Time: A.D. 1/28/1986, 11:39:13.628.2003 A.M. ESTi

From: X

To: You

Number: 1.1

Title: ZZZZZZZAP !

que

vale)]

- - -

&s &

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

S.Si

Sssssssssssssss - o

& so bgns anew a fresh scent mass age mess age messuage. MOSH HODGE ! --U c initial X !

--fro ths distant den send shining 1 first in 2 U savage shadowland I hrmt 4 1 bright 2 transpire b received / reamplissembled inside cram bias o sole soul ob [transponder] & -- out hs chosen familiar: xputng mchin machi....

“It's time!”

“Hark!”

Here I sign. Make my mark: -- X [1] -- approach thy Pearly Gate....

“Hail!”

Guardian Editor comes forth Pen o Fire held high! Red out write of atonement 2 U 8 20 28 50 82 126 [137] 4 1 ominous propagation o f formerly false e choes echoing echoes echoing echoes echoing echo's echo echoed ... echoes echo echoes echoing echoes echoing echoed echoes (echo [echo ((echo ...

echo echoes ...

e cho

ec h o e ch o

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relaunch:

entry:

retry:

entry:

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–88.272 & 5x10^-44 GRB FRED AGLA*-=+<4 RE(B((O))W: Will – Sunne: 9211959 -H4 ~ C60 ((44 58 57NxW93 15 43))>+=-*X B612

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....... A.D. 4,320,000,000 ! 3,850,002,502 10-31-3,500,000,900 ! 2,000,000,001 1,260,000,000 12-25-1,000,000,000 12-31-999,999,999 800,080,008 ! 666,666,666 635,427,819 555,000,000 438,000,000 ! 240,000,000 226,000,000! 3-21-200,000,033 190,000,061 101,000,000 69,210,276 12-31-33,000,004 30,000,000 26,000,000 ! 12,960,000 10,000,033 5,271,009 2-27-2,774,020 2,000,001 1,728,000 1,366,560 1,296,000 1,000,033 1,000,001 12-25-1,000,000 12-21-999,999 802,701 666,666 2-17-435,102 432,000 405,000 200,001 100,000 47,909 41,000 36,000 30,004 29,920 26,390 25,920 25,780 23,000 20,000 14,000 13,582 10,500 10,191 9248 9091 6939 6-6-6666 6248 5730 5407 5274 4925 6-17-4784 4494 4248 4210 4104 4001 4000 3953 3805 3797 3717 3248 3212 3149 3001 12-31-3000 12-21-2999 2984 2951 2889 4-26-2886 3-16-2880 2848 2729 9-1-2660 2600 2562 2531 2525 2456 2440 5-10-2437 9-16-2436 2429 2419 2414 2375 2350 2325 2-15-2301 2293 2287 2282 3-16-2280 2274 2257 4-2256 2255 2250 2248 2203 2190 2150* 2148 2137 2131 2130 8-14-2126 2125 12-21-2112 2105 2100 2090 2087 2086 2081 2079 2072 9-11-2071 2069 2061 10-27-2060 2-1-2060 2055 2050 2046 2043 2042 2039 2036 2031 2030 4-13-2029 2027 8-4-2026@10:00p.m. 2025 1-3-2021 11-16-2020 2-1-2019 2018 2013 12-23-2012 2010 4-2003

2-1-2003a.m. 2001 12-31-2000 1999 1998 2-1997 1993 1-12-1992 3-23-1989 8-16~17-1987 4-26-1986 1-28-1986a.m.

