so even, say the violent impalement of a friend walking by our side by the downward death deatghlide of yet another fragment of sky will cause the slowest, coolest junky's doudoybleble ta ak ke you ever soar. GNÖGGIN So it was that, laughing, we asked a rilled-up-to-the-gills Glyss punk who was even as we soke selling us some golden dope & selling us at length some golden dope & selling us at last some golden dope & selling us some cumlike droplets of his squeezed-out, frozen dope & selling us with this krooqu't tasmanian Glyssingz smile some more crusty goddam wrinkles of some goddam woolen dope M-rills© or null-rells© or the myztseyr I mean mystery drug known only as the drug without hope, expect when she be known as the drug with know name, or mystery-dope, possibly lethal smope, but also thought of sans breathing or speaking Gnöggin basically whatever the little prick of a Glyss would drop into your hand, along with some very strange, very moony dust he would drop into our hands often in parentheses or only in thought or even only in our thought snikk'rig moondust, moondust, your Glyss being a surrepastingly poetic snootyloot. But in this case‑‑this lost incident or imagined time I am striming to squeak rebout‑‑we place our foot on the Glyyss' little neck and, laughing in our Golden Doper Way, ask him what it says, but the Glyss‑‑clearing its throuaght of some filthy thouaghught what had goten cragged in its little thoraueught, first corrected us as to its gender, then says (in an idiolect none of us ever understood) it's like in a dialect she never understood.  Or she said it was an unreal dialect, the apparition of one of the plethora of imglyssingzators the rells-riddled Glyssingz gangs themselves (& they have only (but dinna can find) themselves to blame, & thus run blind) kept trying sleeplessly to impersonate, I mean exterminate, I mean exterminate, I mean exterminate, I mean exterminate, I mean exterminate. I think she was kidding about her gender, though, but this, I think, is only because I think Glyys always kid about gender. Yea, out comes my dripping sister, my glazed new sister, transformed overnight into the most gorgeous molten Christmas tree you ever stretched back & died upon, & we all ran laughing & screaming. I TIMELINES OF LIFE begin again.  It was a brittle afternoon, in an air immersed in crystal insects which were actually the ubiqutous Eyes of Iei, which are the thinking cameras we loosed upon ourselves, somewhere back there before back there ere the scambling of sky & memory, O the scram bling of sky & mem o'er Y! which bob upon silver ionic wings & which take in everything, swutching down the very essence of the smell of what we are about to be in the very next instant of time your bright ieis or eyes functioinnig or functioning by snatching a crop of time & dijing it, like digitalizing only more of a form of rape of time but as a law-abiding Ux floating in the slipstream of a thousand maundering promises I am not at liberty to divulge, discuss, convey, or otherwise spill the beams, interlimnal strexxlimnes, timegrains, or scentles tinctures of that particular aspect, feature, modality, or big brimming grin-lips laced with a gold geometric pattern of ultimate euphoric idiocy of our racial estate hereafter known as The Exfinal Rape of Time, as Compunctively Conveyed by One "Ux Tentse Ampersand"‑‑Exrapiste, Excapist, Exrogue, & Exmalefactor Exextraordinaire or, more properly, Crystalline Insectoid Machines, when the filament fires up to a pitch of brilliance bearing down on madness, lighting central portions of the Uxtentse brain & thus in an unreal sense talking to us, I swear, your honor, were floating around, having stripped off our skin & our flesh & the identity of our bones in the sense of having wired ourselves up like those primeval stones our wounded, wound-down dead scientists had wired up in that first experiments, whereupon the stones very white stones, the white stones that hefted themselves in thair from the luminous volcano we had here we think once once once once dropped their stoniness & evolved into various Timelines of Life™, one of which was yours, & left the imagination of the stiflement not to mention painment of the lineaments of our bodies & were lying their in the brilliance of the omnillient silver light & basically listening to the sun, or rather the firmament of the sun I'm thinking veinly that you understand, yeRonoryeRonor, how innocently innocent in its innocent innocence this innocent was, when Dy come bursting in, completely imploding the foil of the shell of the body of the bogual© walls, & screamed nothing but a series of glottal-spottled ululants (yuk!), to the effect of "LOOK AT ME!" which we most certainly I think I believe we or someone impersonating we we did did. She screamed.  Her friends gaped & turned.  The ieinsects quivered & conjoingd, & the eyes of our lives fleeced round her, such that the initial image of my sharp-edged perfectly-transformed Fucking Sister I knew she was doing this Vloid Transmogrification thing deliberately, you see, despite the infinitude of facts indicating otherwise, a swarmstream of fallen angels cannibalizing my identity by consuming in their god damned LIGHT the very first florid horrible awful okfle ultra-absorptive thought I ever had, as it were became a mere blurry or a murr blerely uh cloud or cloud or clog of vague connotative "gold light gliding off the sides of the sleeping menaings of your words," as all of Ux turned its sheathings of desire inside out just to capture her. Yea well, she looked like the Vloid of Myth, all right, by which I imply that metallic body & the Gorgeous Crystalline Eyes, etc, eyes, etc. eyes-etc-eyes, sure, looking as some tactless types have said much more beautiful than Dy, aka Never the Beauty never was. But we were thrown off, as it seems to me evinced in a phrase not long ago, by Dy's distinctlessly trickerly tendenacities & by the fact that, after all, she hadn't "gone vloid" in the traditional, ieied-up manner‑‑I mean the manner you see in the intricate fantasies of iei, i.e, in an explosion of cluck like a strucken hin‑‑but had, so she related, swatting us down like a bunch of spirited balls, simply wokenupavloid! Everybody laughed at first, & then we looked with the nerves of laughter at one another & laughing rippling superscriptive numeraries on our first initial primal gravid laughs.  Maybe we laughed because we thought we staggered through the rubble of a civilization too fantastic to dreamlike to live‑‑a hypersophisticated society consisting of thing crystals defying all laws of beauty, light, & gravity, & by golly we considered ourselves as urbane as those infinite segments of the past that so constantly sliced up our calves. Or perhaps I exaggerate... & we thought, That Dy! & we thought about her works, & the distinct & creeping possibility that they had all been a series of every-involuting jokes, the peak & pinnacle & shrieking deadend endpoint pointblank blankface facened endpoint pointblank blankface faceend enddead deadpoint daceblank pointwhen of which was this business of, well, dressing up like a vloid or something like that, & as how a vloid comes precisely once an eon, & with a sniggering quiver of the wrist we checked that a vloid wasn't due for... Yea well, as we said "Yeawell vloids aren't atomic clocks, now were they?"  By which we meant "I mean they don't come on the eve of the noon of the month of the season of the goddam god damned year the goddamned vloid's 'due' or "due" now do they?" By which we were meaning to mean, "Yeawell, no one know." THIS VLOID THING You see, like only about six other things, vloids obsessed & upset us.  Your never-seen vloids permeate & oermeate our dreams & our dreams & our mythic dramas dramas & and & the brobdingnagain eie-shows we scared ourselves virtually unto liquid with. After that first little Ridge of Laughs serving to buffer us a bit, we pored the Ideation Stracks, some of us, until our heads fell off (still laughing as they roll laugh nervously into symptomatic syntax symptoms of a blue of rollalaugh and) on spottled occasion we asked or would make as if to ask the voiceless soi-pensant "professors" in their bubbles, shimmeringly senile with knowledge.  We'd try to scry the symbols on the shards of our invincible domes.  I blush to say "invincible," but say it anyway, for we looked & thought of them‑‑even as our iridescent cloths were slit to humiliating long raggy tatters by the edges of them‑‑as nothing other than nor less lan our invincible domes! Must be a racial thing, if we were in fact a race that is in fact indeed inrace & in racial or implanted memory... Anyway, you bloody well knew the image of the vloid, but they were unknown.  They obsessed & bugged & bothered us, even if we never saw the things.  No one except possibly those savants dried into a powder an dexisting if you call that existing in these little shaped plastic tubs looking like tubs like nothing other than the "folly shapes of child" if I may quote a deeply interior (hypothesized (hypostatized) text) text knew what they were, & while we told ourselves we didn't have the time to find it out, it was more like something in the vloid or the phenomenon of vloid itself that made us shake our chins in that infinitesimal shimmer of no that saiud "No.  We will not study this.  We will know nothing of this, even at the price of seieng this constabtly," which we do. Which we do. I stood there rocking forward & backward like a poem rocking forward & backward on its heels, unable to act, waiting for the inevitable lattice of inculpation to form around her, carrying her off to ne of our distant, broken prisons. There were you see too many ieis in the skies, too many clusters of anxious flies alive with their parxcessive consciousness whatever that means not to mention too many Legends of the Vloid, including everything from the sublimely surreal ancient passages of The Vloide's Progress (d. -312) and the incandescent swatches of the much-and justly-hyped & must-hyped & just-hyped "royal poetry" of Pol Sampamian in the poet who they say but do naught believe died in the ecstasy of vloid :) with his "Ode to a Sleeping Vloid" & "Lande of the Vloids," & "Upon Seeing the Ancient Vision of the Vloid," & his suicidally amibitously endlessly rambunctious Vloidiad, astoundlingly raunchy, which is not to say surpassingly bawdy to the mindmorphing Invasion of the Vloids & the awful musical Vloid! & the children's Hundred Scarey Poems of The Vloid, which we were all made to write & eat & memorize in a lingual cognito möbius loop of fire imitating the mooby-loopy structire of the Tales of the Vloid, if you must know, suggesting iymk that all this talk & legendating & racial memory of the dreaded, much-loved, intricately expensive vision of the Vloid was nothing more (nor, I suppose, less than nothing or nothing more than less) than another virus from another myth called "the tangle of time" which I am abjured from thinking, much less whispering, about. In Canto cvii of The Vloidiad, Sampamian‑‑in technowords that keep like quicksilver rims of tracery translate & tranform themselves, constantly revising so as to make his Samp's poems more & more beautiful further from the truth, as the textiles of imagery roam like the lusty variants of a seedy-dun tune fucking their way across the lands of sound‑‑sang or wrote or wrang or blote or bled a passage I;ve decided not to quote because it was not actually so hot.  