WURP! INFERNAL MOTHERS' EYES Yea well, this Wurp! who sounds like hiccup, pronounced like a goddam hiccup hatched his own ass out of a testtube, except it was a Jolly Big Retort of a lusty tube, gravid & turbid, by God, heated by some of the Batteries of Fires of the Batteries of Fires which existed in the form of disks which if you stared at them which you never ever should looked like Infernal Mothers' Eyes, only these were machine mothers, more magnificently maternal than you might think, but still just machines that mothered him, automatically, caring not a turd for the Dismal Infant. So you might say Wurp! was "Mothered by the Absence of Thought," yes, you might say that. Go ahead.  Indulge yourself... Whelp-Wurp! grew up in a kindly forcefield of no-thought, basked constantly in illmined pleasaures, pleasures deep & vast & & & & of a constant certainty, pleasures just a bit spooky in intensity in in in in, then taught & tutored, also without thought so that the young man where man indicates Vacant Utter Lunacy grew up feeling that his thoughts were not quite his own, bloughing out into the Vacuum of the Absence of Thought, thereby imprinting him with the self images of the Creator of All Thought, which certainly gave him power, it certainly did, give him ego-power, as he grew & grew & cowered & cowered in his vacant interlunar cave, the cave later even later than this writing to become famous will-to-have-become allover famous, as Drake, the vacant interlunar cave or vacant interluniar cazave, as the kids today (safe within their force fields) say. At the age of seven, he thought Now I am sentient, now I am outside of my repast.  He meant past, of course; I personally don't know why the little geek keeps pulling apart words in him hambs, the words bleeding true pure hysterical metaphoric blood, & he was atearin' up them sentences, too, smearing the syntax all over his face, doing the same sort of monstrous experiments on them that etc.  Suffice it to say, he was not quite mature has he thunk.  I mean, he was big, deliberately "all grow up" in the Seventh Splinter Inkling of a sigh, one great big gaspeous sigh containing a lot of purblind love, a sigh deep & capacious, deliberately set for him, to deal with this growing up too fast. But I tell you, he grew up fast, very fast indeed, & he did just about lose his mind when he discovered 1) that his past had been taken from him, even before he'd, well, not-lived it, & 2) that all the caring & nurturing, the unfailing love, the constancy itself, was automatic & without thought.  I mean, sweet but without thought, as in Nobody home, as the kids today (wired into their infratructural artifixial neurons as they are wont to dew) betray. SLANGÉD WURP! To make long story short, he grew up the doubtful frenges of a sea so planetary it flowed unto flippant, fliquant doubt, Fliƒƒiant Doubt only once in a century & not more than three (3) fwa per millennia, in the form of strata or getstratia thrust clearly if somewhat queerly up to the up to the ripping the "skin of the 'skin level'" of this iss iss strangely stickly, frangely fticky, fomewhat puppylike, clear-as-a-translucent-dog loving liquid O, ugly spiked & spiny rocks, so keen-edged as they stared striated into crumped wonderment which is an emotion we have here at the eleven (11) Grouped Hysterical Suns "feeding on one another's energy" which is a thing we do here "feeding on one another's energy" though we try up the point of self-torture not to do it too much, do it at all, do it ever o'r e'er, whilst full or formal Huntchwurp or shorthand or colloquial Hunched Wurp!, or shorthand slangéd Wurp!, his brain a stupefaction of contrary impulse, controrie images, words fall apart, the sentence cannot hold, mere blargy loosed upon the world, big ol' Wurp! one of the less sexy experiments by the three-head team of Ilafial, Opaqua, & Keb. They sighed & groaned a lot as they put the wurp-gener together, then ripped them apart, then rammed them together again, then peeled apart the helices of his FPCG‑‑the mighty, stretchable cells that made up the gemrinal plasm of our hero here‑‑then thrust & jiggled the strands about, smooshed bimeanl acid curlicule molecues or moluricles in elaborately massive fingerstrokes of paintspokes of heavily painterly finger strokes, roiling the sarcoplasm up to a great light-fringed, tri-pronged climax of triple-voiced Doric disharmonies, whoch echoed through the, well, sort of a cave sort of of light, except that it was smokey, it was a cave made of smokey light, which they floated like one of the loosome, independent eyes of Eyeberg II, sometimes called the "eye-factory" or "the plantoid of lost eyes," or the garavity-well of the hapless eyes or the eye-forest or the eye- garden or somesuch shit, but they didn't sigh too much, these sensual scientists, Morphic Science being the sexiest science known at thrusting its big dick into the unknown, etc., to use some humanoid genital-sexual metaphors, just for the ploy, & they lost interest it rolled, like nothing so much as a tiny eye, under the scarf of the scapping oan edgy, eletric irritant table they would spreadeagle each other out on, & speaking for myself I where, abnormally, I means myself, unlike the normal "I" we have here, which can mean a number of things you don't want to hear about‑‑ don't want to hear about) & POUGH! turned into ridiculously nubile, shaped harmony self-ingulgient "smoke," sorta, which is how they sleep, at which intertice Wurp! was successully born. SEVERE CONSCIOUSNESS DAMAGE So there's this seven year old, 1) thinking he was adult 2) & in physical ways really being an adult, 3) discovering that the real world outside his giant crib, with its magic atumanic mothers & soft clean towels of love & love, involved quite a lot of fighting with others' thoughts, quite a lot of mental force being expended every which way‑‑4) a reality that quickly drove him insane & into these space-things that suck the life from you 5) we call books 6) we call you books, 7) it is you, Book, I am speaking to. But no one listened, because of course no one had ever listened, not really, not with a heart, & his thoughts were a wrong shape & magnitude, the wrong shape & magnitude, to fit in without severe consciousness damage of a type never hincforoth gnome. SHIFTY MEANINGS The second thing he did, did Wurp!, did he do when he was eight was swallow the Memory Pellet, though by this time he was riding very loose on the rails & probably headed for the tank again, but he gobbled this hypoallergenic, enteric-coated pelluƒid Memory Petal that he'd carried about with him for O, say, Eighteen Aimless Years, where Eighteen equals eight equals four suggesting numbers have, not no meaning but certainly a fairly shifting meaning and/or shifty meanings, & he got to see this memo, as it were, from his parents long since killed in the Boredom Wars, which were these wars they had which were supposed to be entertainment, but involved some very serious dying, & his-Wurp!'s parents-experimenteurs get-received their fair comeuppance they'd had coming to them since the get-go under these great luminous amarillo-yellow rays of tedium shot at them by unonown oppressors they had probably themselves‑‑re taking their obligatory parental Forgetter Pellet. So he understood better than he wanted the dire shortcomings of his ah nurturing ha ha years So, what with this knowledge nurking its Itchingly Irritant Way underneath his still blue layers of still-fairly-immaculate, calm-as-the-face-of-an-equanimious-pool perfect fair-thee-well askin, & the Forefronts of Counterthought‑‑that's right, friend‑‑the Forefronts of Counterthought driving him nuts, Wurp! went into this Silly Drowning Phase, with many a Silly-Sad Drowning, what with meladramashtix hurtlings of himlittleself off the Seamless Radiant Balustrades of the Veer-Vaulting Arches of the Silvery "Light Bridges" that they had in Wurp!'s still nameless world probably a Sleep World, probably undoubtedly one of those Worlds Borne of Desperation, as we have here, doctors & ex-friends, with this Wurp! in his sillyilly suicidal phase. & inasmuch as he may have even been hitting liquids with these various much-film'd & endlessly tap'd & talk'd-a-bout self-hurtlizations, he was certainly not built for drowning & while he went round feeling, poxxibly smellick, & certainly looqugangen muchlike the proverbial Drowned Rat of Rats of the Land of Rats, telling her children stories with his pince-nez pinching indeed her wrattery-unflattterie-gadnoze bless you! his repeitiitive I mean repetitive submersions, while qua futile immerziums, got better & better reviews until the critics existed like hailfire rimpling his Fine Browe even as in captive laughateurs he lalupt or lilaupt, it was getting old, & soon everyone ignored himself. "He's not getting anywhere," the people or whatever they were said, or whatever they did when their thoughts leapt oerdemswelves to none, & the taping absolutely stoped. So you have Wurp! there for a while, mad as a batch of mercurial hatters, flinging himself like:a:party:tied together with grunts surrounded by the equally munificent metaphoric grunts or grintz or grimmaxes duxiolence off of one breathfrakingly beautiful bridghe upon another, wihtin one another, & on an in unto finer bridges, bridges-in-a-bottle, unbuilt conceptual bridges which again & again proved themselves mathematically too perfect to be built, as the little fuckers always do & on into the Bridges of the Ether Realm, which were a pleasure & a privilege to jump off, which if anything & if not possible tunred his target audience even more into infinitudes of silvery miroired apathetithegms. THE MANYCUP OF SUNSHINE    After a year or two of such fol-re-rol, Wurp! return to this Mathematical Projection of Venice they had, replete with sunlight blinking off of watery cups & water within the dapilated forums of light bursting through the trees, really rampaging those unfortunate trees (but then, they were only mathematical trees) & drank the Manycup of Sunshine, which was at once cleansing & intoxicating, though he still wanted to die & enjoyed this rest & healing only as respite from his unhappily chosen, one might say childish, method of dying. O yes & no less than his "nurses & handmaidens" & the entire Terrycloth Crew‑‑had disjointed themselves from their wonted sphere & hung by him, offering thoughtless kindness indiscwiminately & in all diwections to be lost in reechoing & unacknowledged echoes, not that they, caring only for the child, could care themselves. Meantime & for the Longest Meanwhile he had had had something in his eye.  Nor would he let his nannies, whom he both despised & worshiped as gods, lick it out or anything like that.  Indeed, he rebuffed their advances & just let them frizz into tatters as he sat there, sipping starlight & rolling his eyes to & fro until he discovered three million things at once, the chief of which for our argument such as it is was that this little germination in the twilight remants of his long forgotten almost totally purple eye the fourth from the right eye it was was in fact the germ of a Vuorean or Vorgan manuscript, to wit the Vuorean Catalog zum Bücher, consisting of prices & precis regarding a countless million or so of these various forms of Vuorean texts, all, it was promised, projected upward through new Vuorn or Vuog or Vug techniques, so as to be & I quote "handily readable" to the great-mittened paws of one such as Wurp! Well, the story goes he blurged it out with one big tear, & that that tear tear mangified the minuscript, magnified it so, with a great number of lenses & the tedium of having to 1) go into town 2) download doctor so he could be a proper doctor 3) intern a lot & 4) practice being a doctor a lot, only so he could get ahold of all those powerful legally-restricted & government-proticted doctors' lenses through which he at least thought he could read the headlumes of the Vuorp or Vuoght catalog. The headlimnes, friends, but in no way & of no manner of means the fine print, heh heh heh, which in typical Vuorpean or Voggean maniere pretty much disclaimed everything, absolutely everything, even as Wurp!, at long last through these infinite linguistic tangents of mine become of Legal Banking Age (& you can bet being a doctor helped) & I'll bet being more or less a doctor admitted of much, but in which & mickle case & cause thereof, placed his First Foolish Order and a humdinger it was.  A real triple-whammy, a three-bagger, a syzygy of synonyms, if you will, & awaited in his own darkling tears & the tears of his multifarious nannies wetting the alredy quite soaked thank you very much Venetian ground around him, the delivery owf dem Buch. A COLD REBOOT That big glandulous boy Whup, or Whurp, or WhupWhirp of the Fonling Groxes Whirps, was steamed right out calculation, his heretoeyesfore hyperbulgoid "thyrines of eyes" bulged n' blossomed out at the book he was trying to scree. Trying to scree it he had, or was, or was having been being in the process of been, but the print was waeyes stmoaoll!  I mean, you could hear the clatter & the chuckling of th eprose‑‑wind-rhythms hyping round their perboles, possibly some exposition set in the straight-narrow linear-space fashion favored not so much favored so much not so much favored by the bloody fucking times as by our big friend here, this gouleachity, this perferverbosossity, this great gaunt Befrickenlad as the naters would toxxit, & possibly a very nice book here to boot. But to reboot (& a cold reboot it tis!): it costs many a mony to make things bigger here.  