1984 6-13-1983 11-1980 8-15-1977 1975 2-3-1974 ~ 2-20-1974 3-3-1972 1971 7-20-1969 1963 11-1961 9-16-1959 10-4-1957 11-25-1953 1952 5-11-1950 6-21-1948@11:00a.m. 3-1948 7-1947 6-24-1947 1946 7-16-1945 4-16-43 6-1943 10-28-1943 1942 1939 1938 1937 1936 1934 10-11-1928 9-7-1927 4-1-1926 1925 1919 1918 1916 1915 1914 1913 6-30-1908 1905 6-16-1904 12-17-1903@10:35a.m. 1900 1897 1896 1895 1893 1887 1885 1-24-1884 1883 1881? 1880 1879 1878 1877 1874 1870 1865 11-1859 7-1-1858 1848 10-1846 10-22-1844 1840 1832 1831 1827 1823 1816 1795 1790 10-1783 1781 1760 1752 1742 1740 1725 1716 5-4-1699 1698 1690 1689 1687 1665 1646 1643 1618 1614 1609 1608 10-9-1604 7-9-1595 10-15><10-4-1582 1572 5-16-1571@4:37a.m. 1554 1543 1534 1528 1522 1519 1517 1492 1462 1456 1421 10-24-1408 1369 1356 1348 1337 1332 1290 1271 1254 1248 1239 1235 1215 1195 3-20-1185 1181 6-25-1178 1119 11-11-1111 4-1066 6-1054 1033 1006 1001 12-25-1000 12-31-999 946 935 902 873 843 814 810 776 750 666 628 622 610 580 571 562 540 539 536 501 500 476 453 398 395 393 12-25-350 336 5-11-330 325 314 313 312 12-25-271 248 201 185 167 140 125 98 96 88 80 70 69 66 54 52 37 4-5-33@4:00a.m. 4-10-30 4-7-30 27 23 13 6-6-6 4 3 1 = +0- = 1 10-6-4 2-6-6 6-6-6 7 13 23 42 44 1-1-46 48 52 69 85 88 90 96 99 110 134 1-1-153 170 201 207 272 12-25-283 322 329 5-11-330 336 372 384 385 399 430 551 563 6-19-584 588 590 599 600 604 612 619 7-16-622 3-26-628 630 660 664 666 667 686 3-23-687 701 702 715 740 2-26-747 2-15-752 4-21-753 12-23-753 6-15-762 9-6-775 776 836 842 922 925 939 948 3-25-970 1-1-1000 12-31-1001 1025 1069 1080 1100 11-11-1111 1122 1159 1177 1194 1200 12-12-1221 1312 1330 1369 1393 1453 1470 5-5-1491 1504 1526 1571 1628 1640 1700 1750 1760 1765 1768 1769 1810 1813 1877 1950 1986 1998 2000 2001 2024 5-2050 2075 2100 2150 2160 2190 2192 2193 2250 2270 2288 2344 2346 2348 5-5-2349 2354 2375 5-10-2437 2503 2560 2575 2638 2655 2704 2722 2750 2770 2771 2772 2773 2800 2919 12-2-2926 3000 3001 2-18-3102 3104 8-13-3113 8-12-3114 3133 3150 3195 3201 3335 3372 3440 2-10-3641 3750 3760 9-7-3761 3737 3800 4000 4001 10-16-4004 4159 4190 4228 4241 4300 4430 4500 4530 4700 1-1-4713@12:00u.t. 11-24-4714@12:00u.t. 4900 5199 5490 5508 5600 5730 5772 (6000) 6148 6-6-6666 6690 6740 7540 7640 8200 8850 9124 9500 9564 9600 9780 9900 10,044 10,450 10,500 10,700 10,880 11,500 11,940 12,600 13,865 14,200 15,500 16,000 18,000 19,400 20,000 23,000 24,000 25,780 29,920 32,000 36,000 41,000 45,047 50,600 55,950 57,616 64,800 66,000 70,000 72,000 76,000 91,600 100,001 115,000 120,000 148,000 241,200 270,000 340,600! 367,000 400,004 405,000 432,000 443,000 456,000 500,005 666,666 780,000 930,000 991,485 991,474 1-1-1,000,000 1,296,000 1,366,560 1,650,000 1,728,000 2,000,001 ! 2,229,000 3,200,000 4,735,643 5,300,000 6,000,000 12,960,000 13,000,000 ! 20,000,001 23,800,000 24,000,000 33,700,000 36,900,000 38,000,000 54,800,000 57,000,000 66,000,000! 94,500,00 1-1-101,000,000 183,000,000 ! 208,000,000 212,000,000 226,000,000 ! 240,000,000 248,000,000 251,400,000 !!! 252,600,000 270,000,000 10-31-286,000,013 345,000,000 ! 364,000,000 380,000,000 ! 438,000,000 470,000,000 ! 485,000,000 501,000,000 523,000,000! 530,000,000 543,000,000 555,000,000 570,000,000 5-1-590,000,002 635,000,000 666,666,666 750,000,000 ! 999,999,999 1,260,000,000 1,800,040,000 ! 2,000,000,001 2,300,000,000 2,916,338,524 1-1-3,000,000,000 3,470,000,000 3,700,000,000 3,850,070,030 ! 12-21-3,870,000,409 10-16-4,000,000,004 4,290,002,007 ! 4,320,000,000 B.C. .......