So we'll go back to the story now, shall we? As I was saying before this incredible déjà vu took over my intellect, mostly your instant vloids simply shriek their guts out & run‑‑they "bleat & bolt" as the bleating great bibles nodding at one another in their "radiant mirrorhalls of infinite simulitude encrore."  That last is from the passage I didn;t otherwise quote.  You may now return to your normal mental state, if you can find it. If you cannot find your normal state, please report to one of the endless lines forming in front of one of the Recessive Rows of Booths. Or read the following section.  Do not die moving from this section to the next.  That would be very bad.  That is a bad thought & one should definitelyu try not to have bad thoughts buzzing round like some sort of literary Fly Motif inside one;s head.  If you know what I mean. THE FIREANTS OF LIES Mostly your vloids just roar & run‑‑that's the biblical phrase for the change & the symbical phase for the crage‑‑but Dy acted quite different.  I could tell her hysteria‑‑an infinitude of panic approaching a virtual plasmic phase-change of personality, I would imagine‑‑had reflected right back inside, & lit up those pure & perfect machine insides, so that instead of shattering herself aganst the outer hide of the city (they "impale & immolate" as some of our darker texts shay), Dy just kept sticking her fingers‑‑& in the heat of the rill she had some wondrous fingers rising like boneless snake in the wafty air of a time-induced Yulivriaharian hallucination‑‑into her gut & getting little pokes.  I think she was squealing, or maybe screeching, as she did it, but the sounds were too high‑‑the sounds just burned out to the ozone clabbering out to the formulations of propositional preps, leaving just that smell of burnt oil burnt urnt oillio that capt'd you as a kid when you were bricked in your creative basement making great olfactory-plastic replicas of the fireants of lies but with no dimensionst to fly them to. I digress.  Traula had "flipp'd ope the lid" on her fine exterior.  She had (inadvertently?  through sinisnetr miraculos of post-post-timing?  vertently after many a long long lash of unblinkworth time plicking at the pizzes of the pussle that kept getting smaller as you probed kept getting smaller nor ye proob'd oya) twished the flister that autocoiled her fleshwraps, unfurling her skin like the peeling of an orange, but with urgency inserted ug-rent-cy em-zerb-ed where the pungency should be, revealing all the fine little signs, bouffons, slygraze, teensy embedded mad little signs sighing instructions in a great dark empausebedded (pauz) of time, flickering promptors, hairline doorvay watermark poorways, implosive microbolts & and & subliminal wiring that made Her Vloidness up. Amongst the infinite rills of our possibly-incestuous diminfoliative trip, Dy (she liked to be called by the blough of her verivers'd name) took it with her usual noneuclidean aplomb.  "Hm!" she liked to've say.  "Hm," she say, & "Hm," again she "Hm! Hm!" say, immediately fillupping opfen the door not-to-her-heart whilst I stood there (as always) infinitely more embarrassed(as always) than(as always) she, but to ger abdomen, always one of her prized parts. I could tell she was disappointed.  All subliminoids are disappointed when that voutong is fliqued & they reach with irrepressible curiosity‑‑sometimes I like to sometimes think even sometimes joy‑‑into their various sacs & vacuoles & cavitatious cavanities, not to mention crooks & nannies & cooks & rannies & zooks & zannies & blooks & blannies. Don't mention it. It: T seemed a bit lazy, a touch laid-back, a mite cooldown droozebowm swoozhraum bluesbaum & so simply bent her SUDDENLY SHINY HEAD down toward her INSTAN-TANT-MEQUALIIQUO BELLY & with her ben-trovat-o'rtistico savoir-flair flippippid openinenin the "gates to her blusty innerds," the "axe-ash & pauvage {to her} comely porticul, revealing the circuits of her gut. "Hm," etc.  They're always disappinted to see how much empty space there is.  I know I was.  I know I expected a solidity like apotato‑‑only a potate mechanique with an airless subterfuge, I mean centrifugue, I mean of robotikkito parts interstersed in hermetic, spudlike purity.  Perhaps I project.  I can do that.  Perhaps I do not.  I can not. I mean, I am able to not. She looked to be a genuine vloid.  In legalese: I fucking doubt it was a fucking ruse.  On two occasions saw I her remove her head & insert something‑‑once her finger, the other time an axiopen‑‑as if cleaning a conduit or scratching an itch.  She rubbed with great vigor & for a long time, her tongue, down on the head {???}, doing the DIGITAL EQUIVALENT of sticking out in concentration‑‑which was a Dy mannerism back when she had a tongue‑‑& she kept rubbing, as I said, for a long while‑‑certainly till I fainted.  Dy could never take her head off before.  In addition to the facial impossibility, she'd always been much too ladylike for that.  We were a civilized family‑‑inasmuch as a small colloquy of children nurtured in an energy-park by golden gnatlike personages could be called a family. "Congratulations, T‑‑it's a vloid!" I cry, trying to lighten up the lofty lit-up incandewscent moment with a little helium huermior. She looks at me, her plastomazic face even beautfler than herere, & bust into this big ol' country-girl grin, this earthmama force de joi if I may frenchagain risin' up raght thru her soles, this most solidly healthly fleshly womanly comely simper-a-blushly-fwum‑‑except for the flawless podiplastcel featureless gleam & the utter absence of facial features‑‑other than the aforementioned microemblems, paratokens, sublindicators, undutabers, smarmy datacrammed signals with their inkblack hairblot partedglop inbop thedrok middleblopt waving you thisaway & that. Away, along whiff the unCUELATICLAly bizarreickatilay sighticalilay of her erstwhile tappers of fended flesch bobbing drapeise in a popring round her exnex & in the form of nothing soughmough as a desiccant Phallarian serial daisykiller. But she was laughing, getting off, as they say, on the electrical zats & pingles of easing her long purely purefucked finkers into the electrickles of her suddunly undud gup.  & on the fact that she still could feel. I tried to help her peel the false flesh off, but she was too fast & agile for me. I tried to welcome her to the world of unrealized vloids, but she was there already. I tried briefing her, but she as I later lermed had something that hadn't been endweloped at the time I flamedought which prised her instantly, so she blunk her crystal eyes at me there suddenly knowing a whoale of a whitlot mobyglop lot more err than I had ever dud. So I let her brief me.  It was, methinks, a bond not never shared by none of nor sentients un unter off die altervoarolds. TRANCEYE No lattice formed because, so Dy disinformed me, her vloidfield knocks all the ieis out, so the air is filled with these ill-flying black marbles of broken ieis that still had the attitude of seeing everything, & so sent great torrents of lies flowing into the core of the Niloqunk berries or the nexus of the strexxlines bonding the fondly grazing steers of the bovine field of the astral city or somewhere in the mirrored innards of the Ideation Stacks, or whevrever all this information got to gnowing. So she slaps her abdomen shut (& that abdomen shines with the translucent vloidmetal science yet commences weeping in its very effort to begin to understand) & stands with her arms akimbo like the vision of Christ rising amongst the phosphor swamp-gasses to a height of 900 feet of phantasmagoric self-aggrandization, & sherears back her head, which in my trance(if you look closely you'll see a)my lips arenot moving to my wotrds but to someunimmmmmmmmagined huuming burr of verms just outside the smooth laving jacket of flow words in the glowfield of the jetstreams of your uxtly desires & b) my feet are several feet off floor & off duhfluor & aufdem flöör und off of all imagination there be of floral symphonies of floors exfloors super & suprafloors & floors gussied up in masks & costumery of superheroical  floors from the tales of floors in the supergalaxy of superfloors) I trance I tranceye recognize as one of her old gestures which now seem such out-molded unfathomably gauche outsiders. & the head, which never happened back in her organic days, & this bring sup up a bit of the old vloid-hysteria‑‑perfectly natrual, perfectly nomral, pefectly satanic you'll understandsomeday you'll under STAND as "A vloid!" she starts hollering‑‑by which I mean the head start hollering, even as she gropes for it on her hands & knees & picks it up & pauses very strangely ere putting it THE HEAD back on, as if someone or some wretched past memory of thing hath placed billions of periods between each word of her second... "A goddamned vloid!" she screams, her face aglow in a hush of color which, while utterly unhuanoid in the nomral sense of nonunhumivloid, I fall in love with, head or no head, stat. So she hoots out a bit, even as her "organic" registrations slipped with the relevation away, or slipped with revelation the away or slipped revelation with the away or revelation slipped with the away or slipped with the away revelation. "Little brother," she says, pushing me around & lifting me up & pushing my face back so it the face it FLUPZ inside out, which Ialways hate but giggle nervushly naougheoughw, "two things you have to know to survive to know what you can't help to survive to know: ONE: a vloid never sees it coming, no matter how obvious itizz.  