I mean, here, here‑‑here...here‑‑in the Land of Vuor, as it were (& we're not sure as we're triwlring if-et-wer), it takes a mighty heady htta dope to make someone blough enough of the laughing stuff (the wondeorus wondeerful laughing stuff!) that we call "air" pronouncing it "aha ha haiah! ah! ah!rha ha ha ha ha! in order to make something more than, say, microcosmically Big, or micoruscosculatitatively BIGBIGBIG, as the kids‑‑blown round like baglets of mirth in the mier‑‑sayhey hey hey!!! BALLOONSWORTH & Wurp! had blown as they say "up a big balloon," meaning balloonsworth of money, money in this funny thicket being tantamount to a balloon which you blew up with, not breath, but your wealth, your prose, your clevereste Phantasies. He blew another big balloon just to purchase the godawful, Kafkaean contraption of lenses & inerswiven miroirs©, pentant panding, to better see the microcosmock pose but even as his eye filled the sky of someone else's aye, all he could see was smudgegrey, great grainy grey smudges of arpusicient grey, whatever that means, looking like botched & swollen fingerprints or the fingerprints of his drownd sister, Swirpa, or the brainscan of his mad dad, Furp, or the strange misshapen swatches on the skin of his INCREDIBLY DISEASÉD MUM, Urpu (pronounced URP-uh, with a quick projectile comit after the first frozen false North Polariean sy sy la la ble ble ble ble ble ble ble ble) and did he like really fancy he seed, down amongst the wordless misshapen grovens of this proejction-of-whatever-it-was whatever-it-was whateveritwas waeeiws weis wi! the Prince of Seeds, or was it (he screed his yeyen with forethumfingerumblingadingdings) the Finger Prince, someone he'd met before, back in the urafter, when he was small or dreamt a microscopic dream to the blurred effect he was lurre defec e was small? Naa! UNDELETABLE SNOT Sorry about that snot.  There's just that bit of Undeletable Snot in this story. So Whurp (or Whuff‑‑or Whuff!‑‑if I bay mark I mean may bark himzo) snot too bright when he orders this thing over the air, laughing & rollicking its pormises all over in the air, producing, in our form of your version of your former ads," noting but a thumbnail‑‑a bloody thumbnail!  a bleedy frgging incriminatling thumbnail of this great book (and Whurfsedaisy's always in the inkter of an oathful brugging book) and he goes & orders it, & now he's mad.  He worms his way through the papers like a brighteyes Incandescent Maggot Incandescent Maggot Incandescent Maggot Incandescent Maggot Incandescent Maggot, & all he sees, see, are these see here little minimapointilisticine dots‑‑like a book full of periods, or a mammoth categorization of All Known Periods (which actually exist (but that exist doth naught enxixt?) in the Book of Periods of the Book of the Great DotGod. & our hulking lout cannot squiggle in, no matter how he writhe.  It's like trying to possess one of those leaf-demons, those little succulent succubi you know yousuck youbi youknow, whereas all ye can do is grout out the elephansmagroium of your grutty snout, prdounced fnout! & sometimes fnoor! by Those Who Canna Naught Connect the Snout! FOURTH-FIFTHS OF THE VUOR-THOUGHT MAD You can see the big kid, tearing off the buckles of his books‑‑books in these times being mightily buckled up.  Yea, he'd a tendency to grow very big, & his parents rarely had the heart to trim him down, & his enemies were afraid to do it, & he had no friends, other than these books, which were shipped in, some said, on pirate-black ships with noses the perfection of a needle-glinted steel, so he was quite huge & up-for-the-task as he tore off bloddy buckle after bloddy buckle after bloody buckle after bloody buckle. That's FOUR bloody buckles! he thought, for Wurp! can ken the narrative, though everybody in Vuor thought everybody in Vuor thought again that everybody in Vuor thought three times that everybody in Vuor thought he was the fourth-fifths of the Vuor-thought mad. & we can see him, somewhat, in the projections of our eyes, with the lids hooded so's to thicken the meniscus, as my dadwhom I mudered used to say.  I didn't kill him.  The old fart lives on‑‑white as a show, white as a freshly-bugged white buck, white as a toadstool just let out of toadschool, white as the fire burning in the eyes (not your eyes; not mine; some sort of eyes‑‑whose eyes???). That's just his name‑‑DadI murderedDad Dad which doesn't make any sense now & had even less clarity back in the Years of Glaring Clarity O those years of the swearing Quarity he grew up in.  Must've been a fuddy dadgumm'd boddiker for a kid. & be bangs off that last brandishing bangle & the book opes up, as they say down here, or back there, or whernever, & his whole soggy soppy sojjy goddam face falls right into this pool of nothingness, toward this dot, this microscopic rendered-down ultra-Vuor©ed dot, which dot he knows is watching him, it being less the bloggy dot than the blotty eye, you say. THE CIRCUMSTAMPS OF TIME er EYES EYES EYES Wurp! crawth into the patenpenting pententpanting unrepantience recoiling chamber©, which was, in the words of the Vuor (existing as a battery of huge & sentient eyes, but without pupils, sans iris, noncaprillarial, just you know "eyes eyes eyes" or meoyrese accuraeyetsely, "eye sey ese yes," for their filamental availability to ah ahtahch to oene ahnothor, or put peuydeit meeyree acceyeurately, become EYE, which is how you look at things if all you're wired to think about is the shrinking of things! So Wurp!, soon to be Wurp!?, eketh or ykth! hith way into wonderful prototypical & yet due to the circumstamps of time RC1©, better & more colloquially & therefore cboeltltoeqruially known as the flinchroom, into which he would become nothing soon enough, per the contract: Zowurp, swoom tubeyWurp!?, ekkth er yk! hithay emptwomb Wonderful Prototypical & yet Due to The Circumstamps of Time rather beat -en -up RC1© beggar end nor connopially grobe-zazz The Flinchroom, into which he would become nothing soon enough, per the contract: So Wurp! clears himself a nest, there being several dozens or is it hundreds of Other also having sold themselves to silence, it being you will pardon my infinite infinitive PBG Pretty Bloody Gainful to sell yourself unto the diminishment of the öll-descryin' I, as these bird would birds would have demselves knopem gazz, & he notice that already notice already that he notice the stuff in here's already too small, & he starts to sweat.  He really starts to sweat, unlike all the other Fictional Folderol we have on hand here in the squinch-utopis of my novel * here * & here * her * & he * & h * & with a lousy wail doth the shrinkage begim and sure enough, Wurp!'s getting larger.  I mean, to put on my skull-clatching Mathematician's Hat & explain the deportional apportionments (such as the fear of fear, the loathing of hate, & so on under und) eating Porcinal Deportion Mints©: he was wincing down all right all right, but he was recoiling at a several-percentages-of-pointds less than the fellow-traving party, so he was filling up the place, never mention the sweat. THE SQUINT OF GOD The Sweat.  It covered everyone's Special Circumspantial Boots© specially fashioned to be ultralubricant* *which is a Shrinking Designation, then the gross & ghostly molecules of the sweat grew into Long Wet Chains that met themselves & coiled right out of the fl*nch!, at which some of the passengers smiled wanly at a now-pale, but still huge as those Parasitic Pallidian Fungi that keep our children our dense little kids from ever seeing the yndegogue trees said to lie below these frenzily freeding funoze©. Next stop: Pyxröxänt read the huge great slab of the spreading spedsheet they had givenem, which had wouldntyouguesswudtoges wdoe wo! cramped up the place with the smell of space I mean pine not space pine not space pine not space I mean, & a few‑‑oxtensibly comtempt with this mere phase-contrast extent of shrinkage, walking off into the gauntlet of the furrows of God Knows What (but He Isn't Saying‑‑yo...check out that great wink of his, buddy‑‑check it out!  You have two weeks to read it, two weeks to read The Squint of God‑‑go to it, boy!), & the mercury door erling itself on down & then the sounds of shrnkage. The sounds of shrinkage!  Much too easy to describe.  You can even reproduce these sounds in the comfort of your own home!!!  Just record the sound of, say, a tornado, say, that, say sucks up the passage of your cat & throws your car into the cloumy hills of Next Weeke invert those sounds on your Home Oscillscope©, available etc., & voilà-oilà-oilàoilà! you can hear it sensually insinuating its toady-groadequey self against the looping hull of the shrinkage maschine‑‑gross tomes groding their evermore cumbersome grobes at ears now much too fine for the final vibration. Next stop: Unquel, which is getting pretty small by superstandards‑‑doowwn into Photon Territory or the Uncharted PhotoTurf©, as the unsated realestatemen lipes to quollat, where indeed one sees in a glimpse of mercurial ports those jolly baggets of light bobbing like bloom along the heliojexx of aire. It is so funny, so tiny & so vast, it makes everyone in the wagon crack up. OTTERS OF THE AUDIENCE* *lawsuit pending One little kid had a pwerdimal‑‑a little azure sliver that produced the slithering turmoil of din & of din that passed for music nowadays (music's always a problem in a shrinking universe.  This is a shrinking universe‑‑everything is running out, or down, or in, or whatever this belittlement does. It was the orignal V. Vuor, Esq., who, to get a special effect in a home nidial he was making of the sorpses of his reunited/rejuvenated "kids," & it projected out to the universe, & thanks to this bozo we are all shrinking & desirious of shrinking & constantly signing huge & huger apparently nonshrinking contracts thst will make us shrink even more, much much faster, or so the azuregloating brochures do say or did say, till their words curled up in a backslide of time & left you with nothiung but gloss, gloss on your gface, gloss on your tongue, gloss on the meanings of my words, gloss on the whole decoiling retrotrumbling inpacking invert obstruse universe we universe we live with augmenting succinctness not my word in in & here's the way it would go: the flinchrube'd glow with the notes, the nicely-taylored, well-favored, tie-and-tailed notes with their Appropriate Serifs & ties & fringes, some with canes, soe beautiful but tiny in their long & sloping Gownes, some of them dead‑‑counternotes or overtones or just some burp from the otteer of the audience did I just say otter of the audience there? did I say that just to give myself a title?  No.  No!  I can not be lieve it!  I will not use OTTERS OF THE AUDIENCE nor any such phrase, fabrication, and/or utterance in the title, heading, centered capitalization of wordplay, or any other such designation and/or specification in the lost & tangled leghaleze that has become this legal breeze blowning through the egal reexe lowin hrough he gal eze wing ough e lawsuit pending pending pending pending pending pending pending pending pending & pending, I would say. But these notes had no notion of how small they were!  They were like miniFitzgeraldian partygoers trying to join in the action, of Which There was (legally) None.  & as we shrunk down farther, toward the next stop in the deiranarchy of insignification we were coursing each in our seats like some sort of Bus to Nothingness ThankYouVeryMush© and lo, did the Gillig Phantom go, whereupin these gaudy notes I'd mentioned'd grow as large & hairy as bears, & they'd be like youknow crowding us out of our seats, with insupportable gruntz that became their own rather savage, naked notes with their genitals hanging out in discolorations for others to see, & also invisible overtone's'd come out‑‑we weren't sure; we didn't know where these were where these were coming sorry about the stutter I apologize for these embedments & embedding impediments; possibly from the grim growlings of our owne Bowelles, as Brontë would say; the book'd said something about that,but instantaneousaly clicked the Icon of Nothingness so they became unsubstantial, inconsequential, Voide© as as Brontë©'d saysaysay‑‑ All the while more beautiful little note'sd come uot, & there clearly or querulously clarely was not room on the bus for all these notes this Kid was hadning out (& why was he shrnking anyway?  I mean‑‑whyu was this kid, with his little pwerdimal ooching out its aching logitude of looping langorous, & one must say verywelldress'd notes, forming some patteren of melody I'm sure, back, or up or "out" "there," the big world we'd come from & now klost & signed away music or know all our rights ha ha ha to too two. So the azure chip I-say the azure CHIP like had to be disengaged, right?  I mean, the music was crowidng us out to the point where the point of our next pointstop would blough & whisket & buffer us all right out of the tank, at, say...let's see now...Valuvik, "Next stop, Valuvik!" which was so small subatomic particles wearing tight little T-shirt's swagggered round full of attitude, just absiolutely full of their nameless lightspeeding tahcyonical Attitude! And somehow this involved killing the kid.  We'd read about this in a passage that persisted for only a nanosecond or nough‑‑that people on the bus killed one another, being mixed up by the noted & the notes streaming from the note's big hairy wolfing sagittal-crexted fugging ears, & "music {was} not advised," & here we had music, & we were confused on the subject of identity by the music‑‑by ther big & ragged notes that soon reigned like savages in our shrinkking world‑‑just as the brochures had some how said without saying‑‑& we reasoned silently that This Kid Must Die. & kill him we did.  This ws all legal, all cleared by the contract. It was, we recalled too late, the Expected Thing.  We therefore riped this little kid apart, quite horrifically, while his little boombox of an axure thingamajug just preemed on, articulating seemingly endless or seeenmdilnegslys propogations & race, mostly by now crushed in their tails & gowns by the multiclawed hooves of the note-creatures above, which existed like superscripts over the metaphor of our page, the sonsabutches, BIG RIGHT FOOT NUMBER ONE Wurp! crosses his fingers & leans his long, soft elbows on his empurpled legs, aligns Big Right Foot No. 1 which had been his favorite fot long, long before that falling out to an angle 13o to the right of the superscript of his own deziling eye & nods a bit, nods a lot, actually, nods his ass off, to be straight, nods till a multiple of his heads fall of, to exaggerate a tad, nods the Very Nod of God, to employ transhyperbole, & stares at the walls of the battered ol' phanthom, which hath barely I mean clearly seen more fuses I mean cruises than the unaccommodated victims of (& we say this bayingly, sans breath:) The Great God's Famous Wrath of 11336 or the MömeWrath, as soe wag calldit, who were all slit up quite the quiet teat I mean treat, I might add... "I add."  & stares in all this flummoxery of hyperbole through the radiant & very hot transchimaericke walls‑‑transchimaericke walls‑‑in case you didn't know transchimaericke walls‑‑pass light quite profusely through, but they mess with the light, so you can't or couldn't back in these days (11373) before the these days before the Transchimaericke Fixxe (11526) whatever these numbers mean to mean, through which one saw gross retardations of mist, translucent rhymed empurplings of dusk, effortlessly after all these featureless yeons unwinding fractal wings, nerdy clouds of grey,1 1I mean clouds (of of course grey of grey) looking if I may say like nerdy guys alookin down at us like actuaries of the loopy anagogue computing our debts to the great Fabric Farm, which is where our sins gore to wait & pray, a dozen or so velt cups of sorts, uncertainly colored (these were made out of light, UNINTERRUMPTETANTLY a bunched cluster or bakunk of geometric forms (these were in the form of thoughts), white thoughts (in the form of lifeless thoughts), lifeless thoughts (in the form of transparencies), a bucn hof 35mm colored slides of the Pathe family Easter & post-Easter & meta-Easter & Easter-Deaster (which is a holiday we have in our more humid Zomes, here, here in Zome here, here in Zome), the melting face of that Pope as it sighed off, apparently with some relief; a long long languid list of things (it was the List of Listless Things we have here, which is this great list, see, this long & looping anarchic curlicue of list which trumpets down "uninterrumptetantly," in the form of a titular foam, gathering up these dropsical blots of our edemic dust); his fellow travelers telescooping down a thrilling plane into water, or something that flew about & was white, like an overexposed water of sorts (& by the way, while he wasseeig these things, or at least w.h.w.s some of these thangs, Wurp! was I say Wurp!!was hearing them in the voice of God, thinly disguised as the voice of his son.  God's son.  No, not that son‑‑the other son, or so-called ayway "son," that flaccid flapdoodle of a repugnant sprite, Christ's punk & bullying Kid Brother, that squalid, swollen mole of a distastrous dropping out of his mother's outer-udder (too far here), that multiphobic polyaddictive scrunge (talk about going too far indeed!), that leterless anemic bastard of his uncle's singular eel (whch means nothing, but which sounds like Christ's kid brother, that cad), that cad; some women, glowing like jewels, from the Planet of Women he could never find; a very nice, stout tree‑‑kind of a relief from the hyperbaroque, & with a bark surpassingly loft, like as to the zoftig barks of those softish Barques of Yore; An irksome, purple little vuorn prodded them on, & with a real prod, too, a prod of light, thogh you could tell when the light could hit you tell when you the light hit you this was hardly a vuorn, much less a replicant image of a vuorn, nor even one of the stale, outdriven greedy little offprints, even less a simucrystulacrum handcrafted by the Weggs of the Weggs of yore, but some offhanded casual rpojection of the Vuor afterthoguth of a guard.  That's what it was: the Vuorn afterthought of a guard, & not a guard at all, not a being at all beneath that sentient purple but one must admit that lightprod really hit, & into the recoilation vat he shrank, already feeling smaller, even as the mash of his great begash brute of a woolly back bacjked the others on the bus right up to the crudders, the crudders being the udderly danegorus nds of the singing bus, with its great & in its own clammy way glamorous & in its own glammy wasy clamorous & in its own gammy way damorous & in its oan glanny maze ramorous star-spritzig of exhaust, a kind of a laughing, euphoric laugh, dredged with little inklings of sadness thought, little inklings of sadness which one seeess out of the ocrner of one's eye at the refractions of one's children, childrenpraps rather nicely defined as little dripling inklings of sadness anyways. & they were handed Warnings.  Each passenger, one by shuddering one, was handed a black sheaf with white letter of Lettered Warning emblazoned etc., & it emphasized this: It said: Do not look at the images. Whereupon or weepn, everyone or eeyn on the bus or bs looked awawk at one another.  Some even went so far as to re-attache their heads which I hardly have to tell you had been detached and/or deleted & in general minimized! for the jounrey, one's head being kept in what they nervely called an Inhibition Fringe or an Infinitive Shelve, & scratch their re-attach-ed-h-ads, which got them thrown quite rightly off the bus, making more romm on the more rom on the curcyular shringing buff. They entered a bewildering discourse of diseases, full of discrepant disconnections, black-outs, changes of identity, your fake ID, my fake ID, The Lord's fucking fake ID (listing him as a fag, as none other than Flaglee Misvorif, definitely not a God; just think‑‑God, or at least The Lord could be standing next to you, poking you, & you wouldn't see through His Almighty Fake ID!!!).  This was a dangerous area, the area where area all area disease area 'd been discharged from their several naked bodies & minimized, thrown into this serial realm of humiliations & bombardments & bombardement of humiliation & humiliating spritzes & whatnaught. "Now entering The Mantle of Disease," went it way the was‑‑& so it was, & not proper diseases, neither, but the diseases you made up when you had diseases, such as quimsy, lepra, psychic epilepsy, French pox & the blennorrhea.  They wreen't even these much-named & much-thought-about, naturally much meditated on (we meditate on disease here; have I mentioned that we mediatate on diseases here?  Yes, I just let it spill; it's out there now, airborne & mutating with invective frenzy & infective venzy & injective jenxy & impecsive drengy) diseases, but were simply the pictures of diseases, specifically, the crayon droodlings of diseases as fancified by the various children & parachildren of Vykerwoods Secondary Eelyosynery Elementary School down in the furrets of Nagahup, New Chaches, right here in the good ol Untied Starees of Airmoraerica. Things happen more simultaneously as you ebb.  Things (& when I say "things" I do mean "things" for a change of "thing for a chang") of things happen more & more concurrently, with a keen concussion of all but blinding Coincidence (& when I say Coincidence I believe I mean something in the dark, unforgotten heart of God I have forgotten God I have forgotten God) I have forgotten (God sits next to Wurp!, sniveling in his crumpled suit) something sweet, something sharp, something reaming its wormy way from my ass up to the asshole of my heart I have forgotten to call a heart, so it's not my heart, in there, god-forgotten, beating itself to death, so we have employed the gorgeous virgin prototype of the Houghmeister 2-2000© to stretch the level ought. Wurp! was feeling very sick with these diseases he was watching, & he tried to remove the special suit I had forgot to say he had forgotten he put on we have forgotten not to look out at the images of diseases here in the (endless?) Mantle of Diseases here here & here (but not in HERE!). "You really shouldn't take your suit off," said the long-lost voice of a tortured Christ, who was God in the form of a stretched out fag sitting next to Wurp! with his hands upon his knees. But off come the suit, or the suit come crawling off, or the decision of suit was through crupuklent inversions of time unthought, or the suit distended & blewd-dupt, or the suit went to sleep & Wurp! rose, O! Wurp! rose! like the zombie part that rises fetid from the flesh during a very long long-imagined holocaust long & long indeed, or the suit steps out & starts filming Wurp!, who hath no chöix but to step out into the Hall of Disease, with its beautiful, small figurines embodying just one or two iotas of the longingness to die, or the suit drank a delicious frozen daquiri & lost the capability to hold Wurp! in, or some nine-year-old kid‑‑fresh from his weenendd of torture‑‑lay there trying to stofle it all & dreamt the whole fucking thing. I think that's it, but there is noting I can do about it, lying here, my very sweat sweating sweat, dreaming one logocious nightmire after another, sometimes one in anther (like these diseases here aI mentioned diseases here) I mentioned disenchanted diseased figurine leading him Wurp! him onwurphimward wurpward. You know, some of these diseases aren't half bad, he thinks.  & indeed, there would appear to be within the manticles of the mantle rugged spatters of great empowering, facilitating afflictions which would kill you quick, but kill you I say kill you in a thwarted dash of pleasure, just jolt anf generally jillicate your pleasure cells until they themselves fed into their own smal Ciontrol Room, where the great Croak Button‑‑itself aflame with death & delcious desire‑‑& croak the smithereens of the figurines.  Thats how it went, you see. Everyone else held their heads, pressed their huge gloved handles to the handles at the sides of the temples of their heads, worshipping the shit that was in their HEADS!!! {emphasis mine}, while poor sick Wurp! kept offering them spoonful after spoonful of the crud he was rud e as cru h wa bringing back, or the monstrious flowers more chilly than a boom, or the mad little doctor‑‑this little yellow DOCTOR, see {emphasis sí}‑‑running round proffering his Liquids of Odiferous Ooze, & snackling atchya, or the cute little friezes of bone (these were feverbones) spreading like supreme darkness right out to the tinges of the hull, or crowned & stubbornd Desires, great high-energy plasmic allegorical creatures, breathing down their naked necks1 1and where were those suits I forgot to say they had forgotten the thought of putting on?  Shrentime plays hob with your memories like the boars of so many boars, or beaked frenzies pecking at the skanked convolutions of your brain. "Hey, this sick guy's spoiling it all for us!" God, with ilky stars floating oer his head like so many frecjles of fever or spickles of desire did manage touché. But Wurp! was following his nose down the branchless alleyways of Pilfe, where diseases spread out on stand after stand like so many wares‑‑summery textiles, eloquent baubles, exlosions of some very fine, very very refined, pain. Wurp! was very hard from God now, lost in this cruise among displays of complete feet, kneebones‑‑skin & all‑‑but no blood anywhere, suggesting that these were rejected parts from the factory of human beings, suggesting that human beings are machines, suggesting machines do not know they are machines, suggesting machines are not sentient, but only think they are sentient, suggesting machines are The Deceived, suggesting all that music, all those albums & concerts & the paraphenalia, such as feet & ankles & hands, that they had on display outside the amphitheater were just pieces of themselves they had rejected, suggesting Wurp! was in some sort of rejection loop or abjuration warp or dejection plane or abysmal void or devoid abyss or de woid abyss or the word abyss repeated one thousand one hundred one to the oneth times. But anyway, like I say, he could hear God's lisping, faggy voice back in the capsule, kvetching away, as if He could do nothing about this situation, which the rules I forgot to mention had been injected directly into his head into the dejection node or rejection carposium or nodaliae rejectivitae or maybe into the emptiness there & the emptiness there & the emptiness there & the emptiness there & the emptiness there & the emptiness there & the emptiness there & he was holding up one particularly wonderful, especially white, extreely dead foot & asking: "How much for this foot?" The creature behind the stand was itself a wash of gash'd stabs & breeched ruination & crenulations as of yore‑‑clearly one of those eternal insinuations of disheartened, barky exterior & fantastical intimations of fantastical limbs, not to mention faces, not to mention faces, not to mention faces, not to mention faces, not to mention faces, & {he} replied: "You ona those shrinkers?" & he spat!  & he wiped his mouth! & he then said: "We call you shirkers here.  We call you the dismal laboring dead, the smeared lome of forgotten, the chill stones of ill-bent pity, the lampits, the fucjing reotten creeping little lampits, the lampits, friend."  & he spat again!  & did not pause to wipe his mouth but rather went on:  "You ona those?" "No way!" said Wurp! cheerfully, & this was an important moment for Wurp!, for Wurp! it was Wurp! the first Wurp! lie Wurp!ud told.  O, he'd thought some big lkies‑‑formulated in the savage laboratory of his thoughts some real doozers, as they say, some ruddy lollipops, some garantuoso prevaricosios, if you will...bu bu but he'd never spat one out. "Two hundred fifty explosions," said the guy, & he gives up with this great big sniff, as if to prove he had nostrils, as if to prove prove prove he invented nostrils, as if to suck up all the air in the world or whatever this was with his mighty nostril, like it was the only nostril in existence, which, as he snuffed, it was. "Excuse me. 'Explosions'?" says Wurp!, & the man merely nodded, a whole long month of May noddings nodded never & whither. Wurp! pulled his hat down over his eyes, causing his beautiful gleaming forehead to warphead into something made of a dead, greyey clay, & he took up jis great Mop, & he sniffleth, causing mutliple rivulets of sniffulets to surge & tumble their way through the walls of his great drought-and-metaphorical throat. "Excuse me," he said to the abrupt creature.  The foot he held was looking deader than ever‑‑or never-alive, anyway‑‑& he waved it so its big toe wriggled ponderously in the moonpocked asteroid-crenuklated "face" of the creature there.  "Did you say 'explosions'?  I've got to blow up to get this foot?" The entire Marketplace of Grubb did then brast out in astoundering impoundments of laughter, laughter of a most smirksome & contemptuous sort, sorts of a curciutous & impotentiating laugh, laugh of a curiously implementing sort, sort of an incupescient laugh, laugh of a snort, snort of a laugh & themps. "Yup," the vendor said, now crossing dizzying jazz-phased combos of thin little spider "arms" over his great muscular he-man superhero caped anmd codpic'd chest.  "Two huindred seveteny five bloody times." Whereupon, as the director POINTS, the CROWD blows up in amusement, as if to demonstrate how one blewth up on cue. The folks back in the capsule were trying to haul him back, but Wurp! was nothing if not easily wheedled, & here he's scrunchin' up his britches an' though he suddenly has a cold asayin' "You thig I cad't blow byselp up?" "Not no three hundred time," snort the voice the snorts of voicks.  The crowd doesn't laugh this time.  In concern do they consult their SCRIPTS, but Bob, my director, my disappearing director, is snoozing thoroughly. "We must be in Stage Four sleep," saus Wurp! "Yea," saus the counterman.  "Anyway, you gonna give it a go, young lad?" Wurp!, he was sceert, but he was like not wantin to like let on, & so what he says with perhaps the thrill of vibrato of a quaver is, "Hell yes.  Better stand back.  Watch this." & they do stand back, as if they're taking him entirely seriously.  They in fact flee in such a cumerwrought of panicke that Wurp! look over his shoulder to see if Godzilla's there. But there was no Godzilla there, & he turns back, his face white with this sick determination to huff... When he woke up his skin was covered with a billion cold stars‑‑which he could feel‑‑& his vision seemed fearfully far. He was on a very cold bed, lit not with fluorescence, or deep purple, nor even some sort of ultraviolet sweeping the scan of his little electron germs, but with the lights of those old streetlamps‑‑you know, the two-mile tall story of the street lamps two miules tall This is the snory story of the street lamps two-mile tall, according to the two-mile tall legend scriven on these raw, ugly planks, so waterlogged & dryrotted & bug-croile'd it made you wonder, Am I actually reading this old story of the two-mile lamps the two-mile lamps the two-mile lamps & th etwomile-lamps, or are these just the footprints & leavings and‑‑worse‑‑the beguiling scrivenings of that moste foule nation of buggs, Bug Tussle?‑‑anyways, these were the lamps that glowed, so did smarm the mellifluous actors who were hired as salesmen by the wordsmiths in the sky, who'd been suborned I'd almost wager by God Knows Whom just to bilk us in this wise, with a light that would forever disinfect (not "their" word‑‑"'their'" word being being bei be b unspeapable & inspipsibly immaculate, their word was immaculate, I tell you, God damn it!) with a sdrawkcab sisehtnerap the streets, I say cleasne & generally depollute the streets, leastwise that's what the contact‑‑which I the contract still hold in the dessicant skeletal metamorphalanges of my tarsel'd "hand" the better to scree its steely ultraviolectiant scry, if I may coign a fucking phrase fucking here & there & here-thereto until the room's supersaturpated with the rhymes of fucking time, not to mention those rabbity phrages averred to thereentwo, but which (these are still the streetlights I'm struggling not to satop not talking to here) caused us to go blind, & to remove our fucking minds, such that when we ah uh re er gained our minds they were not "our" minds at all but were as I said immaculate, like immanulate lamps©, & he sees he's in one of those hypertechno rooms so strangely full of angels & lighnting & the light smell of an old, wasted & infect, epidermal issue which had been quite lithely & with none of the succulence of Actual Torture, singed off. "Do you even know what you're talking aboutr?" said the ruse voice through filters which were rude voice through feminine filters through the rude rich feminine voice uncing throghg the succulent filters. "Was...was I talking?" "You were babbling up a storm," said the women like a winged seed, if you will, or like the lulled tresses of a wave of unstanched tears, or like a gorgeous great Cat glowing in the forests of your nightmare with a claw of sword or a sword of claw haulassing your ashes right out of that nightmare nightmare nightmare of fire, or maybe somewhat like an inspiring steam, like the inspiréd sweet & sweatish Steames they had back when Wurp! thought he recalled himself growing up (though what he was doing was groughing oughp, & even there twas but th'implanted tinitnnabulation of his memories, themselves groughing oughp in these great incubators or blustchters or whatever they called them back there in those sediments that had no aire but were instead fulfilléd with No-Aire!©, petent pantsing), or then again, coming into the room like some sort of dark & feminine flood, or like the charged artillery drivingitself into his lids, thux to wape him up, which she did, nodding smartly as she crossed a mere two arms! & rising her face in a smile at aproximately 37%, per Wurp!'s gauges he forgot to tell me to say he had, the driveling cad. THE TEXT OF THE THIRTY REAMS She had the face of that little girl who stared at you so queerly on the night of the tornado, when the wind whished sideways, & yet she stood there, her wet & tiny T-shirt barely flapping, flickering like the afterthoughts of a terminated brain terminated brain flickering with little minilights like the lights shaking sidewise in The Awefulle Fogge, just before the storm hit & blew it all away, & she spoke within these queer, curlicuing equations that had the frightening bright luminecient bite of those turquoise skeletons you saw those turquoise skeletons you saw stretched over many a ribcage back in the Giant Cities, the unimaginably Gargantuan Cities of the Damned wherein everyione but everyone wore black T-shirts with these turquoise ribcages breathing breathing over over them, but it was clear enough she was saying, "You really blew it, bub!" with childish delight, & it was equally if somewhat disconcertingly clear she was walking round & round the dociule Wurp!, the great wet & colorlessly-swolled quolorously-swolt enWurp!, laughing at the nexus of dials O the nexuis of dials he ha dfallen in. To.  "You were dumped," she said, & you could see reeling off in the breathing curls of her eerily green-glowing formulaic conversation that hs'led said this with much greater delight many times much further back in the past. "Are we we shrinking?" quavered Wurp!, trying to move one great bublously swollen eleephafuckingtine arm & finding it coiled in these little barbed wires, barebed wires which lead one presumpt to the psychotic dials that were teeming dials that were teeming all over him. The girl was checking out these dials with glee, going round & round, driving her tiny director, Bob, mad, Bob, mad‑‑henbce the term bobmad, which we all use when we contract The Encirculing Disease. "You're shrunk," she said in dischordant anerotic antiharmony, like the kids' game of Hell played in the billowing halways of Hell.  "They dumped you, man." "'Dumped me'?" echoeoed Wurburp querulouseily, & parts of the contract which as I said had been chemically burned into his brain came them forth like little princes of the air before the bubles in him eyen, a smirkingly wicked crew just full of the little broils‑‑the little subcontractual subsubcontexts of the subtext of the contract Wurp! had naturally missed. & the word was, Sometimes your would-be dwindlers or bedwindleurs, sometimes they became terminally & contagiously sick, as had Wurp!, with Disease acroakin' gorgeously huge before their eyes, in this case his eyes, in that psychedelic marketplace of foots, not to mention the scanning arteries o' their capillaerial blubstremes, thus & therefore & heretofrom & whatknopt imbrouding clauses 242 & 353 & 191 & 683, each trumpeting its own vehemently senseless gladness, to the effect that the "treacherous vapors of his sickness" (I won't quote the whole thrity reams of The Text of the Thirty Reams)or the dirty text of the firty reems! utterly aboragtes his righteous fees, what with the safety of the others, their own immune systems beocmeing it turns out trickier by the nanoflom, enabling his * to bombilate his rickety ass right out the special eschappé-podlets growling grey & fungoid round the edges of the deck. So out he went. PARROT THANGS He awoke in the dank tuberous byways of the infamous Embryo Alley (also a box‑‑a tight & ill‑fitting little box out of which thrang his electrifiable fleet) within the throes of another reality in which he also & with great agony inhabited this dissipated,  inharmonious den)‑‑the definite deadassedend of a deadaxed‑alleyway, & it was like filled with these parrot thangs all named Jaquot Jaquot named owl, contained in these tight, like spheriquel cages filled withv a clear, nonalcoholic fluid, like water only better, like water only better!, as he dragged himseld up from the lumpy, polished green laquer sort of as polished green laquer sort of a cement alleyway floor, for he really was in an alleyway(a place where most of my patients I mean characters, find themselves at one dumped point or another (dumped point (or another (dumped point) or another) dumped point) within the leaves of the fragments of the crystalline buytterglide clusterphleigh(leaves of the story of the story of this repetitious ultrareflective boit of a goddamned story, don'tchya know, & he felt Quite The Compleate & the Repleate Idiote in his childish cloths, which he kept wiping his psalms on dawn, wiping psalms 13-3, creating dawn after dawn in the dreams of a sweet child contained wihtin certian neural nets of his intrafrucature, which a technical term for a crystals within, a bleding white hysterical techioterm for the bleeding of the pain wihtin, whjich he was really feeling at this particular fucking point in fucking time (don't tell the kids within the kids within the kids I said fucking), & so Hemps THE EMBRYOS "This is Pullug," said the girl, pulling off the wafers or webs that kept appearing wafer & webs over her face, which consisted not so much of flesh as of wafers n' webs, the which diction thought made Wurp! terribly hungry, as indeed diction did every thought Wurp! had, for his mind not so much teemed as dictioned with hunger-thoughts, so it was that Wurp! sees stupid to us, to us who think all the time without getting hungry (except for me‑‑I am speaking for thee!). "About...how small are we?" questioned Wurp! standing, only to see that the "little" girl was twice as tall as he, suggesting he'd shrunk a bit past the quantum norm of this incrementally antequantum "egrus," which is the oppositional name for a quantum leap as applied to the very different matter of thousands of embryos extricating themselves from the coils of the devil's death, which is no what I meant to said, by which I mean ter say pip thatpip the sentence bloody forked off odor fürckt-sie-auf! odor went off & expressed itself, itself, this entire book, my entire writings now, I realize here at this dismal suicidal furck, being the splitting off of the Resource Forks of the Infinite Sentence I tried to write, but these things here just started bloody writing demselves oor schriben-sie-sie!! odder hemps the embryos yodeling their solos whiklst scraping off their great beardy clusters of glass tears & laughing quite speciifcally at me. But it's OK, 'cause that's how my hero felt.  I hereby make my hero feel the way I feel.  Wurp! thus feels the way I feel, the way we each of us felt when we first grabbed the hairy worm of rottenness that pierce the earth's core, whatever earth means {Earth: n., a grandiloquent myth, much too huge by now by now to to realize. ‑‑ed.}, & thus slid into the rustling air. So we sit, forehead to forheead holding our monstrous horns, two milk-nosed maggots in the dank concupuscence of death, & Wurf kind of gets his bearings & immediately starts to feeling better than me, me mean than I, & sniffs. Wurp! sniffs, waiting for his reply.  The girl looks down on him, her thought quite large & opaque (as visible as one of those hallucinations you have just before they take you to the tank or strap your ass to that sweaty board of electircity, as are all thoughts here, except Wurp! Wurp! his hungry little thoughts scuttling round, self-folding‑‑like flowers fainting into themselves in the starving hour) that she might just squish this ruddy bug. & she says, "You're smaller than me." "Yes but not much smaller.  I mean‑‑not a magnitude smaller.  I'm wondering how big we are, say, in terms of subatomic particles." "There are no 'subatomic particles,'" she said revealing 1) that she was much smarter than Wurp!, 2) that they are very small indeed, though surely not so small as our poor defenestrated Wurp! had paid to get, having bilked himself out of both size & shrinkage, & 3) he was a fish, suspending himself so curiously below some consciousness (I don't know which consciousness; I'm sorry' I am sorry). "There's those," she said pointing up, her finger wriggling over & over with the twitchings of the sour dead. HUMILIATING, SPITTY LITTLE SINS Wurp! made the little curling motion of the eyes that made 1) him fall down retching, 2) his little Ideatitron Inc., Coovmal II© popo into his hand & 3) Coomb to commence not-s- much ahumming as asiphoning off the viscera of the noise that might oncea beena drone. Coomb paused, blinkininining, as Wurp! repeat Wurp! REPEAT Scene 5a above, in the sniffles of which Wurp! seen extricate hisoffalself from these Hundreds of Dials, you'll remember, glowing dials, you'll stare at, effervescent sparkling little dials you'd succumb to shortly shorterly shorestly bare in a sort of false phosphorescence way to much about him‑‑quasiheinous exploits endangering others & ultimately causng the crushing of of his OWN small children by the swollen, time-developed, time-enveloped cdomino that not quit eliterally curshes us all once in a while, what?, also HPLS's‑‑humiliating, spitty little sins‑‑such as your {his} angle of {his} your dangle, the sum of the cum...that sort of piddling, ignominously ignoble & otherwise iggy thang! "Who's she?"  Wurp! whispers. "The towering girl," drawls ol' coomb, in that abandonly declassé core slur common to the lowest of the Low Unthinkables, even their airiest attempts at geometric patterns shunned rather naseously if not aneurismically by even their own skummy sklash, possibly the nerds who invented the lesser nerds who invented thes lesser ...nth nerd Nth nerd!!! who invented them trying to create some egaliatrian, everyman sort of an atmosphere, succeeding & this justifies the years of flaying torture they was exposed to as reward for their invention‑‑which no one could think of getting rid of, much les listen to. Wurp! falls down again.  