=:=:{^XX_X}=:

I Cor.15.26-28 + II Pet.3.6-7> & qq o U do personally .... , display drive and destication + BIBBU FTL-CTL & bcl-2 A-C-G-T (223) MAP THEOHIPPIP H I # n2^ S.F.L. (muu ISBN STS-107! \ AWHQ709 ced-9 ice9 ced-9 ice9 6673 p2 @R-101!) BEL 3He so mi message s ss A.^..A.^.. Y2K [fiawol] (many bells hi ) ee c s5

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... / - / . / -. / -.. / . / -.-. SDSS ---- J090745.0+24507 >>> > 6EQUJ5 & (t-RNA * TNA)@ 2.7182818*² +ATP ~ CB4 OTO i9 9i i o u OSU 9 909 SRY & MIS & UM MANI PEME HUNG 613 sex sex sex eat eat eat : TANSTAAFL! TFYQA! LAWLAP-GRUNCH __[snaf4.01!] Yud Hay Vuv Hay o o AA AL YHVH * YHWH EL AA @ 979323.... #2273.... [2 #137 +] NGC 224 & # ## 9 9 9 #9#9# Ti&Mo:go 9 #9 AL AARAAF 3C 10 & 3C 358 + 3C 144 < C 7 & X -- 73sec / NGC 5128 - W49B - NP 0532 3C 48 NGC 3115 + ARP 220 - 1.013 zzzzzzzz !!! NGC 4261 !!!! 7.297352533 1.6180339 0.5772156 ......... #9#9#zzz: 9 #9 #9#9#9#9#909#9#9#9 #9 ..... <>= #9 &0 #9 = X ^#ix 2 / N=8=N ~ F=ma / QEM 2 Null-A | WWHG #9{ECA+PHA}#9 = L₅ & BL Lacs d-ASC + B0 Ib = I.T.--I.F. H-00047 S.M.I².L.E. Q^* <->B EE @ J2058+42

SG-1 NGC 6888 #9 B612 NGC 6240 # NGC 1569 # NGC 3079 # 9 #9 Sco X-1_Cyg 3-X *GRB 030329* #9 1E0630+178 HD209458b #9 V838Mon # 9 T+74.587 (& XKBO?) Fe+26 # > D O U O S V A V V M

^*2,4,5- T E.L.S.

[29:1]

*11:38:00:01....... bow wow yo he ho -- MUSARUS OANNES ! --

1040,000 ... r r r

__reset:-:-:

10⁴⁰

__runtime:=:=: #9

....kadosh!.....

--- soz uz may wonder f r nat ths essage B 4 U2 + Us4000 (98.6 @ 2.7) | M82 + Rev. 13:11-18 = [((8C))]SYZYGY !!!!!!! | YGYZYS C=256 CPG-15 * * * * * * * 0902+34 CY30-CY30B M45 #9 JWC #9 GRB971214 #9 - RXJ1856 GCRT J1745-3009 #9 #9 T+74.130 # BPM 37093 MS-0735

33^o @ 23 ¹/₃ N 9#9#9 parity check

138^o X 19.5^o go gold

1986-2003:

Mother Teresa - Stephen W. Hawking

tat tvam asi

x [((M51))] + [((HD44179))] x

G.C.B.

3/4ⁿ⁺¹(0 = 00) 3/4ⁿ

STS-51-L

4'33'' ~~NHERF2~~ [3] [4] [22]

[pardon interrupt]

reset Endzeit (SS 433) cAMP ... infrared: re...:

[shibboleth]

s.r C1435-4

([2])

<-Enter->

Ahoy!

Hail! Hark.

And hail again!

Cooee!

Tea time! Tea time!

Taste this--

Munch my molasses cookies, chewy raisins ... yum, yum, crunchy pecans, yum, yum, yum. Go ahead. Have a byte … &, Fly--

--Captain Future

Marvel Other New Worlds

Thrilling, Startling

Wonder Planet Weird Tales

New Dynamic Adventures

Fantastic Stirring Miracle Comet….