Conspicuous vloidhood can be hanging out like the naked tatters of a skinless traimpt, with everyone laughing & doing vloid-imitastions & vloid-parodies (not the same thing) & vloid-parrotries & vloiduvular traffasties (same things) & pointing extensor fingers right up to the soft spot the soft spot between a vloider's knows‑‑& we remain pastoral Easter smiling vloido blivuous, right up until the end." & what determines the end are the actions of the blivovloid itself, we both thought together, smiling in the nod nod traceries of thought. & well, Dy's vloidhood or bloodhoid or hoidhud was not apparent to anyone.  We'd all piled up these snowballs of ultra-declarative attitude toward Dy.  None of us soar it coming, like that tiny emerald ship that hit the seven-breathed Kreexolykes right where they lived, & knocked all nocked ll ocked l seven breath ssaway from them or outerdem if you whoo!  TAPE OVER, PLEASE or FULFILLING THE GLOW A large Face of Rain comes into the room, filled with rag-soaked hangers-on, wet folks just here to see Dy & the floor bestrewn with blinded ieis like solidified bugs, & the narration flowing in uncertain cipheric terms behind & over & underneath my modifying head.  The onlookers lean on doorsills as Dy, leaning on her dorsal, describes Going Vloid in narrow little harrowing slices as of know unspertain turns. "I liked it," she said, nodding unconvincingly.  "Sure‑‑at first I felt dizzy, but it was relief, like a great shattered shard of a bloody great thorn being pulled so fleschelschly out.  & like a gorgeous, exfoliant, rather chi-chi halo forms itself around everything‑‑then another halo, then another.  Then more & more concentric halos, yellower & yellower, until your world is washed in halos."  She reached a peak of hysteria here, her trunk drawing up & her neck extended, her hyroid palpable vloid eyes© expressing the yellow with a goddam dusty beam of yellow.  Surprising, no?  A rich, dusty dusty beam from the unrememorable ancient palimpsests (that is, those were, the pasts behind the pasts we could only think about, but never had‑‑not that we could remember...), a beam that swept like a clanky superannuated spotlight licking the hungry stage for a star, but none found!  The beam in a permanent, frozen panic that drew you back to the eyes of the hurting robot, who then, after this affluent ascription, prepares in the whorls of her cosmos another cycle of speech. First she comes round, snaps to, completes the circuit of the universe reversing left & right, & now round the churchy glow of the sublte craft, & composes herself‑‑"composes" her "self" so much like an actress that the retro's back, & I realize she has always been acting, always an actress. "Tell us about the skin peeling off," says my longlost friend Scall, dripping & grey, yet still with his unearthly compulsion to shock. Skin peeling off, he says.  But Dy turns her arptliactuelated face toward him, & an eerie absence of drawn breath fills the weighty room. "It was more like chunks falling off," she said.  & I could see by the blue shift in Scall's plexus he was the one in shock all of a sudden. "It felt rather good," she went on (& was there, like, some sort of smirk on those metallic features?  Run tape over, please.)  "It felt suddenly necessary, in fact‑‑like scratching a green itch," (we have those here) now spitting her words out like little joltlets of static pricking your lips. "So you‑‑?" said Scall, while I gave little waves of wavery acknowledgement to him, his chest filled with a diamond glow & the complex map of the most complicated diamond in the world filling the glow surrounding the glow absorbing the glow fulfilling the glow. "I clawed it off," she said (a ruby glow flowering where the lips should be?).  "Yes, I clawed the chunks of my flesh right off.  It was fairly easy.  It was detaching itself anyway & falling in retarded time like cracked mountains of ice off the edges of the world." "I see." "Do you?  Of course I knew what was happening, but it seemed very funny to me‑‑like death was going to be, but will never be now.  So I was laughing my ass off & rolling, clawing off the flesh.  It was no longer mine, of course‑‑& this was all hilarious...but I wanted it gone, had to have it gone...Then I sort of forgot." "Forgot what?" "Everything‑‑who I was, my life, my memories.  All forgot‑‑sort of." Sort of?" Dy throbbed the lights of her eyes‑‑an action we came to perceive as thought. "Let's just say it was bottled off." "?" "All my memories, my life, my self‑‑all were sealed in like a bright ship in a perfect bottle.  My lives seem tiny & delicate to me now." & then, briefly, the feverish green band across her forehead‑‑a light we came to know as joy. I should point out to the tribunal that this is the first known case of a vloid staying to make a communication.  I speak, of course, not of the unopened later missives‑‑currently polycompressed in four-dimensional "cat's cradle" form‑‑& I might suggest that I‑‑given my close relationship to the absent vloid‑‑have a distinctly better chance to convey to you useful information about that work than the unfortunates who have been fished out of there so far. One would have to understand Dy's nature‑‑particularly her sense of humor & her cruel streaks‑‑not to mention the utter insanity that always subsisted within her.  In a way I share these things.  In a nice way‑‑& I submit to the glorious triple globes surrounding me that the inherent madness of this vloidodeo can be its undoing.  I have everything to gain by taking this risk‑‑& Uxtentse has mulch two game by letting me take it. Let me close my uhstatements by uh pointing out to you a small "sisterly communication."  I can hardly describe how I learned this‑‑not to you, who have known no bodies, whose minds catch not a whiff from the fevered jungles of the unconscious, & whose brilliance & weightless (dare I say beautiful) purity may in a sense cut them off from what my  lawyer says to tell you is "ahemthe diseased corporate knowledge" of your fleshly thralls (which she told me not to say). The vloids are taking notes. They are information samplers sent back from future versions of ourselves existing for all expressible purposes at the end of time.  Personally, I think this is rather interesting, if not really interesting.  I picked it up purely from the power of my long & perverse relationship with my missing twin, or purged twin, or delusive twin, or quasi-dead deadtwin‑‑or whatever polymorphous version of my sister you wish to collapse from the multiple, contradictory versions of her that exist simultaneously till the clumsy "paws of perception" collapse them into certainty. & I wish I could tell you‑‑O, warm & luminous rubbings of my restless infinite sleep‑‑that these retro-notetakers are harmless to us here.  But the same tainted visions that have told me the nature of vloids states as clearly as a cold grip on your loins ("go" with me on this one, marsters) that they could, for reasons best expressed in constrictive (bursting at their seams with meanings a bad deal lustier than those we can eke forth under this lethal, agonizing pressure of time) words as a manic lark‑‑invade/ Yes, I rather think there will be, if I may, a sudden onslaughter of vloids, & keep in mind this assault would happen in literally ntimeatal. & yes, it's because of me.  Let me hastily admit I am more desarving of your bloody punicumonts than any "paravloid" who has gone before {desurg-skinned...dipped in the purple fluids...reduced to screaming digits...} But I, to use an hoary flesh metaphor, can save your glassy asses. You see, I injected my twin, just as she did me‑‑infected her even more in her vloidhood than I could before, infected her insanely receptive vloid mentality with a sense of us, of a "life" in "time," you don't want them to have. We are in a terrible fix here, & there is at once no time & all time to lose.  You better send me into the magnified sickness of my sister's mind‑‑the madness only I can live in.  Yes, I'm bargaining.  Yes, it's my only chance. But after all, it may be the juiciest punishment you could do me.  & I might come back.  I might have something for you.  Dream on it a while, my frosty friends. PHOAMY PHORMULATIONS Through a small fissure in time, I find myself hiding out, having piped myself into the verticon, a sort of bubble-bath of fancy fantasies simp'ring in convex fashion from their billion phoamey phormulations. "Your sister's gone vloid." "Flimsy little trick, pal!" I said through the endless baffles, shades, polyplanar tubules, & glistening microbolts of my verticon helmet.   Scall‑‑in from the rain of time‑‑had not changed.  He was always trying to pull me out of the verticon, perhoas because I was always in the verticon.  At this point in the trip myhelmet was excited over what it was doing to me in the dense, sparking fluid of the purple room.  It had called down a lot of mass‑‑it was much much bigger than me.  I knew this because 1) for some perfect, lost reason the verticon‑‑in the midst of its millenial dreams, in which one shares the consciousness of incredibly complex, fictive races, all the vert's variations & the verts's variations's & charicaturations & elbaorations on one (1) lonely neuron of your brainiant (or sylizit of your udren, or brexet of your texerb, or forl of your trimakitamirong, or {cipher} of whatever {unit} you used to make organic thought thought thought‑‑& I say that with triple sincerity)‑‑projected or did project this grubby, grainy, snowy, whoompy little black-and-white (!) injection of your actual, floating, physical status in the world...if goobing in the plupul-dens eight hundred miles below the insane grey complexities of SubCity Tren for weekless months on end till your memory tubes glow like dismal embers of a lost rainforest fire can be called status, or thought to relate to the physical world; & 2)  Scall was helpfully beaming a very high-energy tresslewite image of me in the tank, looking like some swolt-headed doll, my legs kicking like lilies in the royal goo the azure goo the navy goo the purple boo.   So I saw myself in reality, all right? I made a vow to tweak the little prick, or at least swat the little twer, or maybe swinge the liggle gurt or blim the diddle furt if I ever woke up (that's the way waking up occuirs in the vert.  It's the big "always if" hanging just above your giddy sightline like some deep subjunctie hurt). We some of us we thought the verts were broken, that that little two-inch tube in a nagging corner of one's fantastic eye was the crack that would destroy all this highfalutin fun someday. It sure made us dream much harder. But it was more likely the smallest possible anchor or grounding wire, placed quite carefully there by whatever careful devils built the things. So I was having some hefty dasmned dreams there.  