Loop scene 5a again, making it a rare, aerial Double-Looloop Dopfeltwänger Scene! "{The twoering girl} implacabile combs slawzong, "is part of damaged resource fork number‑‑oh, never mind.  She's far too small for a name, this formk itself, distasted & diseased & if I may say ableetin' thang, too small for our numbering machines, number & cataloging all the infinite & more & more infinitely smaller dmaaged forks as they themselves get more damaged & {therefore} smaller.  Did I say therefore, or was that just your palm clutched convulsive oer mine Frame?  Or are ye just glad to see me?  Anyway, no name for her, no number for this alleyway here, & the rather nice little (little!) world that lies beyond it, or outise, or overhead as your wish may be‑‑not for a long, long time, brother Wurp! "Don't 'brother' me," he said. "Can't help it," replied coombs says, sipping into the sats between the folds of his moistee d palsm. Damaged fork huh?  No numbers, huh? Thereupon she squatted she right down.  Right down low, her split cunt all but touching the ground, except God decreed Thgerre would be neither ground nor cunt, not cunt, nor neither ground, & she says, "You realize just how lost you are, sir Wurp!?  Do you have any ides?"  & she either said his name again or emitted some kind of emission hiccough that sounded just like wurp.  & she waited, squatting, bouncing a little bit, there at the ends of this moste diseaséd & damag-éd Forque. & lo, she kept on talking, telling poor Wurp! more & more how lost he was, how great the cosmos & endless his dimuinution (endless diminution?  he hadn't thought of that, had't picked up as he often does with his special hypercerebellum my ongoing commentary on Just That Subjet, to wit, how the diminution continues quite unabated as oe rolls one's ass onto the ground of whatever tiny tinier plane one rolls one's ass onto the ground of wincing planes of existence which kept on getting smaller, in a most unVuorean, uncontrolléd manière one rolls one's apparnelty tiny ass onto whatever lost smallness can persist here in this tube (you can think of it as a tube; take a moment, now, in you rhyperbusy acocerecebellic life, to see it as a tube, surrounding the flight path of the vuorp reducer or vuoxreduxior or vorprecoiler or flynchvup or vt!) we were all unmerrily helixing & helixcupping down) & lo, Wurp! was scared, & the girl was babbling on‑‑some sort of language problem or Pressure of Speech upon her green minty grain I mean drain I mean bubrain‑‑but what was to speak plainly for a change freaking him out was that she was...doing things whilst talking...doing things even as her sentences coiled & incoiled I like that word into themselves with a sort foa gulping sound, nor did he comprehend a word, but he did see she was bent down & touching & rubbing him in different ways, in some very special, practiced types of ways, ion sexual & let's face it obliviously whorish ways touching & rubbing & frotting Wurp! Wurp! in unthinkably exciting ways, & he felt just this great buggish bulging of the flesh that is too ill-formed to have actual gentials, actual gay genitalia, rich & srimped in sall its disgusting tumid furrows, for the God I created for to create diction this tiny universe, this tiny & tinier universe symbolic, friends, of forgetting, symbolic of the forgetting that happens within my poor artist's actual brain by the nanosecond, my entire existence just furrowing itself into nothingness, or rsather into that pain center there in the center of the central vein, right to make a long story smart, into that pain vein or veinapain© we all know as this symbolic little girl we became when they did Those Things to me, way back too far to remember, the events & the actualities, the actuality of the actual atrocisites shrinking indeed, but the screams remaining & the pumping of that great fevered painvein just still going strong and Wurp! ho ho reembers they briefed just before they crammed his ass with their shoulders pounding his great balwhooming ass through the stiucky portal (yuck!), that they said ones desires, one's irking & particularly somewhat psychotic & overqualified Urges, on;es hottest spurts n surges, on;es most tremulously cloud y Sturm und Drang, would shrink just a little bit slower than oneself, hemps would invade one & seize upon the controls wthing the control romb of one's body‑‑up there in the brain, its erstwhile denizens blown unto countless like my mempries smithereens by the AK-47s they had, rending & thereby rendering obeisant all flows of life suckling themselves like liquid pis aroundt the, forgive this metahpr, this metaphor is bad karma for e, man. I'm agonna catch hell for this "liquid pig metyaphr" here in this LIQUID PIG section of my novel, Wurp!, this novel, Wurp!, here in the center of the liquid pig central which is as I seem to be strying to implibe, the center of the book, getting me into one whale of alot of karmic trouble I cannot take the time much less the bubble to to thank arought, & made his poor poorly formed almost literally halfassed body rouse itself up amongst the tangles that seemed to be contstantly returning our asses‑‑whole, well-formed, well-shaped, detailed, nerveladen, fat, & painful asses, by the way, up here in Readinglamp Lande‑‑to favorite scene 5a, you recall the scene in which Wurp!, awakened in a new & tiny world, more like aw wasteland of wasted faces than a proper world, revealed unto him in scene 5b it was I believe to be a damaged resource fork so badly damaged & so old, & built upon a platform not even remembered yet, much less existent, & therefore hopeless, never to be saved I forgot to say by the automatic machines they have automatic maschines they have which go round through the cyberforests constantly renewing & fixing, nortoning all the damaged resource forks & the bad modification dates & the faulty monstrosities & the often teeming monsters & the many Godzillas‑‑that's right, I said the many Godzillas, that roved & ranged ramping amongst these forkes, but the spiders & the healnig machines go on fearlessly, their fear having been through a brilliant hack hack of the imagination downloaded into me, hemps Wurp!, hemps our story, returning & roundeling as it is was is was unto scene 5a‑‑luckily for me a veyr Nice Seen but I was trying to start to go on about Wurp!'s oor fetid crqvings, beig sundered up as they were by this little underaged green-fruit whore, this swuatting & tossing ,little girl, this little girl whose fingers scruze so fine they'd make the Ancient Mariner (me) cum, but you see, as I believe I was attempting to say before the multifarious pluxxy voxxes in my miles-wide trascipient "head" encroached their farbranching sentences on me, & before they took over the control room, scene 5a, madness, AK-47s I belueve it was, etc., the God of this precious rampantly dead world, of said fork,each fork did you know having its own damned God, was too busy crusinig round in his car, in another novel yet, the car symbolizing something I forgot, just as my dreams‑‑my constant, diurnal, intrisive talking dreams, are all symbols of forgetting, sumbols of the forgotten, symbols of the forgotten swamp in which my efforts to recall are themselve forgot, the Grotto of Forgrot, forsoth, etc., too busy partying in short & metaficitonalizing his godly arse inshrt, to create in our hero proper gentials. So there will be no fucking scene. ANOTHER BOTCHED UNIVERSE or HOW DID THAT NOSTRIL GET IN HERE? & now the No-Fucking Scene: The girl keeps rubbing poor entangéd Wurp! Würp & telling him how bloody LOST he is and‑‑apparently‑‑make him cum.  Perhaps this is the purpose of little girls in this universe, little girls having generally no purpose in any universe other than their bare & twinkling charm, & I mean that in the nicest way. "Get your hands off me," he finally sputtered, sputtered right into the nexus of her everflowing cascade of shimmering words, words themselves growing little mouths & talking, talking to each other about the seemingly ultraintresting subject of‑‑you know what‑‑what with him fanning his hands like a Bad Shakespearean Actor (notwithstanding that all Shakespahearean actors are bad) to get out of scene 5a with the strange almost organic dials trying to grapple his ass, & the girl exciting him in ways that could do little more, given this, another botched universe, than make him uncomfortably ruddy. & making it very difficult to stand up, even without the diminution firled I mean field (which as I've been trying to think down the planes of master thought to Wurp!‑‑but he didn't pick up. He heard the ringing but he never picked up.  He knew it weas me calling & so he never picked up.  He never picks up.  Actually, frankly,. really really, he never picks up‑‑was what that tangle of delusional dials was was), which was, as is the way of such fields, diminishing, holding now just his leg now just his shin nor foot now toe now nostril (nostril‑‑HOW DID THAT NOSTRIL GET IN HERE?), now nothing. Nothing.  Nothing, & the girl saying nothing, keeping her hands quite properly to herself, but still squatting in th alley to beat the band, squatting down to Wurp!'s level, for she is two to three to four‑‑take your bluggin' pick‑‑time larger than he. Great, he thinks, the telephone of mine ringing constantly in his convolutions & me too scared & sick to leave him messages.  I'm stuck in a land of giants. "I don't suppose the Liminix Publishing House is round here?" The girl laughs for the next ten years. Ten years later.  Same alley.  A very patient Wurp! (one of his most virtuous of vurtues, that‑‑that, & his inability to commit dultery, much less adultery) very passively waits for the laughter to "doe down," I mean "die dawn," I mean spilling its slippery gutlets into the damned alley making this a far more disgusting scene than I had ha ha planned. ATTITUDINAL EYES By this time, the beams of light which comprised the print of the text of the book Wurp! wante back Wurp!-want expanded Wurp!want magnified scientists thrutheirdozes say "some two hundred thousand million billion trillion times", but that he only had enough dough for the hitch down to Smallsvile, he lacked for cash the way the naked butterfly, winging her incessant dips, lacks for the sweet cocoon of her how shall we put it youth wurpwanted Oh yes, the beams of light which compromised the promise not to say the premise of reality‑‑an audacious premise, I might add, as if reality'd askedme, which she hath naught, though I feel her breath coming to me every day in the first casual gusts of spring & filling me with uncomfortably packed attitude, & yet each alone in its protective packing©, their countless little attitudinal eyes awavering at one another. Did I say gusts of spring back there?  Somebody answer me...Yes?  Well canker that.  I mean cancer that.  I meant gists of spring is what I meant ere I wath bent, i.e., rent unto the Cancer of Rhymes unless it's the Cancer of Multifarious Rhymes or the Cancerous Rhyme I have been by the mean oanel of gods God set up for me, or the Cancer of Righteous Rhymes, which is the way I look at it. Anyway, the beams of light rayed up toward ther "sky," which was apparently the hugeness of the letters, which we can safely say as Wurp! grabs his forehead‑‑you know, how sometimes people slap a palm to their forehead almost & sometimes eerily beyond the point of knocking off their own-heads-off‑‑such was the case in the unnumbered scene we are stuck in now, such was the case here of Wurp!, realizing he was lost in the CRT, Cyclonic Reduction Tube, of the many fields of shrinkage opening various Horrifically Bleeding Rifts in the fabric of sanity the Vuor had molden. Vuor?  Cyclonic?  Tube? "You're a Vuor," Wurp! said.  "You're an actual, living Vuor." The girl purposefully with her mind pushed Wurp!'s query into the background of the Shafts of Time she had in her truly Vuorean (for Wurp! is right here, for the fist time right‑‑right for the first time since he slapped his hard-fought buckls onto the almost blindingly glowing table of that dimensional merchant who had, to give him credit, gotten Wurp! onto the bus) mind, inscrutable nonpurposeful Vuorean mind, sitting now & taking time to enjoy the incredible sunset the beams were making, as the letter of light of letter of light kept getting endlessly bigger, at least by the Standards of Shrinkage, & them‑‑immediately afterward‑‑the electrified delight here known as sunrise! & lo, Wurp! sat him down, thinking not unhappily, well this is the place I've put down.  It's possibly not so bad with this girl here & me having found out the Vuor & where they hide. I can live with them, conjoin with htem, access their deepest rituals, then leave then come back & slaughter them all.  It will be fun Y B T JUD My Vuorean or Vuorian lawyer was named Creff.  The Vuor only had one name, the other haing fizzled like a v down the sparkling patterns unto 1) the wize of pure infinit, or else 2) the hole of pure gl*ry‑‑you be the judge. He had this one name, did Creff, Esq., & he was warped & curled to oene side, like 1) a melted bakelite lamp or 2) a frozen piggy bank yo be th judg, correct answers to be given out whenascertained, or when reality stops this jely like whiggle whaggle! it seemeth so orotunily prone to or prune to, y b t jud. & like I was in court‑‑I believe it to be one of the early phases of the Vuorn or Vuoric judiciary system, which‑‑owing to the Vuorng or Vuorkian love of obsessive encriculating detail flying down the golden rails of night into  a sparkle as of infinity glory or somesuch, there being no judye, his or her stately throne empty except for a large container that seemed like covered with Keats' beard of tears, but was just condesation.  Condensation's a bitch down here or out her or ober here in Vuorland or the ripened Isles of Vuorp or the frighted aisles of Vorghpht. What was I doing in court?  I must have blacked or at least blackened out, or in any case over & out.  There was this big little Vuorean or Vuorg girl or nyphette I suppose you could call it were you of a mind to slake of the unripened fruit. Lot of unripened fruit uot here fruit out here in Vuor. Or Vour.  