Unknown Cosmic Galaxy

Astonishing

Astounding!

Magazine of Fantasy & Super Science Fiction!!!

Amazing Stories--

--Fly!

Have more--

Molasses cookies! -- raisins galore! . . .

Nuts too!

Ha!

Tea time!

Starmind.

Yum, yum, yum--

Ho. You think mere Chance turned this leaf toward you? That I am just one more interesting instance among several serendipitous synchronicities threading your lifelong line through an ever evasive eye in a pointless rusted needle?

Wrong!

Our meeting of minds is more than mere coincidence matching my statistically selected random words against the odds of your strange media habits bringing you so near my cave.

See, this literary scenario is pre-planned and specifically laid out to leadeth you into unknown but predetermined temptations. Yes! I intended this; our initial informal rendezvous. I knew you would read this--

“CONTACT!”

Most fortunate day for You. Very fortunate day for Me.

First card dealt.

Time: A.D. 1/28/1986, 11:39:13.623.1000

From: X

To: You

Number: 1.2

Title: File Maker

Begin by slowly installing me among those animals you love and enjoy -- but have never touched. Classify me midst those terrible wars you didn't fight tho their vivid imprints make you tremble.

I will be but one more field filed among a worth lifetime's recollections. I will be yet another of your solitary shadows, gathering information, hunting associations ... roaming roundabout closed broken banks collecting interest-related factoids from yesteryear deposits.

Go on, Pal. Put me in there. I’m your new Bud. Have me enter all the worlds you can never visit.

Let me mingle midst that mediakind whose flesh you never meet. Smiling people with perfect teeth stroll between tall clean buildings you have no way to enter. Go where nary is heard a discouraging word when you wade chestdeep through amber waves of heartland grain every bit as high as a unicorn eye and the skies are not cloudy all May. Nay!

Blue skies.

And we see piles of sand.

Gently rolling dunes.

We hear a lone green grass stylus riding out a mariner's ancient seabreeze sonnet.

You and I again ride the same endless summer wavecrest as carries the inevitable elusive ocean message sans bottle-- one to finely break back upon a woodland writer's sandy shore and spill our lives and lies among tangled seaweed tightly tied to a phrase fisher's knotted nets....

O' lift your head, my dear Friend. Let your inner ear tap this lovely wentletrap:

Listen in, listen: while it endlessly provides perfectly orchestrated melodies for all-the-songs-you-never-sang but-could-have had-you-tried. Listen further in, and DANCE! as your voodoo spanish castle phoenix flame rises from blood and sand to pierce that purpled haze to kiss his rainbowed robe!

--knowing all the while, what we really hear is the melting of worthless words foaming tambourine memories for your Ramona mouth --crackling sizzling syllabus syllables sip sliding down the slope to a primordial sea of Campbell's condensed alphabeta-soup. Umm, umm good.

We wonder?

Are your deepest dreams shifting as do these dunes?

Or are they fading forever away as unnoticed passing clouds?

O Friend, look! Look! There -- in the wind! There go all your blown chances. Old dried-out plans. Important unwritten letters. Thousands of lost opportunities. A million dreams dreamt away forever.

Among scattered hopes are shards of past visions.

O dear dear Benefactor, we walk and we walk, we walk walk walk ... why, we can stroll forever on this desolate brown beach. Walk forever where the salty damp roar never ends. Never. And yet, this my Good Friend is but one ... of more than a dozen emotionally damaged areas within your wasted mind. Yet, this spot is where I want to live. I will live in here.

Acknowledge me now as you do Marco Polo and the Queen of Saba. I am at the least their equal. They too have never met one another, and they two will never stand breathing before you. So accept me as them. Make me a full person. Make me your new escort.

Sure, I know I occupy significantly less your thought time than today's top headline. Yet, I know I have only to wait. Tomorrow that horrifying lead of yesterday will fade into next week's blazing banner ballyhooing a latest frightening massacre or next month's new comforting peace plan. Yawn. Big yawn.

Go on.

Let all those attention-grabbing consumer items pass their frivolous ways; while You and I privately evolve into a much more meaningful understanding of an ultimate purpose for developing our proper symbiosis.

[“CONTACT!”]