I had relaxed into the goop of delusion so deeply it didn't seem my partner was going to trick me out with one of his compulsive little tics, I mean tricks.  Hell, Scall was a Endrogonaum‑‑frail, shortlived, sharper than hell, & pretty much unable to refrain from draining the fluids of my fullflowing dream. Scall's every move was as refined & studied as a move in dimensional strexx (whexx is this game we have that I hate we have that I hate.  We have), which meant he has many more moves to make.  It was a battle between my tenacious little pal & the alien vert.  I confess I was rather interested in how this fight would go. But this was different.  This was some sort of desperate shock, both of the gorgeous sentient races of musician-warriers I was containing & embodying almost orgasmically & developing into soft growths megapregnantly dissolving like flupelets vurping down a cosmogonic drain‑‑during the awful swiftness of which I decided thirteen times I would kill the bony chit. With an abysmally toilet-like gurgle & a last, drainlicking bloop, I lay on the metal floor with a Rube Goldberg clantanceration of a helmet way too big for my cerebrum tilting like a worn-out hat, half coveirng my moistened face, & I sprawled there rather like a bug in an awesome gravity. Scall crouched beside me, waititng for my infantile grief to pass. I will not describe my infantile grief for your delectation or submit it for your puerile adjudication.  I do not wish, for the sake of my story, to descirbe the shrill & hideous bawling sounds ratcheting round the echoes of the metal room or the metoles of the echog groome or the rettles of the fetchole gloomb, nor the gross ugh incontinence, nor the kicking nor the flailing of limbs‑‑nor any of the other intense physiological reactions this disjointure of soul brought.  But even then‑‑in the squalls I shan't describe‑‑I knew this was most unlike Scall.  This was not some game of Scall's.  This was an emergency. & I gradually recalled what an "emergency" was.  I grew up, fumbled with the massy hat, & SCall pulled it off with a pop & a last few drips of fantasy (which I, in fantasy, licked up like a cokefreak raiding the grain-strewn urinal, abased & feeling like a giddy god). "Hi," he said. "What did you say?" "'Hi.'" "No...no...before that.  What'd you say before that?  Good to see you again, by the way." Scall nodded very slowly, giving me time to indicate another thing I won't describe: the distinctive slurrings or slurlings of speech or sleechph for which no mutant vowels will do do do.  So don't wait for that, please. Scall was coruching next to me, & he paused for a minute, as if absently studying the metal floor.  He touched his fingers to it & sighed. "Dyovylid," he said.  "She's recidivated.  Her skin is gone.  She's a vloid." A few negative black minutes here, none of which is wholesome eough to count as time... "Go one!" I said weakly, but Scall cut that exchange short by grasping my arm.  Scall had never grasped my arm, nor touched me, nor touched anyone, so far as I knew. "It would be one of her tricks, or a game, or some new work..." I mumbled on, at which Scall squeezed my arm several more times. "No.  It's certified.  It's real.  Your sister has reverted.  She's a viraloidio-dio." "Well I'll be domed," I said brightly, & we both writhed arounds in the hollow room, filling it again & again with hysterical laughter. UNSPEAKABLE FRENCH WORMS OF THE GRAND FRENCHWORM ARMORY Ah, the veritcon!  It pulls on the tight-fitting metaphor like the simile of a form-fitting gown, preens, pouts, & pirouettes, & lies revealed as a shallow puddle of mud, in which I have uh apparently been wallowing, into which I pull my waddling friend Scall who cried like the true friend he cries like the true friend he be like to cries, "Naww!" but he giggles in fulfillment like the small child running from his tormentors knowing they will catch him when they want, & then do what they want, & then... We were exploring the knowledge of the verticon.  We were like two filthy urchins in the infinite Borgesian stacks of the so-called soi-distant distantly misted emerald towers of the Straight Knowledge or White Information section of the verticon‑‑the section, they say, which may be Uxtentsian history back to the first burble of infantile myth, or maybe just more of the fantasy we postmodern ux like to squirm through like those unspeakable French worms of the Grand Frenchworm Armory. Ah! the ivory stacks! the light yellowed as a scholar's eye, the air dandered up with the dust of a billion infinite books () comprised of brilliantly euphoric little pixel-stars going nova one by one but, for the nonce & up there in the macrononce imitating these tattered but opulently bound old books featuring ripplingly inked letters wearing hats like hooks & posturing in insane egotistical displays of self-illumination, especially at the margins of their verge & the versionds of their words not to mention the (gold lettering indicating a truth once thought so ineluctably immutable she could shut up a million monks in polyfuracted gravity-defying Escherian tiers while smilingh quietly to herself indicating to herself the ascendant letters she wanted to shine with the force of her Moste Truthefulle Charismannima). & as my old pal Scall & I burrowed & wormed & in essence ate our way through these pleasurable pages, the books got smaller & the lett'ring finally to a primate fineness indicating some essential chasm of mind andwhenIsaymindImeanpast byond wish we could pinch up our faces to a very minute little screw & still find the flatus crox our ieis quite unsussable. So I can say with both truth & dignity‑‑but not at the same time of course‑‑that the first recorded vloid was the impertinent Doyy Barismul back, if this is possible, in Daadaasmo -266 (!), a date to conjure bye, back when Ux was basically a rock streambank & my fellow Ux these flexible animals burying their faces in the wetness, which must back then have been unthinkably pure. But Doyy himself, or itself‑‑who could barely stop talking before they removed his head forever head‑‑spoke of a long series of vloids before him, acted & spoke inasmuch as we can wash the dried primal mud of the verticon off the silver statues of his words, preserved in their oscilloscopic grandiloquent verismilitude, thoug I at least got the connotation (of which Scall swore the bastard that he got nary smuch as a murf) that these earlier vloids got smaller & smaller, much liethe books of lying life we were immersed in strife. So we crowded into the tunnels of knowledge that represented Doyy's mind.  We were staring white-faced & wetfaced, looking into the tiny screen that was the early gistory of vloid, or protovloid, urvloid. "You'd better not go any further in," whspered Scall.  He could see I was thinking of making myself smaller & going in further, back to where the tunnel of knowledge wormed down to nothing, to a virtual thread, & an infinite series of eies (& the ieis within ieis that take down in shorthand everything the greater ieis see, & the rumors of virus-ieis within these) would follow me down, each scriving a great mass epic of a poem about my journey. "I dunno," I say with false speculaiety, which is rather like the lie of speculative gaiety, which was the false light of knowledge our pretty pass had gone unto.  "Might be a good plot move." Scall says nothing but is thinking of shaking his head. "Face it," he finally says, but I notice many fissures of his face & many interference waves of face & much of the etheric pale ectoplasmeric essence of his face flows into the little screen, so his voice as I quiotye his voic is a nest of inaudle quite, a nest of inaudible quotes.  "Vloids go back forever.  They go back as far as the uxtentse do." The Book of Vloid says, "Once every thousand years there comes a vloid," whereupon everyone in the city, its frabrics broken like a substance of a sublte wing, slowly groze more brittlely mad & comes upon & kills the vloid, didmembers the vloid, chucks the vloid (possible apocyphal) into a humid old dismal-mucky vat, the VloidVlat©, & lets those piecemeal portions of what-one-was vloid descend to the uxtentse core. Poppycock!  & yet so... DISORG CONVERSION LESION Meanwhile Dy was still making operatic appearances, humid with make-up in a dripsy dalurreal style, seeming fat & luggy & loud, & seen trying "various techniques for destroying herself"‑‑another diamondrive vloid compultchion‑‑all with the same amusing results, just enough to engage your lips in a smarmy smirk or a quirky blurk, not enough to cause the sort of howling, keeldover gutrunching roars that habitualy split us with amusement two (another common frame for vloidself diskovery, as when their topholf flops to see the grunks still gurbling, & the sudden Disorg Conversion Lesion comqurrs). She tried a great fling into the acid vats, which led to a furious bubbling, like a a child's great mouth working giant in its rage, & a great dissolutive fuss about nothing, what with acid versions of my sister eating themselves away & going on in the forum of pheumes to eat away in our blind minds various onions of her, so she emerged if anything more vloid than ever, too pure to see, so she waltzed freely for a while,. in vis I ble. Dy waltzed wherever she go, from one suicide to the next.  & she sucked me in, did my sucky schvester, wrapping me in the nexusless degree of her polyfantasy like nothing so much as a schwested-schveater of finest thistlwdown silked from the meauing maw of the Illucidora-werm, & with a pattern of puzzled faces molting in the exfroth of their own bad designs they are being punished for, serving as they do as faces on a sweater smooth as the seamless bark of the everfalling neverheard nonexistent suppositional sungervlush tree.  Dy kept reapprearing in disguises which apparently looked perfect to even the sharpest ieis of the city‑‑I'm talking, or am about to begin to be talking anyway, about those yard-wide suckers humming in peculiar orbits like comets of inisght & acumen around KEK the central filament & singing hyperxonically, 'We are the eyes of KEK, the instruments of KEK the vision of the visions of KEK, with the look & the attitude I must say "'The attitude'‑‑There, I've said it" that they can warp absolutely anything inot view. But nobody saw her.  