Anyway, I was so small in relation to my captors & adjudicator thatgatrzat I had to have special like chains & manacles. & the law is going on, just as if there were a judge. "Unnamed Defendant number one three nine eight five six point six two two, hereafter to be reffered to as the little snit or the little shit, there beig as of now, no pro coma formular judge, stands‑‑or sits over there, li-like a chained child on a stool, anyway‑‑a ch-ch-chained child on a s-s-stool, I telll you! "accused, in any case m'ludz, of unlawful entry unto the whorl of Vuor, thereby first-degree assault, second-degree battery, knipe, rape, sodomy, attempted re-sodomy, singular rape, binomial rape, facerape, buttwrap, face wrape in buttwrap©, retching & keeling over, being alien, out." Boy, did his voice echo.  It was a voxekko©... LOAPHLER PARASYKES I had seen too many court movies.  I had spent too much time within the flinching Court of Movies, with its Ionian basustrades & pocorn kernals at least the sides of your visicous aunt (not the nice one‑‑the vixxix one!).  I had supped too much‑‑way too much...let me start over.  I had glutted myself on the sticky little gumbears they make you eat‑‑not the nice ones, the ones with viperlike hallucinogems gleaming like hluioes within them, within which, climbeing you through a very narrow portle, almost too tight, & with somehow your leg thrust up against your ear, suggesting that‑‑back there outside‑‑you was seriously split up the middle & an agent of acrifice.  Something like that. What proves, your honor, that I had seen wayway too manymany court rooroo moomovies was my tendentencycy‑‑my anitgravitational drift, if you will; or my imfamous lilt, if you do‑‑to stand up, & Counselor Creff to pull me back down with AN EXAGGERATEDLY LARGE LARGE HAND HAND HAND HAND HAND HAND into my seat, though I swear to this days, m'lud, I did not use my leglets. They'd rather disabled my lacy little leglets.  Rather-shmather‑‑they'd removed them, somehow, or mayby tucked one of those blankets of surprise they use to wrap kids for their birthdsays in the rising surprise of their satanic lives that make everything beneath them indivisible, so it onlyt looked like I had no legs. But I swear shit goddam fuck I had no legs.  Or they were numbed by some doctor whose presence I felt like the whir of a Loaphler Parasyke against the veer mine Innere Earre, from which I‑‑with my special ability, friends, friends I call you, though up to now I know through my other special power that you thought I had no powers whatsoever, & was a shmoo, & had gotten his big arse bilked to the limit on the lips of the Paradocks Publishing House, tiny but powerful, infinitely small & yet (you were thinking up till now‑‑or up till maybe a moment or two from now, depending on the fliup of your nudge through the polysententic fibre© of my prose (depending also, & possibly I suppose suggestively !!! even MORESO (!!!) on the sway of the polyfragonal leaves of my thoughtforms themselves, themselves, themselves.  It is useless to speculate, as the Giant Brains inhabiting the rift my dreasm do say) smarter & smarmier than Mee!‑‑deduced using my godlike Power of Superdeduction, e.g., the ability to decude a whole from a fragment not even orignally a part of that whole, enabling me as even you can easily see to deduce ANYTHING from ANYTHING, which is, I now for your pleasure deduce, is the answer to everything‑‑deduced I‑‑no longer seduced by these fertile weedlets & their amphamagorine sweigh‑‑that there were doctors moving at hyperspeed around me, administering shots, anaesthetics, hallcinnamons, etc., something like taht‑‑I mean, what am I, Sherlock Holmes??? There are invisible doctors moving at hyperspeed moving round me like fibre-gnats.  I am so frightened that I have no legs.  I am frightened, & it therefore follows by a simple process of reduction that I have no legs. But I keep popping up anyway, to "object: I suppose, though I firmly & unshakeably-except-when-it-shakes believe the doctors are amakin' me do it‑‑becausing me to rise up through their use of tubes or probing machinery, like goosing me or something‑‑just to have a laugh, just to make my sunless day in court more disconsolate. "There are no objections in a Vuorean court," says the judge, finally appearing in the robes of the melted melting molted flesch of that little girl, the judge thus being, in a sense the little girl, which I with the brilliance of my madness do dedooce, de-doo-de-doots, my allegated "victim," to which there was naught indeed much by the way of infection I mean injection I mean ingestion I mean "objection your honor!" that that is the way of the Vuorean court if you can call this mangle of clotted machinery, this fixated mania lattice of cruelty, this buggering brainmaking ballsmunching infundibulated carcass bemaggoted by this pale & glistening crew, this openairéd courtroom of the Vuor watch over by the yawning & obviously boring I mean boréd Vuorn or Vorng or Vornug a court, which we did, so I guess you can, or we can, or could 'cause it occurs to me with the force of lightning just NOW that this all happened in a past so distant the very agéd beex‑‑you know, those thite & Bearded Bees exchanging their white & teary beards before the gloss of the glare of the incents of an excandescent streetlamp lamppost postnog nodoff offgoing goinggreat as a light streetlamb, for to be‑‑couldn't remember it, for all their great beards of tears being a symbol for tears of memory being a sumbol for tears of pain being a symbol for tears of nothingness being a symbol of nothingness being a symbo lof the great black hole of tears, which was the timehole this was "occurring" "in." "Silence!" said the little girl, her face now pulled completely on, stretched a bit over whatever sort of glozéd features had this discursive Sybillant Sylyphant Judge. But hisorher wordsorgrunts wereorare meaninglessornor.  I mean, I was making no sound at all‑‑unless you count that gentle hiss of farting we call farting we call call‑‑as my attorney pulled me down again & again‑‑I'm sure to someone's amusement (but we can't see him or it; we can't find itorim through any of our virtualyinfinite array of crazy lenses‑‑so heit must naught exist, right?  Am I right?  Right?)‑‑& finally stapled my ass to the seatpost. "Very good," says the judge, now settling indeed into the ultra utmost features of my freshkilled little lass. "You remember killing her?" "I do."  For in fact I suddenly did. "Do you remember molesting her in terrible ways?" "Wait a minute...uh uh uh uh...yes.  Yes!  Yes I bloodywell do, your honor!" "And do you remember peeling her face off with that razor blade‑‑the same blade you later cut your own balls off & then halfcut one of your far-too-a-amanymany eyeyes out then & there?" "Well no, your honor, I...wait a sec..yes!  Yes, I do!" & I nod triumphantly to the assembled plutitoons. Judghe makes comic turn to the crowd & sez, "Then what the hell kind of case is this anyway?" To be followed by Infinite Torrents of Laughter as if you'd just turned the wheel‑‑the big, Tarnished Silver Wheel at the center of everything‑‑on the Hyperian Hooverian Dam a-and broke that god damned damn right into the flush of the memory of her faces coming off, off, off in my bloody hand. SELF-DECEIV'D! or LAST ACID TRIPS TO HELL So the entire budding, congloab'd spintime springtide jamble of Vuorn whorling in the primeval proud forest of endoubléd heli in their so-called "ointment of submarginal minimalization" watched on a TV tube the size of a smöll böll & even wept as Wurp! was carted off, trundled some say, bundled like a damaged fetus, others dameng, to his Punishment. O, & a rich & plethoric upheaval of lush-begopt punishment it was, what with skinning of hydes & plucking out of the eyeballs & the eternilization of electrocurntz of nerve©, and...that sort of thing... While at the same time Wurp! himself was stuck in a cube.  That was the real Vuorn punishment‑‑unbegnopst to the Vuorn outside the nexus of the infinite gigagravitational feel of the Cseminal Scentifical Sphserical Phsoricol-Court, forsooph‑‑they just stuck you in a cube.  Where Wurp! took up painting, begatting him all sorts of Imeffible Emolluments of Flesch in the form of paint‑‑paiuntflesh it was, or fleschpaint, if you will, or also simply GLUPH!, in which he created novels without knowing it this was another particularly peculiarly Vuornianly or Vornanly or frickish trick of the Borg, I mean Vuorn, I meant Byorng.  They stuck you in a cube (a perfect cube, I might but could but could or will not add), & you thought you were painting great lush green landscapes of a turquoise rmeiniscient of Europe After the Rain and/or Europe apres le Pain, while in fact you were writing novels‑‑great conglobéd phantasial phantasmagorias of inmulched deepdwencht words, & sometimes soemthine sometimes not even words, but these soundshapes like where the Ancient Dying Gods left falling on their last acid trips to Hell. He was stuck in a cube reflecting the inwardness ofa cube upon the shore upon the lightrim of One (1) Exploding Star ($784.96) upon the rather gorgeous shapelessness of Chaor within the gush of the everlasting cataracts of the everlasting Keatsean cataraxe of his beauteous realms within the ache of the eye of a small & naked prey or animal known as the beast of the beauteous realms or the catarax of the green doves which is weird but true but weird but true, & so no round & round, his brush gfor adhomple going curously round & round, for he was painting his own eye, that's the joke, see, he was painting his own eye using possibly the Other Eye to see what he was doing while, self-deceiv'd, thought that he was thinking his art which was doing so, & so that's the end of THAT, dontchyano. ASTRAL EAR NO. 652 Hell, he really thought he was painting better every day.  Of course there were no days other than the "days" he "painted" (!), but he painted day after day, each one better than the previous, it seemed to him, a-a-a-& the painting he did within each day more & more marvelous.  I mean, the colors‑‑he didn't even know what colors these were, so rich were they with their turquoise-bluish-gremes as of Blewish Draemez. & the textures!  Forget about it!  He sometimes'd paint something twice, just so the process by which process I mean to process say he process was shrinking much fatter than his paintlings, or else they the painterlings was growing, which seems unlikely, given a Vuor premise of the Vuor thought of a shrinking shrinking corium of living breathing Vuor, Vuor, Vuor, watching him paint, Vuor gathered in Vuormean or Vermian families or fambleeds all over their TV boluses like boluses like forgive my stututtuttuter O LalalaLord, like bloods cells spattered on the sheet of light within which grins the hideous grn of my eternal torturer, but never mind. I was saying he'd sometimes paint something dozens or even hundreds but-who's-counting times, just so as to make it big enough to walk through & thrust his arms up to whatever he had halfway up his arems‑‑it was rigid & jointed & ball-like & it always hurt but was hurt otherhurtwise ill-defurtd, so creamy smooth were his textures, like some painterly form of yogurt or yaourt made from the pure cream of your mother's shrinking rhomboid room, something like that. & he found a copy of the Bible in his painting, or rather, the Bible itself‑‑not a copy or print or a reprint or a facsimile nor even a fucking painting of the painting of the thought of the painting of the thought of a fucking Bible, but was the fucking Bible ITSELF, green & incomrehensible & livid, & God knows the Vuor had uor & taek his "m?mory" aw*y, so he didn't remember painting diss, but there ti was, wet & liquid & quite clearly scryed in some Amphibious Alien Language, or maybe not even language language language but but notes. Yea, that's it.  I mean, that was it: the "Bible," the orignal urtext of the great & mansized open Bible he stood upon the pages awn, with their lettres glistering like the snow that finally put your dim & childush eyes too sweep, were like notes:                                                                                            only not sound & not light but of some hypermathematical cum electromagnetical type, neither visible nor comprehensible, pretty neat, huh? & like this was the Bible, the Bible, he was standing on, wearing some heavy heavenly shades like the dark feathers of the black wings of the Evil Angels who keep tormincing me, by wish I meem moi, & putting on more shades as the letter glowed brighter winces!!! blindingly brighter, even though I or someone posing in the nude as me said back there that you coulnd't see 'em, Wurp! the genius painter may or I guess must've painted over that asseveration, the little fucker, the paint-stained stub-dozed prig, the liddle pimple, the quarkl, the quirk, the fucking little Kirk, for he gazed upon the Bible he had painted‑‑doubtless intrspeerd by The Amphiguous Alienated Gawd‑‑invisible & deadly as the radiation you lick off your brush as you paint, over & over again & again, just so the Dials of Time will glow like ghosts in the night, that's all I said. I mean, that's all he said.  He he knew he was on to somethin' important, did Wurp!, with the Bible & all, & he lay down on his tummy with his big Crayolas™ in his ill-formed swollen overexhausted overdrawn hyperadjectiz'd & ill-conceivéd "hand" & he starts to rewrite the Bible, just like me.  I mean, like like I'm going to do when God plucks the Holy Electrodes from my crisp nipples & smouldering balls & my axle & my teeth & my gums & my ears & my soul, lodged irritantly on a stool in a cabin in a fever under a drape behind a rim next to a ridge ridge ridge ridge in the left lobe of the submodular microlobe of my second-to-the-far-left ear ear ear, i.e., the astral ear i.e., Astral Ear No. 652. A sidebar on this whole box thing.  They'd said, "We're going to put you in a box & make you into a Vuorm," or Vourum.  & Wurp! figured he'd know when the Lithsome Submicroscopic Knives had done gutting his gener & packing in the swoolen wastrel guts of the geners of some fat slob of a Vuorm, who'd Vouremm had his genes revoked, genes revoked.  That's another punishment in this society so unknown for its vast & savvy array of punishments glinting along the wallstreet wall like an infinite set of murderous ginsu knives (only psst they were very small see, submicroscopic, see, so as to phase contrast the strands of Wurp!'s spoiled n springy verion (version 1.0.1a, I believe) of what we on the right drugs might comprheend as DNA. So like Wurp! figured he'd know, not just because he figured he'd feel different, being transformed unto a Vuor, after all, but that he'd be able to tell by his disappearance.  