with younger iteration of this guy who talks about himself in the third person - shake hands with stendal, that old bit of brand-junk severed for no purposes yes, it's alright, it's all right - don't look back, it doesn't flow well enough that way - it gets too structured, scorched under the blast furnace emission of that thing, the mountain where those people are, do that thing to that guy! Action hotdog go!
you gotta get that goofy truth seems a lofty ideal sometimes - The Goof Truth squad. The gold standard of Goof-proofs is Emmanuel Kant's Critique of Pure Reason.
This is that mountainous dirge I remember, that's got some joyful melancholy in it, like that guy harangues louie about savoring whatever flavour of sadness that was, something serious, heartache type thing, the jaded sage says it's the best part, is it irony?
There was a whole mythology about fingers, and how they snapped, and smelled. It's probably still relevant, but ambition is lacking. Wanting to narcotize its parent cognitive pattern. A rat running around in a maze, in a brain. Chili Willey, gotta roll! Roll down the staircase, elevator, escalator case, just as long as the veins drive on, down, deeper, into the superstructure exhaust port - it drove like i cared, like i loved to care about it driving, it became a stand-in for some other things, and all surrendered to dreams, making one's own music video about it, sophisticated stand in for scrap booking, or rather, a demon haunted thrillhouse ride for mandrake palavers with lucifer.
It was a resonant rain chamber of being perfectly ok with this level of texture, spinning, like hearing about the bubbles in a chugging change chamber of changing operators and their structures with patterns for flattering and felating the master pretender of becoming okay, like where it all matters, with burnt almonds and whistling alternate versions of documented in the moment quarter ecstasy, about as good as the real gets.
Then there's this altogether other sentence of building comp-hiccup glitches wall partner spars, climbing like ivy, and giggling eyelid flutters all over the lashes of your edifice, spread, ready for fogging delirium until it gets to a paste of self-parody, and yet, oddly egged on by simulacrum low end of the speed spectrum compulsion... maybe the stand in has had its time. Impromptu Fuck You is even better. The best. Driving, ever forward, to some reflection of the decadence of some massively ridiculous roman empire epoch - take it easy - any way it comes - oh, and i bookmarked this part. The kid stays in the picture. Everything's as good as you need it to be. Thank god the distracted archivist got it, even though it echoes of self-parody, and that sometimes transmogrifies into truth, like an ancient handshake morphed into a Spinal Tap song, and who could possibly want to read anything? Everybody's pounding out text, of a form, there's not an art to it though, or maybe there is in some unknown subculture of caring. Ringing tweak that only I will know. Let it keep that way. Ringing to infinite death inflation. Dissipating energy, heat death, before the era of quantum cosmic tweaks to meta-universal view.