Perhpas they loved her too much, except you can jolly well EAT THAT THEORY‑‑GO AHEAD!  GO THOU, & EAT THAT THEORY!‑‑because her disguises looked pathetic to me, mostly a sad master I meand bad madder of a outsided lopsided green moustache slapped over a great glowing plastic gnoze & with clownsfeet  to match. "Oh my God, Sis!: I'd hiss, cracking about for somewhere to stuff her in.  But she'd giggle, grab me by the elbow so hard I went through a hundred dozen elbows in that period, rip off the flesh she'd put on that was fooling the townsfolk zo, & go into another of her new series of Suicide Shows. & suicide she tried.  She tried some of that grey explosive stuff you find everywhere.  She skinny-dipped the plasma balls with the faces in them that somehow fail to heat the city‑‑hence the cold swamps, the haunted, frightened trees, the need & the constant nighttime hunger for more plasma balls, to the tune of the video that goes to the racial tune in our head telling us we once had fireballs on commance, possibly pastel robots (possibly vloids in aprons!) possibly a government, etc.  Those fireballs made my sister glow to the point of blindness.  We were all blind for a long long time after that, exceptt for me, of course, since I would deign to watch none of her stunts. "I deign to watch none of your spumps!" I'd say, but she could never hear me, immersed as she was as my didter does in her mighty self-destructive romps (whomps the ieis recorded & would play‑‑for their own round delectation, immersed in the iei-field surrounding them circumfrentially, at one another, inot the air above the city to create great maxx lumiforms© intersecting like etheric menisces in the incredibly weird & runaway adjectival air over the heads of th headless (blind) city). ALEATORY REASONS OF RANDOMITY BROODING ARTIST REVEALED AS VLOID!  SHE'S A BLOODING BROID!  DY A DISORG: ARTWORLS AGHASP.  SPONGRUFT UFCOMING? & so on.  Then with the dark wave of a magician's hand she disappeared‑‑with everyone watching the little pillbox she'd reduce into every night within night within night (each night within night within night a separate color, from a spectrum withing the spectrum of the night within night before, as the pampered, lonely artist pampered by her very cruel loneliness pampers her to sleep within wleep within sleep), suddenly nothing come out.  Not even the dust of vloid gruftation (one vloid in a thousand‑‑some say one vloid in a million‑‑'s equipped for unknown possibly aleatory reasons of randomity to spongruft (sweet woard never saids nor known to exist as ananyword!), so she wasn't ona doze. They shook the little white box & peered within.  They sent me in.  They pushed me foricbly in to a enxpace I'd've died to go in but for my utter repugnance ever to go therein. "Do wum ghere," I reported, just as they'd feared. That's where I became a big fan.  This is where I started following down les clues, projecting & extrapolating with the help of rabiconic omputiteurs (O mighty thomuagchhtines!) the in absentia work I could see she was worpin gon. IMPENITRABLE POLYGOOP Uxtentse‑‑city, dome, city-dome, shittydrome‑‑was always plumping to be the "Crystal Dome of the Universe," but this basically shows you why we were regarded as crazy.  Barely 400,000 ganeekaberqs acrost, Bomer was made of that contraband, impentribable polygoop ("hot goop" or "hotgoop" or hopgoot or hokgooque or polygloop or one or another of any or the other of 125 or suther combinationzruther ofruther) they mined from that desolate ring of artificial powder wobbling in eccentric eternality round the mindless spine of that gnomestace spar whom the Dyuggulents call Nevin, so cheap it was profitable. Sometimes I talk too much.  I am working on this.  I'm sorry.  I just switched. I just switched to another personality for whom writing is possible & shall have to stop for now.   Author stops     Now back to our story.  Really, everything is OK.  You just feel funny because you just feel funny, as the kids would say back in the time of kids or the Time of Children.  Anyway, you just feel funny because of the system crash (system crash (system crash (system crash).  Now back to our story. You just feel funny because of the system crash back there.  Are you OK?  Please don't die.  Please don't die while reading this, gentle reader.  I would feel terrible, even though I've been dead for   Author of this book has been dead for: ___________________________________ This makes your reading of The Vloid different from everybody else's!!!     Author DOB: 7/25/1948.  Thanks for your cooperation.  Now back to our story. We did have quite a monstruous compolymergation of interloping concetrodomes, if such furcative interstitions at such hopelessly endeocentric angles can be called whatever it is I tried despite this very swaad case of the twenty-four hour neologumps to say despite to say, & that I suppose made our city some kind of awful wonder. I mean, instead of a golden glossy or silvery crimped or even tin-drumped firmament arching high oer our aching city, we had polyfractive spheroid segments, untoward interstices, various pockets of various gasses enjoying the Variegated Specialness of the Ionizations drawing Said Airs to Said Airs to Said Pockets to Unsaid Pockets with a consequerntly messy sky, I mean consequently, aka the Messy Skies of Negzi or the Yssem Seiks of Izgen.  NO wonder THE WONDERLESS KIDS (LIKE ME & DY) are not allowed to see the sky till decades after born, & no wonder the view of the city sky is the punishment for repeated misdemenaors irritating the godlike albeit wobbling spheres full of brainiants full of spheres of brainiants of bubble imagery of spheres that run this gross unsightly show.  No wonders, uh? So our attitude toward the appointments of our city earned him mad, while his paranoid engineering served in wipewhys as etiology, see, of the madness ascribed (unfairly, I think when I can think unfairly think I can) to the billion citizens therein. Precisely one billion citizens, yes.  Somehow‑‑despite a a a positively liquid birth of rate‑‑they kept it that way.  Or they lied about the numbers, as some (now dead) say (now said).  Or they were deceived.  Or numbers in this sector schmooze like dream numbers through his his oer her ohm alphabet of iconogravic dreams if I may finally coign a faze. So we're precise in a dreamlike way, clean in a diseased sort of manner, mad in steelyeye dwise, busy in an unemployed guise, dead in a thin surmise. @@@@ That dangeorus or really dangerous sky I mentioned's only visible from the sky, so from anything other than the sky the sky's a modulating screen of grey-grey-grey lovelily laced with the fancyschmancy faporails of our vapred zayicles, the soft-smokey dragons we vafor vor vlight.  You see infinite little dots up there, inlidots up there which force you to think, tothink Just think‑‑each one of those's dots a jerk, I mean an Izgenk, Anizgenk being what we call one another, oneother whilst simultaneously denying the name to ourselves, tourselves we think, Xink: each vapor trails resents I meant reantwezemps a life, an individiated Izgenk-not-me life, lf if you can call these trialings life trailings these call can you if life think (by various degleeze)! Pardon me. BRISTLE SHIVERY or GOOD FICTION or A TEAR WITHIN THE FLUENCY OF TEARS Into this stylish city, vapor'd with pinkish atmospheres, I went, nary a thought in my Dostoyevskian head. I went to our own Nent University, where chromey minds conglobed in suppuration of surplux gryxtals of arcane metagnolysis, facts sop small they made you smaller with them. "I'm on the Dyovylid MoVaque KaVase," I told Professor Varf.  With brittle chivalry, not to be mistaken for bristle shivery, the silent, cheery Bystle Thivery, Professial Eterminus formerly of the formless Oevuniverities (Poly) oev Traulapolyeu, his white-ponpon-white-featurelets eggastercated by the euph-helmesch over his by-now severely minudesst head & paled & pale light dilated eyewash of poolbloogroon by the ophorescent fluids bathing features way too musch two amMPLIpli tu'ed by the Oemiversity's amphetamine sun, Zeedphraoke (a hysterical, embittered white dwarf with suspiciously tinges-ly-blue lybluoo, so consarned rashly wild & flaring sans reck that maybe half the faculty sport these bubbblebubbulated frischbowl deads) embloabs me in this Ameboid Comfort Chair, technically a sofa or a love-seat, as it's linked with his on this plasmic span, & after a little start I settle down. "'The Dyovylid MoVaque KaVase,'" he quopes, & it takes me seven excised pi-portion shapes of time slowly clabbered down mit Milch ere I een rmeotely I mean remotely successful at getting to the rippling shores of getting to the edge of the rippling phosphorescent shores at the edge of the forest-state of being used to the circuitious sensate flowing of his voie is oice s ice ce e (f t lf t 't p elf st n't lp self ust an't elp yself I just can't help myself, OK?) blubbled round, as it wore, through many a fat & friendly tube waving like the great manifold loombing tubes of the "breathing legs" of the classy albino Ettrafraze (now sadly dexsitnctly adverbly enstinct) looped invivily in the textured air throughout the prof's most bookish rooms. Fucking syntax.  Now where was I?  In that chair, yes, with a gigantic bponer & reacting all over the place to Eterminus here‑‑bit of a character, no? "Yes.  What can you tell me about vloidery?" Here the Proflescious cackles into himself like the powdered old crone frozen to dust up on Agnes' Eave, & I stare from the safety of my love-fiery chair as the geezer's face collapses in upin itsinuponitsself like onadem "spent & rivelled puffbalz" of Azzuer, to the point here point there point where he bubbles the fluids of his tinted fasce. Let me take a moment here to confess that I have this effect on everybody.  I have always tended to make people laugh, & this quality has grown & burgeoned as if itself amused by the "cumulated autocaws of its own effects," if I might wax a tad poetic, to the point where I constantly crack people up.  This has played hob with my job as a cob, I mean pled hop with my jop as a cop, or rather, plague hog with my jog as a cog.  I've lost many iwtnesses this way, because a fair percentage (I will not forty-two-percent underbreath say) or a fiar placentage of your space razes up & DIE when you make them laugh.  So you can imagine Imagine here: & what I wanted to confess while the prof's resucitated hear is that I was beginning to worry I was myself a disgusting vloid. Scene deleted in which author wax a tad poetic.  