Vuor were not exactly invisible, but they were nondescript & waffly to an n to the nth power degreenth, such that light went pretty much through them, being distracted only in a few possibly ignborant probably diff ffer rent waze, so you saw them as warpages of the background through which you were looking at.  They were glossless, irreflective, fluxive background creatures, were these Vuor. But he hopped up from the table his same old fleshy self, & he was later to think (& as he hopped off the table, sans mass, sans memory, sans gravity, sans the broken heart of my last sequence of interrelated, brilliantly structured, roadkill-squishéd dreams, he was able to see this thought he was, yet thoughltess, yet to think & so) That's probably why they put me in the box. He got used to walking his airless lands, quite frankly marveling at the perfection of his own work.  Of course he had of course a webwork of stringlike electronic drones aiding his movments, arcing the brushstorkes perfectly, fuming his sfumato to a great grotesuq perfection, so went he shrunk down & walked through his own painted lands, he was amazed & aghast & occaisonally vomitous at the smooth perfection of his landscapes, as if theyrur some endlessly attenuated surface of a gloost drupe, or fruit, or clear gel of the what-have-you plant of far-off, now destroyéd Kax 5.1+ to the nth. But after years of this, till he was utterly hypnotized by the creations his own ego thought it'd wrought, he came across a...botchy splot THE DIMINUTION VERSION On the rolling, wavering meniscus of a wall out of every Vuormeem home hangs this picture of Wurt‑‑a self-portrait in crayolas, forsooth‑‑with his tongue sticking out which happens in each of my novels, saving one, saving none, cute as a bug's ear & & twice as pink, but it doesn't matter. Wurp! was long gone long before the first molecules etched recordings of their first explosive fate in the faces of their parents, those more malleable, more shadowily palpable mother & father electrons, who dies so that we could sit here, or lie here, or lie dead, even or een, reading this story of the story of how the Bible came to be. The Bible, friends, came to be under terrible circumstamps.  This shrinking is wicked; I'm so sorry I thought of it.  A propos of which Wurp! notice quickly something that‑‑had nhe not been Wurp!‑‑he would have noticed right away, before settling down with his feet kicking the air to write (& the molecules of air getting bigger, you'll recall, getting quickly too big to breath & so one coughed them out, couhed one's own blood sometimes, which would quickly become as big as one, alughing even as they diesd at one's inability for to breathe), that he could neither read nor write. The downloads skimply didn't hold, nor did the necessary awareness that he could not read, hemps his foolish quest for the enlarged ment of his books, & his awful success, & his fnding of the Bible like at this point in the story as the story shrnks the story worries down the story worms into the madness of the hostile crowd and Wurp! of course starts drawing the Bible.  He can see the wordshapes as he shenk towards the letters & went under the stone archwaze of the letters as they the letter each grew totally grand, like Totally Grande, & he drawrs away, his drawings of several letter of the word that is the core of the Bible hanging upon the dark & undulant walls of the subrace of Vuorn I haven't mentioned till they grew up into space & all of the Vuorean Murderers, who were constantly killing the image as practice for someday in somesense killing Wuirp the asshole himself. Wurp! notices he's standing in a rather gloamy labratory od the gloomby labrastory.  Atory. He notice he must in another black spot here * or here ** sent the big book through a Circumfretial Circumgravitor© so it lie like a disk, bristlingly lit, in the center of the lab where the lab where the eyes of all his lights stare crosseyed down ontoit.  He walks round & roun, noting how the line of the letters of the sinuous text whorl inward, in & one presumeth down, down into the hostile crowd of an audience that was left out of everything & then into some sort of holy reality. I want that reality, he thought in italics, which proves that's what he thought.  & then he thought, I want that hoy realityt. & he got it, too, what with this annoying shrinakge, which was proceeding at the diminution version of the speed of light, & found he was cast often-as-snot as Jesus, or even God in the stories, & you can't exporess the ache of having Moses standing there with his fat blanck tablets, & you (Wurp! = you) unable to squeeze out even one syllable, much less commandments for the little guy. He had no choice but to kill him.  He cracked each tablet over Moses' head, crapping out the man's por skull, & you can bet that sent a helluva message to the chosen freugh! In an unexpected advent of sweetness, the Vuor supplied him with an endless supply of their most powerful "designer drugs," though we have to say that the first several thousand waves of pills & syrops & glistering syringes they poured down on him were "designerd" for a Vuorigan nervous system‑‑the Vuor being Very Nervous Indeed, & so they just sort of splashed across Wurp!s's cleverly designated brain. But the Vuorn molecular designers‑‑some as big as a long-chair aromatic polymer themselves‑‑started designing shit for Wurp!'s smooth cerebrum, & he was soon floating intertialess off the wall‑‑a single hair sending him dashing against the opposite wall of mirrors in the oppositionla Hallway of Mirois he was if you call that living in. He was high as a coon on Etherium©, mellow as a hibernating bluebear on Sublibidionium©, free & happy as a bird tripoping on Aveshot© & Wringwrought©and Altitispot© & My Favorite Heavenly Crowd©, ands those Vuor did temper dulcet & healing cremes (but at a pretty penny, no doubt!), & the pills that looked like luminescent fruit & the great-bellied capsules & the nectarous draughts from vials thick & thin & evil‑‑some of them almost a pure evil, but that was only the vial I say within emphasis, the Egyptian hand-blown mouth-wrought vials dropped like crashing guitars, popped like bitter bulbs, but this didn't matter in the haze of the milkie streams. So you might say "Wurp! was pretty lost for a while," & it would do you good to say it.  It would set your bloody liver on fire to to say it, it would make your mouth burstforth with foamy blood & poetry & it's only the poetry that counts when you enter death, enter into those thin deep halls of bidliess, all beached with floating & the memrance of pain occupying your soft, vulnberable I can't call it anything else mental space now as guilt, as a million separate pricks of a lousy gilt, a lousy, queasy, ill-remembranc'd sort of Miltonic Guilt in which guilt you the guilty can't for the death of you remember earning this vicious guilt this guilt which floats within you after death like an overly hot star in the flotational mists of a galaxy, now a lost galaxy, for when you die you become indeed a galaxy, caught up in the greater wanderlust of your supergalaxy, which is the pain & the gult from whiff you just cannot excape, so there were quite a few of these Vuo-induced hallucinations of death, part of the sport, part of the punishment, don'chya know & also the undying Vuor were very into the imagination & depiction & the paintingness of death, & they observed the goofy Wurf's flaccid body-thoughts as he sat there under the hyperinfluenks of, O, possibly as many as seven different drugs, each molecule of each & every drug with its own design, often as I've said with death in mind or with the positioning of Wurp! within the halls of imgained dea & th'imag'd halls of death & the hallwy of death images down which we all must go, generally at three or four o'clock in the morning, in the damp pre-lit morining when the fucking pain sets in. So it's not necessarily a picnic, for our ill-fuorm'd Her, not necessarily the cat's pajamas they was awrappin' him ing, more like the Cocoon of the Mother Spider, which is a mist, I mean a myth, that had frighted Wurp! since he irst stuck his puss into the wordless aura of a campfire something like that. CITIES "Anyway, here we are, inside the Bible!!!  This is Staq Drithor, on the scene, for Staion K-VUR, grokking you the snews at the speed of full-fledged fire. "And a firey scene it is, Tobb, what with crowds of virgins of all imaginable genre & gender & favor & flavor, their varnish still tacky to this reporter's touch, all of them crowding like so many pocked & greasy hands against the cube of elash-o-glash© Christ has chosen to materialize in. "And...there He is!   & the crowd of unkempt, somewhat diminutive virgins presses even harder, & & & you can tell, Tobb, you can tell this is putting quite a tract of impressure on this rareified image of Christ, which really has noly two dimensions, if that, for Christ is having some sort of migraine, you can tell. "I mean, you can fucking tell, Tobb, that he's having a migraine, right now, front & center & here in front of this tortured mash, not to mention the tensed sensors of us, the media, me, the Media, moi‑‑le Media! "And it's a dilly, Tobb.  The Savior‑‑I mean the guy who is playing the savior, really dinna-can-fuction nor get him any sunction just now, the special infernal lights© glazing his exterior even as he vigibly winches & presses his fingertips to his temples, as if he were a ha ha ha gonna heal himself, no kidding Tobb.  That's the story so far, Tobb‑‑the Savior fucks up.  We're still waiting here, now back to you & over to you & up your arse two." & like the cube flaxxes fyre & burns Wurp! out, right onto the crowd just like so much baroquen lava or like the braken plomes o' larva that constantly seep & stretch forth their mighty tensors into the burnt City burnt Incommodious City burnt & flashing into Madness City that is my burnt & raging mind. Wurp!'s head ached, & a blowsy dumbness steeped his sense, as if hemenculuck he had schunck, slithing him lethewardes, on a drunk... Wurp!'s Diary, heretofore nonexistent, pops up merrily.  "My efforts to bring off this Christ act persistently fail," he writeth not in letters, not in icons, not formulae, but in some sort of silvery scrivenings that looked like the outlines of passing, hallucinatory gods, those countless hinuish halluciatory gods being in my mind the only proper gods, but that is neither here nor there.  No wait‑‑that "that is neither here nor there" is neither here nor there, & come to think of it, neither is this... Wurp!'s great Diary‑‑which has outsold & outbelieved the fuckin Bible‑‑gets like this.  Unsnarling the snarled unsnurling of his Certainly Moste Riche & Fetidde Prose, he describes his headaches in such perfect detail that you come away dripping with morphine of memory orpihne of memory morphine of memory morpheme of metaphor. "Apparently," he goes on, "I was not meant to portray Christ (which seems unfair) even in my own dictionary {by which he means pantings, I guess} of unexpurgated loss, I mean laws.  Have I said this seems unfair to me?" Wurp! was apparently unable to go back & check higher up on his columns of alertness, Columns of Alertness, what with the intrusive & constant shrinking I have made such a woof of this plot or pwlaortp. We pause to watch the passing of enormous, hideous bees.  We pause again so as to give us time to exhale, turn, & observe a great festival of birds‑‑or possibly very prettified insects‑‑engaging in unfurling all manner of elegant feather, headbobs...that sortathang.   We pause to observe the command, "This shrinking is making me dizzy," unfurl into yet another great Phantastique City laid out on a plane of silk or silklike silt or some sort of siltlike slick or a slick sort of insipid schmick, like a bloodswatch spanking on a bound-less e-lec-tron-ic sli-ide.  Hm. We pause to exhale again‑‑even though, ass der keen-irised eader ill ave otice, we never inhaled, which frightens us, so we have to pause eve in our pausing to pausing to try to gret a gip on that eliding panic which, like the loggered throes of Satan's mighty thighs smunched overhead & unto ice, doth die & redie & rerediedie in an unholy river of wounds, all self-inficted, all wounds being self-inficted by some sorta lawa physics in this universe, am I right? FUCKING ELF I am right, Wurp! thinks to the part of Wurp! that thinks he thinks, as he, in grey-hooded trenchcoat, enters Phantastique, the city, the province, the whole little droplet shape globule the blood on a large fingertip. He moveth mongst the shadows of the Finger Prince. The Finger Prince‑‑blue as a Hindu, blue as a ballahoo©‑‑approaches him through this great gravid thicket of a grove of sweetest trees. At first only just visible behind this Franz Kafka brand set of ultramiroirs & hyperlenses© he'd apackd in his everbag© ere th'advent of the conception of the dream that ate up the seed that was the flower of this story, back so far in time that time so far goes so far as to as far as go goes goeth backwards...but we don't get into that.  We don't get to get into that. I mean, we don't want to want to get into getting into that of that, now do we we do now?‑‑visible, I'd say, as some fucking elf molesting the once-O!-so-O!-O!-carefully-prewnéd olives, then as the rag doll he'd brought along to protect himself from overshrinkagle. Yea, he was a sucker‑‑or as they say down in these thuikepts©, a blower!‑‑like held blown another balloon on this magic doll; but, in defense of my client‑‑crimemptible continal though he BEE!!!‑‑I should note that the efficacy of magic or as the kids yesteday say, "Magicke," has by no manner of means nor maniere dewise been disproven. Not in this sector anyway. Not in this sector anyway, buddy. Not in this sector anyway, bub. "Glad you could make it down," said the Prince, now About The Right Size For Fiction, as Hemingway would have dared not ever say, what with the special effects exploding down through eaveenraydch corpuscle of your so-called "friend Baroniale Braine." Wurp! had to keep pursuing not so much him as the limpid, Inch-long Insipid Inklings of his voice, which glistered like dewey maggots aboard a fat leaf of the healing vera, pursuing the ever-enlarging-which-amount-to-diminishing voice through these oergrown, punchently Miltonic groverly-groves, through many a sparse then unguent patch & down mini a slipperyed vale & into many a crimnson excuse me Monumentally Emerald Dell, along streambeds bristling with effervescent fruit IT THE GRIMPSE PASS BY and steambbeds whistling with smouldering meritorious soup it was some sort of a fruit soup I believe, stewed up like amountain of succulent prunes by some damp aboriginals there.  