Author served serious jail time for this, & the tad was pretty much all right. The point being the scene is deleted, the sex is all gone, the children are safe, should they ever come back. Now they say whosay allsay that if you think you're going to go vloid you will not gl vloid, to wish I say "Hooey!"  There, I've said it.  The dread spirits of hooey are gone now, & I feel nothing, which is not to say better, which is I relaize to say nothing, feeling better. Everyone worries they's a vloid.  Everyone who hasn't gone vloid.  Casting one's mind not only back but off to the parallel flanks of emplaussible time, I would say it's analogous to your "plague of aids" or to one of the virages inhabiting your compulers, OK?  Except we are a good deal of a great edible arabesque painted Eastershaped Viking egg less rational than you, as vloidery (ha HA ha ha) is infinitesimally rare‑‑some unknown bioprickster((')(s')) or mechaniquetranquster((')(s')) joke on these once-great races of fiction or fictions of fantasy or confections of verbosity or viruses if you well of words. Prentheses in the preceding paragrapg compliments of Prenthesis Guy, just one of the friends in my Imaginary City Imaginary City Imaginary City Imaginary City. Q:  Why the reps? KIRK (raised from the dead, molecules put back together, but still looking more or less like a wad of rubber cement, obviously in a very bad mood at this heinous awakening, forced by his own hand to return forever to the text of his own creation, forced to look like a wad of rubber cement & feel even more like shit than when he was alive, this little guy):  Yeawell, it was a ritual.  It's a ritual. Q:  Saying it several times? K:  Saying it a certain number of times.  Typing it several times.  Little ritual to the Divine there, Gentle Kapha Reader. Scene deleted in which author grabs reader's ass.  Part of author writing this apologizes for part of authoir whioch did this.  Part of author will kill this part of author. Pause while Part of Author kill Part of Author.  Now back to our story. What story?  So the Proposeur laughs for a long time‑‑right to the point of death‑‑then comes back, his head reemerging from the hole all aglowel, & inevitably repeats what I said, all beeamily bemirthed. "'Vloidery,' ay?  Vloidery.  Vloidery vloidery vloidery..." "Yeswell you made a study of this, yes?" The way I threw in that yes also amuses him, but I am mercislessly exising all his yeses just as the names tales existences of vloids are mercislessly cut out from the tissues of the worls. "Yes.  From the first known vloid‑‑Angrew Brossomb‑‑whose arm felled off during a conversation at table in the refectory of the Order of the Mumm back in 141.2.423.14." Pretty good memory, I thought, though I was later to find he was making it up.  I mean, he was trying to be nice & straightforward & acholarly, but it just wasn't there.  So‑‑high on his prosthetics‑‑he put it there.  But it was good fiction, as we in this "worl of loose truth" say.  It had the appropriate cast or mold. I jotted this down & said, "Is it true that no vloid has lived more than two years from the moent of its...vloidhood?" Bloodhood, too, proved trop amusant. "Not quite true," he spung, then detailed rare cases where the vloid had been kept, forcibly kept, "alive" or functional. "OK.  Is it true that...this state of of of...vloidosity {rich elations here} is undetectable in its latency‑‑as, say, through bioexamination or refractology or chemozzity or the like?" "Beauitfully said, yong man," he said, drying a tear within the fluency of tears. "No," he went on, rubbing the portion of the bowrtion where his chortion would borshee.  "I mean yes‑‑tis true.  Stop chuckling there, young man.  I come from the time of a different language when {lotta old-dude raping here, gracefully excised with a gracefull gly offglide}. "It is absolutely undeteactable except by the Addreondelay Technique, which as you know ha ha ha ha destroys the subject, & is hence only theorietically i.e. as you say hee hee conditionally appliocable as a prophylactic measure." "And we don't want that," I said in quiet horror, & we sat there, bobbing silently & sobbing bilently & wobbing twilently & swobbing pilently, agreeing at the horror of the said technique, which proved later to be a complete fabrication, the true designation & I'm not making this shit up being the Ixxittupullatt Routine, employed only in laboratory vats & not even in real vats at that but only in vats within the fierce fantasies of omputiteurs, & not even in real omputiteurs neither, but only in "sneither omputiteurs" within the real omputiteurs, or some dense regions of reference back back back.  But it would have killed the subject, not doubt about that.  Even performed on, say, samples of flesh, or cellular dresh, or een in sneither omputiteurs within bloodly sneither omputiteurs you get the picture somehow tended to kill the hosts. "Undetactable," in my notes did I wrote.  A nasty sort of parallel indeed to your cogitonic virages of AIGE, no?  Yes no? SUCCESSION OF THE FOREGOING THINGS or THE INSECT WARS Uh...I'd like to show you some slides... Dy's art was Fleischarp™, the art of intricately growing bioforms, lumescent bodythings arrayed in connecting tunnels, tissueplanes, euphorically bright & I MEAN BR!GHT neurocogs exciting you down labyrinthine pathways, forming K-crafted thoughts that thoughts that thought themselves, so you entered the rather big big (iei-eienhanced) personalities of these thoughts to become, as it were, one of their thoughts, wherein you meet other "thoughts" who turn out to be other people who turn out or seemout to be friends that you had all along, that onlyDythe fleischeuse gezundheit led you to. & as time went on she led us to crazier & crazier thoughts (I mean thoughts we were having while existing in ISOTIME© as the thoughts of her great metacrafted thoughts)‑‑thoughts dreams images somnabula (part of her Somnamula Series) that were, everyone agreed, getting out of hand. It was those silver insect nests she evolved toward that particularly dsgusted us & messed our minds, particularly tipping each particulate sentient right oer the scale (except for the insect races in their insext rages, of course, leading of course of course to the Insect Wars, extermination (not genocide), termination on top of exocide, exogenesis, huge etheric pestilential debts go on... But we could not stop.  We could not stop her & we could not stop.  We were in love not with her art or her thoughts or her creations but with the brilliance of it (a profound wekaness of the races in this corner here here here).  Yea, it seemed what we'd all wanted to dream of before‑‑something so intense & extreme it would lead us out of this endless end-of-living endtime timeless time. Then The Vloid Thing, first thought to be some new fleischarp, then thought to be some artist's hysterical simulacrum of suicide, then thought to be a fluke‑‑then thought each one of the foregoing things in succession of the fourgong stings & then thoguth tme all togther, & then thought none of thebove, & then the sequential series again...which is the way we are thought-to-thought thought to thought... In retrospect, this suggested something radiaclly alarming.  It suggested that vloids had hearts‑‑extrapolating: that vloids were built from a biologic core featuring hearts, where the sound of hearts is understood as a living orgonical soul, possibly explaining their apparently virtuallt pure organic nature, up until their skin peel zoff in formaldehideous seethes & they stand (or sit) there gleaming in perfect plasticuity. "Tott, wake up!  Little Tott‑‑you are to catch Dy MoVaque & revoke her heart." The orders come down to catch Kircha & discontex her heart.  It was understood I would understood what was understood by discontex when the time comunderstuud. The vloid phenomenon goes so far back in the meory banks the computers have as the nerds say "faded it out," i.e., the computers themselves have lost interest.  This is a phenomenon of time going back too far; it cannot apparently be solved technically, but only by trying to keept the computers' interest up, by trying to get them involved. The orders come down automatically.  All laws, all enforcement, pnishment, rewards, etc. are handled by those fierce little ieis," I keep trying to desgribe.  They woke me up, downloaded some stuff into me, fit me up with this nifty LIGHTUNIFORM, & sent me off. It seems inappropriate, to assign one so inarticulate as I to chase Dy down... But I put on my uniform‑‑& WHAT A UNIFORM! The second I fall in love I deactivate my partner & chuck him in my pocket.  I little realize my little partner's functioning as a recording device. The poets all ply their fairy harps & sing how I was instantly ierced & led through the nose by Dyovylid, who was no one's conception of preety but mine.  I think the gullible public in general was deceived by the stunned I mean stunning series of slave costumes I wore (that's over my uniform, so they the slavezoots kept on byorning orph), with the leather collars & binding face masks & white ropes bulging my fleshes into deliciously humiliating shapes (making it hard to hop around!) & the red ball lodged in my mouth (which waas  no ordinary red ball: it sent out messages, signals, rays...I believe it may indeed have communicated with‑‑you know who) & the little clips adhatched to minaples & the warm sun upon the flesh of the longlimbed little children who played on the matterless metaphoric beaches of my Italian loving or is it living heart.  But I will admit I was sweet on her, attached to her (surgically for a while; chronically for a time; astrally for a sigh; mindless for a why), exaggerbations notnotnotmythstandinginginging.  Partly I think these stories teemed or steemed or sweamed from her "formlessly arrogant air" or flawlessly vainglorox haughtaire.  Just a thought, eased out like a turd on the prison floor... I went with Dyovylid into Dy's former pillbox house.  The crowd cheers me ("They're cheering the uniform," I uniform her.) The white halls slide us inward in an endless spiral.  It's exciting, then boring, then oddly soothing, then then then downright fucking spiritual.  'She had the longest hall of al," * informs me laconically as we slide down slide by slide. Inside, * flips a switch that stops time ("Why'd you do that?") followed by a big greasy seduction‑‑excuse me, refined-oil seduction.  We chase one another round, getting slicked up, romping, making love throughout her sister's house.  We find a stowaway‑‑the weed-hiding drone, *. I report by muttering to myself.  "I'm sure she's been reflesched," I mutter my report in my report.  The mutter causes my perfect black eyes to rotate surreptitiousaly.  People gimme a wide berth like a ship slithing through the black ichorvattors of Eethe. It is feared she'll "reflesch" "suc'cess'fully."  No known vloid nor gnomebroid has successfull reflesched, gotten the sagging nuvofelsch to take, to grow, to goddma stay on.  Unfortunately, Dy's metier might make her the first.  The entire idea makes everyone nervous, that's all... @@    ROYAL SNOWFLAKES TOO or LIKE YOU} THE DEAD I hunched moist & naked in Quuque!, the first girlish fleischwork that got her all the attention, consisting of bristling white hallways‑‑of all sizes, some barely wide as your squinting eye, even the largest too wide for comfort & too low to walk down‑‑at once firm & membranous, becoming increasingly bright the farther they got, & each mesmerizing, as if each path led you to tunnel of light that stunned bodies dipped in death still babble about, so you generally spent your time bustling through the great eye-filled central coelum like a bagoon bug botting borck & fath, or like some Waweeweeneeun peeping tum working your lather into a sweat squouching & cratting & working into the ferventive fever for whichDywas instantly notorious. "More fever!" like children said they would say, so she would follow down her kinkily inevitable way with the dizzying Cerebrum of Snow‑‑astoundingly accomplished for a little girl‑‑in which the air of the atmopsheric skull you found yourself quaking in has been liquidfied into this brainiantless aquamarine jam (was this helium? some compound of azure snow, falling in torn flakes like the wakes of perfect idiocy?) such royal snowflakes, too, very quickly (but not instantly, you'll notice.  This is precisely the sort of small refinement or int-perceptible mininstance as it came with bragadocchio trump to behonk itself that at first marked her fleishcverk‑‑till a) she changed the texture of her every unpredictable detail & b) a thousand lesser fleischverkers groused to their jealous selves how they could seed forth such jots & tittles too, so it became commonplace as the bionironic miniflares flustring forth in the stressed urgency of your knuckle-buffed early morning eyes) causing a numbness which pre cise ly 50% of the gested (or the ingested or thingested or thinguests or inguestead or {my special favorite like you} the dead standing at the turn of the dusky stairs trying to figure what this cold heartbreak meant) found comforting & pleasureable, 25% found eventless & impressurable, 12.5% found relentless & immeasurable, 6.25% found restless & incredible, 3.125% found feckless & indelible, & 3.125% amongst whoomp I believe I recount myshelve found discomfiting & treasurable.  But we mostly agreed those were beautiful flakes, big enough to crush you but just kissing you ("With just the right amount," said critic Bazeel Baywray just before being crushed, "of irony to nip your catty flesch," though autopsies discovered him to be mad to have been mad or having been being mad), leaving you in a sort of a state of sort of frigid love the best they could call it then, though many larger, stronger, fresher, more genetically accurate words have been evolved within the greatcloudy laboratories of words since then & lost since when. & after Snow a whole constellation of stunners. Anyway, of course they were being creamted one by one‑‑a big broadcast of the delirious worls with gatherings, celebrations, & group popscorns & most likely bets being taken on what would happen when these "monstrosities" as they were suddenly known were sliced & confined I mean consighed to the fliers‑‑but there was a movement afoot (& when I say movement I mean a subtle flutter of the unmediated thoughts of most everyone which might change everything, might even force the Timecusters to go back in their painstakinged anal-crochadian wrays & try their best to clean up the whole messy polyfurcitative dizzplay, & that's why I say movement so infrequentedlay) to save the more pristine, less disturbing early works‑‑a movement which I'd say didn't stand a chance, except you never quite know‑‑& so I was crouching in Quuque! as a way of gathering not so much my thoughts as hers. Besides, it was a chance to sit around naked, without that bristling silly uniform on. A crowd stood round outside‑‑not Dy's fans but mine.  This was for me unprecedentedly weird, so in I hid whist at the endst of the warehouseanst hall distant, inebriative cheers did zound as monumental strips of her late-late "insect fleish" were fed into a deliriously lovely but perfectly contain edfire. But they knew I was barenaked there IF ONE CAN FANCY THE FLESCHES OF THE YEGG "Who this little girl?" they cried‑‑& when I say they I mean we, in the form of undeniably crying ubiqutiuskilous IYIS which forgive us were our florm of medial, our internexial comcommunicatifflisch interdividivenst allocation, our bube-toob or bob-tub or blob-blub or tobtuub if ye zwell.  "Who she?" we decopulate didingly. & off this prodigy did went.  Nothing could stop her nor did nothing not detry, as she "floumed froth" works with the resovolutive predescission of a pinship thimming through the intermact-a-void, her tiny hands seemingly made for the warm molding of flesch in this most populous strangeoush art if you like we call this looming of spurious cells imaginary tissues & magic membranes art as we cannot help but DO, andDyseemed to have no more need for the time to grow up feeding off her absence of years than we had the inclination to gift her the opportunity of (deep breath here), so her "career" was one of those comettailed doublewick flaming jobs waxin oo too quoockly toward their wane, the entire mess lasting just a fewverisch yeirds, a curve from pure delight unto balkanaizing depravity, vidillicit: those first-first groolding fleischverks of unuddurabule chorm & unendiable innovatividity, such as the white & black Angelflesch twyntwang serieses & the breathstaking Invisible (!) {sic} series, like being bobbed along by the tender beak of this most maternal bird or dandled on the strings of a heavenly puppa tier or bornced ablub the holy menisci of some fevreligious inysteria or something other than a'that, in the great impackted zepelinword of Dann A'Thatt The Inside of your Mouth series of series (to which we say, "Not my mouth, baby!") complete with hanging indents & Draped Uvular Flopposities, comprised of the Tooth series in which one becrouch in the nervy unmolar hollows (see unlisted Boanmarrow series) (Psst!‑‑& a series of illegal series I am not ploughed I mean aloud to quauck I mean stalque about about.) and & and The Intercranial Dirt which was cool, though no one understood the "dirt" part‑‑good reason to hold off the dis man tle meant. The Egg series if one can fancy the flesches of the yegg The tinglin' an' tasty Spermal series (which we still like but still we like think, Like‑‑what the hell is SPERM? but she wood knot seigh or kood naught say. Followed by her precipitous drop into weirdness, moving from the stell rillatively lappy-ho-gucky joi of the gravfree Babyflesch series & the ultrasexy Hormoanal series (for excellent excellent pitted dates) & the divine Iron series or Divine Iron series or Divine Iron Series or Divine Iron series of very hardpumped bloodflusche pulsated streamlineal fatless athletes' bodies to the disturbling Fetal series which we not all all of us could take & then the Deadflesch series of series (inkclougging the Burntflesch & Drownflusch & the adult-rated Poisonfloisch) (uqu!) & the pintless Purpleflesch series (which I always thought had a grapey cheeriness to it) & then that precipitous descant unto beastilness the resiliant Insect series, by which time the authorities were getting a bit antsy & the serious Wordseries I am not at liberty to talk about. But nothing about vloids, you understand. @@    THE DEEP GREEN SKEPTICS OF THE DEEP SEEN GREE or SLIPPED WITH THE AWAY REVELATION Thanks to that single slick little quirkgene we Uxtentse had, Dy had her fans, & they reacted to her instant idyllic vloidhood with an intense dullness known hopefuly only to our hopefully world.  Dy-freaks felt they knew what she was doing & "what she was headed for," so they were the most excited people in the worl for a wile.  Hell, their midsections fattened & glowed a juicy red, while the rest of us snorted again & again in the thick purple atmosphere.  Personally, I'd been disappointed in her since the Implosion Series, & had become quietly appalled at the Incision Series, the Powderation Series, the Invisible Series (which I never got), & the Immolation Series. "Her stuff just keeps getting smaller," I'd cry to the milky night.  (We Erexeen cry out solo solas to relievolo ourselves.) But gradually everyone got caught up one way or another.  I felt it, too.  Even the Deep Green Skeptics of the Deep Seen Gree were beside themselves wondering just what it would be, this classic act.  They were preparing their hugest snorts‑‑& with those gorgeous easter caverns of nostrils of the gleelesss gree, these were going to be some kind of modulated snorts indee-toodeed.  These were going to be "answerable works of art" intended as mock-invertive scofferies every bit the equal of ther work they were, as it were, blowing away. WORLNUMB EXOFRIENDS The frightening white behind my eyes was streaking again, cutting a swath like a Nellurian "pet comet" in bottles hot across my face.  Dy was making trouble again. "Isn't she overreacting a bit?" says my partner Scall, a rowdy Jalcalo, tiny, orangepelted, built like a mesh of Inquerdoydrer Wires, as always trying to draw me into a fight.  Verbal or physical, your Jals'd fight till your hopes blew into smoke. But I like that too, & as I watched the skies streak liquid past the lestorcio hull of the slazer, I drawled (in the low volks this kind of speeds create), "I dunno‑‑she was an artist.  She was famous.  She was this worl-glass loveur.  