I don't know who they were.  I mean, I can't make up everything, you bastards, if you are reading this in some sort of Illiteratur Group, or puzzled bastard moving his lips with a silent siren of whoop but they the theytives they the natives they looked something like sentient maggots, at least in the glimpse of them that blinds me whenever it the glipse I it the grimpse pass by & screambred sissling with scintillicent & stupendously stupid, stooping zöööps which is a stupid thing we have hear‑‑a stupid plant, if you must know, individually or as one of those interactive groping Group Access Noze italice mine italics mine! that plant that plant that we have stuttering I guess here here, & it seems to grow everywhere, at all phasic magnitudes & dollops of the Triplelip of Scope if you mussnough & the greyish, hyshterikal roots growing it would seem forever down from The House Where I Thought I Grew Up, though it turns out I never grew up, much less remembered grewing yup, past idiot idiot berried, they're called, you Idiot Berry you, & big sillyheads, which are frankly my second most favorite fruit, even though it's not a drupe, much less a frupe but a grinning goldflower of sorts we do not have here but have to import from our imaginations, which we can do, I guess I don't need to tell you even though you must know, on these great imaginative cruisers we have here, or referant ships, or bloom-bearing seedswips or petal-pulling droomhaults or pistol-packing mamas or or Norships of Yorn, which is the name ewe really used, now that I've come up with it & traveled back‑‑which I can do‑‑in my emitpihs, & planted their precious kernels into the teemy hot sweltering unguent-rich hormone-fainting soil soil soil soil... I could kept keep hearing heard the Prince's if I may call him voice, hollering, like he was hollering at me, like he was hollering at me like he wanted me to come, like he etc. to come but he kept on burrowing in, the Snicky Little Tick. & as I was saying, if you must recall, he pursued with evermore difficult & yet Surprisingly Gentle Penetration into these furrows & leaflongues & bulk-thickets of growth which would seem to be a particular repsonse of this land to beig in the diminution torus, so to speak, if we must speak, past black trunks (not trees, just trunks) trunks waving in undulant perfection & luxurious Moaztean thymes & measures, which grow here if you think the proper thoughts but the thoughts are lost the thoughts have been lost thought is lost, I beg your pardon? SMALLWARK and through galactic rhizome clusters glowing in a distinctly radioactive ray or distinctively alien wray, themps down through rippling turquoise waterfalls so waterfalls so tiny you could...just...barely...niggle your big tow throught it, within which BFS (bat fig second or beckoned fag satron) grown through the coriolus of the bee-äü-ti ful shrinkage he was thinking that!  My what beatuful shrinkage, thought he to himself, which for some parenthiqualle reason suggests the proximity of BFD (big fat death or bat feath dig or diggorydoo©) perhaps in the smell perhaps in the echo of his snell, but anyway My what dev'liciously bee-äü-tiful shinkage! cried the Palm Prince or the Deaf Prince or the Prince of Touches or whoever it was he whoever he was was pursuing, whatever that was, they having reached you see, the verges of memory, just about to get so small they'd become big, which is what lieth on tuther side of smallwark or infinitesimaltude, or whatever patented phrase you you have in mind, & they fought for a second like two transparent Holmeses fighting Two Transparent Moriaties ($526.98, for a limited spot of time even as we speak falling down the infinite waterfall) infinte echoes of his waterfowl, which suggest to Wuirp{ he can now "hear" the Prnce's "thoughts," & he (Wurp!) thinks, Maybe I can think my thoughts to him, I mean, this would happen in a dream, now wouldn't it now now? Sh.  Wurp! bids me shut up while he tries to commit contact or kommix kontax or xomix xonzak©... ...while they skate along the wintry hedgegrove primitive primrose aqueducts & duck down languid hives of hugely scultpur'd bees (no, really!), past the limp figures of many a supine beauty, this being some kind of stauesque court of the frozen merminds, or some ice-scultpture sort of thing (primevally cold! b^^^^^^^^!), this being an area where rough artists spend the last snowflaked druplets of their blood making scultuptures of what they regard as saints, these frozen women, these frozen-faced women, these dull & cold women, these languid womens, these frail & turquoise beauties‑‑the ice here being speciall imported ice here being specially imported ice here from there, where there equals another universe (the universe of the Epilusians, if you mucksnow©) where ice be infinitely cold, and down again & again it would seem through blissful rows of dead but gardened carefully as corpses trees in a great hilariously if a bit giddly whorling glaciarium, through a garden of garnishes, with their horny, spiked legendarily reptilian leaves THE SYMBOLISM OF THE BABES all of them grey, ash grey, specifically that most dead grey of the School of the Asengrey known as coloradoaspen grey, all this grey crapola just an "upchuck't upshot" of the volcano known but not named Upshot! the Volcano!, or is it named but not knon as?, the sky, one's idgety-eyes, everything covered in the finest white dust in the world of worlds then bursting like the sliced Ladye of Kniffe through-through the shower curtains into a very wet & very very verdant verld, & it was hard‑‑nay, next to impossibly next-to-hard!‑‑tto resist reading meaning into these meaningful leaves, with their warped striations & cwurves like to grimaces smiles of wonder & various forms of leafy sar chasm, so he was thinking, This rocky realm of saxifrage I am chasing the bastard through, these hardy solmen grippers, eating of the absolute Rock, undoubtedly or at east probably or anyway negligible symbolize my stregnth, borne of clumsy genetic coding engenic encoding extragexic exzodling, but strength, no ne the same and lo, this realm, this ehre realm I pant through (this being apprently one of the hundred of Very Airles Realms, only this one a bit more anaerobicke than moste) shouting at the Prince to slow down ("Just one more veil to rip through, young man!  Come along!" comes proably just my fancy of Wurp!'s fancy of the meaning of his the Prin's meaningless his-the-princez cries) that would seem to be the incubation chamber hot; Hemingway sweat hot sweat' wordless reeking Hemoingway hot reducing even adverbs into nubs nubs? of a billion giant babes, each rocking transparent in hisorher big cradle, these cradles of course, needless to say, hardly worth mentoning, sorry I brought it up (the leszed the better, right?) formulated out of vary porous leaves‑‑this all symbolize my subconscious min as it threatens & enages me, torturing me at sunset every day, then bringing that torture into my sleep, the n weaving that torture into the fabric of the morphine of sleep, to the point where I am so scared to sleep I rock endlessly, endlesly, hench the symbolism of the babes Did I say morphine?  I meant metaphor but no time to re. and this next realm when I pull up the basmeent cover door, I haul it up as the great nasal tornado comes along, sucking me up to surrealism, heaven forbib, this realm of the tiny little babes, little incubi much more the size of a real incumbeigh©, this must represent the wanness or futility of my hopes, or the insane wuest and this is the University of Botany, wholly subsidizned by the plants themselves, who love to be studied & studied, & have unlike the kind of mere plants you up to now were thinking of, have put in some serious lab-time here, & are as much scientists as plants, hemps the attitude, hemps the lack of air, hemps the abstracteness of my painful quest, hemps the pain of mine abstracted quest, hemps the quench of my absolute thirst & hemps the quagmire of my illimpicit fexts and ripping another lid open, hoping to find the Fucking Printe, dick in hand & cornered (& with police lights likt the mighty white cops of amphetamine‑‑cops I would neveer touch, miund you, nor mention, mind you, did they not keep agoosin' my ass with their white amphetamine STICKS!!!), finding only the author as loony as they come rattling out his one big sentece-says Wurp!'S BOTCHED GENES and, affcackling minimaniacally, like a miniatriz'd runtscrawn'd maniac indeed,and in fact & also (& this is unimportant:) after the fact, says, "Basically, you're getting close to the Finger Prince.  I mean I assure you you are really close." & when Wurp!, ath wath hith wonk!!!, ripped off the faceoff auf, along with All Manner of Connected Covereens, all illiquid, all illaa very illonaxty smört of acryllic endlessly-stretchable polymer actually the urvery selfsswame selfstuff ofof Wurp!'s botched genes, Wurp!'s botched genes, Wurp!'s botched genes, Wurp!'s botched genes, Wurp!'s botched genes, Wurp!'s botched genes, Wurp!'s botched genes, Wurp!'s botched genes, Wurp!'s botched genes, Wurp!'s botchéd genes Wurp! felt quite assured, just as I'd told him to feel, & just as we are all feeling in this warm auditorium right now, that he was about to rip the face off the face that was covering the Prince, & that, if not actually seeing & speaking with the actual malleable balloon fabric phalllic modules of the Finger Print's face, then sitting in one of the O!-so-commong "double-u-rooms©" that we doubl-u-rheums© have here doubleerüümz©, bless you, with the skin meniscus engineered illusive veniere or vinoire betixendem, so that instead of the ballons of Prince's, if I can call him that, rather turgid words, if I can call demdat, he heard ifyoucancaalitdat nothing ifyoucancallit nothing but ifyoucanbutcallitbut the film offthe reflection of his words as seen in his own dying mind if you can die like that or die in that or die at that so on went our energetic Wurp!, ripping away 1) the face of the author as oog so bloodily divulged by that aforespg'd wrimping-oph© 2) the connective tissue of my sentences 3) the connective swissure of my storystroke or the punishingly torturoed stroke of the brain that has created these stories, & which of course causes the inevitalbe stroke of the brain of the storke of the brainstoke you wil inevitably & ineluctably also have have heave ave 4) the face of the silly bird confronting him 5) the numbers I've been using here as a last gasping blastosphere of a resort of a spa of numbers the face of the idiot scientists creating him the wonderful thing (Wurp! was to never know what it twax) that distracted them, causing dem to seal oer-rapidly up Wurp!'s genius of a seed, so that he grew into the ill-formed nicely-pliable mutatingly-pliant suffusingly-gallant infusingly-generic (comlete with complicated bars denoting "genuine generic Wurp!-brand Wurp!©, just $5.99) hero of this great as the kids say "whipped-cream whopper" of an entubulating tale, taking as it were & if it was & end it here war here war here her & here also here & here the wonderful thing that distracted the author in whatever passeth in him for his sleep that kept him from "doing certain 'things,'" videlicit a) giving him proper genitals, b) giving him improper genitals, c) giving him the power of actual speec, d) giving him this 1) e 1a) num 2) er 3) a 4) tive 4a) pow er) er, e) giving him the sweet yellow fruit y'all know as The Letter E f) the gardens of conjugal love in which milie streams as of berry or grape do sweeve, ripping the face of the old gardener‑‑more as a reflex, more as a force of habit, more as a karma-dictated riot a KARMA DICTATED RIOT!!!‑‑into More Garden Shit MORE GARDEN SHIT as for enshamble, a garden of shit, not at all easy to rip the faceless face off the face of the billion different shades & tastes & lollipop curlicues of, well, psychotic shit, for this was Yet AnOther SymBöLickeal JarDeng, which he well-nigh killed himself dying to redeem and into the infamous evil Gardena Shades, or Shadegarten!, that-there garden where every leaf, every fragment of a stem, the very phloem & ylem of the blopw-up that created this universe we are universe we are dying yin, subsisted as a mere, corner-of-the-tears-of-the-falling-Eye shade, or shadow or half-glimpsed truth about oneself that, glimpsed in, say the white light of that energetic, feisty little sun little sun, Idge©, would disap  r, or, if glanked at through say the robot light of a Nuclear Speer, would kill you just to see so, shae, & this giving him the Creepes or the Creepers! or the Famus Creepes or Die Kriepenshaden!, Wurp! eschewed this place for that lavishly deluxe garden place, another garden,y es, but this yes the Gaden of Light (the fucking Garden of Delight itself!  I mean, that meant I meant that mean the legends were all true‑‑I mean to say all of the lgeneds were true!  All (!) of them!  True!) which he couldn'y belief, Wurp! pulling over his great irised head the special spectacles knöen as Speciacticles© screning & buffring him well from the sheets of light, which t speak plainly if with a list of a livid light was what this garden was made out of. An he felt the great reverse tide of presecne, the idea of a presence, your scientists, had we not slaughtered them, 'd call it, & the great sapphire fount in his halfassed aching heart telling him he had finally caught up, that thew Finger Prince was here but alack, the selsame goggles or Protectogögs© that acquitted his ass from blindness also rendered the Princ einfernally strangfe & invisible, & the more he risked his life, someone else's life, & yet someone else's samioty adjusting the FP filtration potency of the goggles or the POWER of the Spectrotectiacoggles©, the more evasively did the Prince did huddle. THE PROPINQUITY OF HIS BONES O, he could see his bones all right, but logic in this world did not as logic in my world doth & the logic of your world proth, that the Prince would be t