Dy had way too much personality for it to just...just..." "Peel off like that," said Scall, himself staring dreamily through the weird vapor-coils, inexplicable lightspecks forming letterlike patterns around us, the face-things rushing at you like the puffcheeked clouds of fever, various "Hallucinative phenomena" (per the official, T3 Books of Explanation, 426th edition, pages 52530.455, 28618.325, 39312.137, & 15228.407 (see especially paragraph 369), & he was suddenly still, a smooth purple globus in his head‑‑normally afire with jalactules of canary light. "Who woulda thought?" he said in a voice so weak its last echolated subnotes are still lapping at my toes like combers of a mercury ocean on the sunless skies of Sumg. My report read, "Worl were giving Dy a wide berth, & she responded by 1) pulling off her arm & offering to them, making them recoil & pull into themselves almost irrevoacbly (see appendix, passim Appendix Passim passim passim), 2) beating laboriously on a few porpollian sworbs, to the usual no effect, 3) offering to fight everyone in the Tammque-Qube she was tantcubetantruming in, 4) offering to fuck the members of the families of everyone in tTQswt in, 5) swearing to kill the races of said above in, plus assembled assordid paseurs-bye, & 6) whipping up one hell of a brilliant, metaphorically sky-hye mangle-dimensioned steelskimmed opalumiscent hypersentient uxotriture which was so much better though no less distrubing than everything that had gone before that several dozen spottles de 'instant critique said she had come in to her own, that "vloidhood agreed with her," personal torments aside, personal torments aside. "(None of them evidently found the evident puck-shoped pock-shuped fulcrum of consolidated pain evidentially qucked in a suscon-spicuous evidential viridential qruggy shade-hole in the blinds of shadowless "light-reum" pretty mulch at the swente rof the ux ux ux ux ux‑‑emplanded where anyworl with enough sensitivity to be in a proper eye-brade flever by that y hat at t time ime me e & staring at one's worlfeet like they was worlnumb exofriends could not help stub-but-up-stubb-to-phoighnd tucked away like an excandescent Easter-egg right quuquinque there! {My report whispered here there}) "She thereby gave us all the slip.  Again with the slip.  Partner Scallandaye beat the zwik outa oneunauthor & various sessile witlesses in molted meraimns of the once-teemy Tammque-Qube in the orange of downdown Bribbin in the Okko District of the fung-enfexted so-culled "Gomm BeZektor" & will report for in for for for emprempessment on the borrow of the morrow, Zyme willing, END REPORT {report confesh edthere}." AMPED & UTATED The green heed-sphorb now focused on Dyovylid's sister whose name kept shifting like tubes of Richest Polyglorh©, but which one-slough opgong a time begun as Kandankadorf‑‑now revealed to be no sister at all‑‑& she was gratifyingly worked up about the vloid business. I had to worm my way under the configravute skim of the sphorb to gain a private audience with Ejji.  If anything even more sensitive than we'd all thought Dy was, she had the atmopsphere I mean the atmosphere cracnked I mean cranked up to a Rattling Rabid Sping or a Wattling Wabbit Spring & was hard with which to up which keep or else hard to keep up with.  The hypergossipy sphorb transpathed her as "upset." She was in fact hysterical, & as I tried to interview her she woaped & woaped (!) till the whole room was in a Pink Flotational Haze aze ze e, & rattled on with the speed of you True Organic Degzel, till I my I my head my was I spinning its full 360 degrees & my eye whirling around their own microdegrees, about the egresious link between sisters "of the Degzelian persuasion" yes, little Wormmorx™ popped from my Long Blue Lips as she spoke‑‑it was the atmosphere of the haze of the density of the smoke of the cloud of the billows of the swillos of the Woap whatever that means! & how this meant she'd been amputated & How she amped & utated, that word! saying "AMP you TAY DEAD" with a movement of her lips that may have been swucked me subunstrumeantally into the zyging whipple of love & how this meant she was demanding reparations which meant in turn that she she she she she had to bet to the gottom she said "rumm to the fundament" & "frick up the undemeant" & I loved the floading aurror of her words‑‑file under Love: Why of who or what was "doing this vloid business" at least I swink diss wah zhe zed, her spirapularizations‑‑like words, only felt in a hot flash rather than the hnkywonks of zounds‑‑coming at me so fireaciously vaphasp they like to qoilderound the drufting segués of my skullkullull though I, swinning & grooning like a fusty guck, understood that what it really was meant that was that meant was that meant that was that she had to find immediately, with an ache a good deal deeper than my own, sans that little snarl of indecency that was making my fissures to berupt like I was being strengly hung, or strong. As I think I let slip in the slit of the staces above, I had that meltdown of mind, that sudden reshaping of heart like heart shaped of molden glass upon meeting Ejji‑‑a complication the structure of my life could not endure‑‑& my insantly instane devotion to the coltish white Degzel meant I had to catch up with Dy all the more.  Because her ex-sister hurt much too much to go on go to on. @@@@    FRIGIDAIRES AS SEEN THROUGH DRUGS or ACTUAL PUNISHMENT HERE Poughing a woap, I stepped into Flesch City, checking out the flesh shops of Loak.  I was at pains to ignore all the illegal things that went on here, but the denizens kept it in your face.  They filled the narrow streets with gothic details, symbolic hints of crimes not visible, so you had infinitesimal cartoon gremlins of a nightmare shorts biting your tendons, rolling into gutters, stretching their little buns through bullet-chokced I mean choked glass even rising from my woak & the countless (gigantic!) woaks of absolutely everyone here‑‑even the children...especially the children‑‑so damned big you couldn't see their faces though of course a Foul Plurality'd had their faces burn toff in acid, the acid with their preserved fazes still init preserved in secret dens with shelves in the eerie light of frigidaires as seen through drugs or drugs as seen through trnalucent or translucent figidairs now THAT'S a surreal image for ya for the smope of the woak.  Then oot, many had their fazes "flesched oar," so they were horrific Dorian Grey fazes out of globbed on glops intestinal corpoid mashes of shapeless flesch, & you thought over & over as in a tapeloop of some horrible death you are forced to live, I mean die, over & over again, actual punishment here). Did I mention there was no color?  There was no color, other than something like your block nor whipe, & not much in the way of Solidity‑‑more this "ink-scratch hint of matter" & thus an udderly sordud plasche. I woaped kicked off a few quick-stretched figurines with tooth-tubes as big as grin-gringe & tried to picture that hevaenly artist back in her juicy bellibone-days, a femme too full of color even to thin into limnes e'en of inky color, much less this moste anciente dire fiftyzische cathode glowe, strutting in her signature way with hey real weight on those callypigous hips & real guts arustle in that belly-ardon-moi & smells like nothing the arid lamp of this vaccum-lamp light-table stretch of intricate crooked city'd ever knoan gnone nome ohm, coming to this place with acute regularity just to score the reams of flesh she did knead. Sorry about that. That was some prose, huh? I had no actual decuqube of the new, vloided Dyovylid or oi-or-loid oroid, so I used some file shots.  Hell, they all look the same, as the swyaing grows, & half of these blighters lacked have I said this eyes. So I'm waving this waveform colliform deq of some vloid what hud come to a disCREPiant {end} at the woap-befexted nonface of some earless airless creatore with little more than those disgusting stringy lightsucking lighis filaments with which to take in the image of The Dyovyloid,  It caused me to curl not just my face but whole measureless stretches of my invisible spine with disgust, or some ink-scratched cartoon scoriation of disgust.  As it wust. "This vloid been here lately?" Excised segment of wormy proprietor feeling up the decuqube of the stand-in vloid. "No vloids.  Not here. Never vloids.  Never." I grabbed it by the segmented aluminum piping of its neck & shook‑‑something I'd always wanted & been taught to do‑‑making its scored face swivel in time. "Don't drub me chud.  Loak's where they all come.  Loak's where they try to get reflesched." At this point, for dramatic effect, I flash him my badge, which comes with 1) a virtual lightshow of 8D holorglams featurring faces in geometric shapes deisnged to inspire toward honorific regard of the hand if not the being holding the badge, 2) a number of dense-delcious chords with elements common to most of the most chordal religions as heard in their most spatially shaded cathedrals, 3) a quick run-down of the most dire punishments currently available (e.g., the reruns of death that run by you with the flow above the foe), & 4) my special number, vlaidating me, comforting me, giving me existence, & hopably inspiring open love of me. Barely got through the steam of the scrawny bloke's woap of of course course. "So you get vloids in here, right, quum?" "Maybe, you know, once in a while." "Recently?  Anyone scoring a whole lotta flesh?" I shook it till its head loosened loosh. It acquiesced. "Let's get a chemical trace on her quick," I said to Scall, invisible is is wont to nownownownownow.  "Specify fuzel oil, remblicant comvloidial polymers, metaplasticene traceries, filigrees of ohm, iotas of trace power." "I know," ƒnapped Scall irritably, & the little clerk chuddled, pink billows siying froam iz woap, an old song I rememebred that sent me back... "He gets Helplessly Sent Back," I heard 'Scall say to the little wriggler of a shopkeeper of a fleschvending mooch.  I do hate how Scally ally talks to everyone as if it were his egual (phanchy that!), even these stetchy inkblight wormin, & it always brings" me out' of my musical trance, both trance & dequoting out of it trance embarrassing me humiliantgoddamly.  Motherfucker. & then the shameful echo of the lettle-littered shamfeul echo quoting itself forever feverever everen.  Now back to our story. "You all right," Scall says emptily.  Not bothering to answer, I reach out & give the little wriggler of a keeper a snooque.   I may be psychotic but I do hate how Scally ally talks to everyone. "Any traces?" "Sure.  Too many, actually.  We've got...lessee...maybe two hundred vloids to check out." "Gank!" & everyone; shocked!  You forgot: there is no swearing in Loak, where words affect the cloaks of actual hexes. I have to eat my words, retch, & apologize in the sweetest terms possible.  You shoulda heard me‑‑but you ain't gonna hurd me! I confess to having ha