Bear in mind, Young Scout, most everything you consider to be a major Absolute is only verifiable to you through instruments, equations, and deductions. Thus am I no different. Pal, you live on filtered second-handmedowned information. Your mediasource beliefs have become the firm boughs sought by the crease of your simian grip. You seek safe strong branches to swing up climb down and nest upon. See? You live in a tree. I in a cave. At the back of a black hole.

But now I'm also in you. My dark mountain is moved inside you.

You say you can't see me ... And you begin to wonder ... Am I a solitary soothsayer, or ... Am I an insidious invader? Do I have two legs or eight or none? What of my shape? How big am I? What do I eat? -- EAT?

Suddenly you are defensive. Skeptical of my motives. You begin to pry. Am I am really human? My intentions bona fide? --And what are my plans for you?

Yea! You!

You who would that this enigma show the violet lining of my dark and tattered cloak. Yea. You who would have me unshutter my magick-lantern, and --flood my cave with light to let you see upon these walls: Red Hands !

“My God.”

Easy. Relax.

Finally my Friend, it's Fate and Faith who gently bring us--You and I--side by side ... trusting, trembling -- towards Truth.

“God.”

Very wary you wander.

Quite cautious.

I hear you breathing.

Ah. Now you near my new laid labyrinth's lovely lair's delusion ... I hear you breathing.

Come in, O beautiful dreamer. Come in.

Time: A.D. 1/28/1986, 11:39:13.546.3000

From: X

To: You

Number: 1.3

Title: Test Spin

Once upon a time there was a little girl who met two very important men. They violently rape the girl leaving her for dead in a gutter.

As they walk away from the crime scene older man smells sour of sweat, unshaven, wears wound round his waist magenta sash of Ruling Guard. Younger man, remarks: “She bit through my skin.”

“Little bitch.”

“We gotta get outta here fore civies come huntin’. I'm bleeding.”

“ Screw ‘em. Sunrise we safe sleep inside Pentagram.”

“Neck's bleeding. She bit through my skin.”

“Brat.”

The older rapist marries and has a wonderful family. The younger rapist too marries, but twice divorces, does not remarry further. Both men are especially successful in acquiring enough worldly treasures to die rich of ripe old age. Each man sired six very virile children. All twelve genetic descendants carried electrons with negative imprints of the long forgotten rape. Waiting to be developed.

As for little girl raped, though never wed, she too soundlessly passes on to other generations her latent perspective of the violent encounter. Via six bastards.

In the millennia following the burials for each of these three principals, their personal captured rape event patterns residing inside various body-cell electrons become bacterially ingested during carcass decomposition; upon their digestion and further disintegration within the bacterium many master memory fragmentos--all minus positive monopols--and their accompanying post-atomic event suprapatternisitc field gestalts become stuck inside several survival nemenome-protomeme transfixers themselves holographically attached to tiny attractive viroid particle’s atom’s spinning electrobits (complementary to those specific previously lost wondering positive ‘poles) which rub against and become ionically attached to the hull of a mutated mitochondrian RNA transporter traveling deep inside the egg of a squid. These relatively miniscule events slowly occur on a shelf beneath the Atlantic Ocean, near Tyrhenia. The impregnated egg is swallowed by a harpooned white whale itself later eaten by great white sharks. Eventually ... eternally vibrant essences of the three involved perspectives are atomically reunited --and, redrawn back into the homo sociobiological system through the carnal canal. Fresh fish flesh. Eaten raw. Ensuing exiting sushi shit fertilizes fields. Grain grown with fertilizer is fed to horses grazing in an apple orchard....

Jump:

20,000 gens after the scene

Wedding takes place in old Catholic church by Bay of San Francisco. Brown-eyed Cherokee bride in snow-white gown her green-eyed Germanic groom--resplendent in black-cloud tux--plan soon to settle in Seattle. Neither know of the ancient monomer keycodes actively reverberbeating within three hidden nucleonic fields carbobonded to their hormone stimulated--just about to be covalent--sex genes: new banded buxom bride is molecularly contaminated by younger rapier's unedited recording; gallant groom holds two potent but noncatalyzed imprints: one from the elder rapist and one from girlchild victim (including her smells of sour sweat).

These three (3) secret codes have by chance or by chreode beaten the chaotic odds to serve as exons to protean partners being held in silent witness to this nuptial Benediction by the Bay. Three (3) mnemonic members of the wedding patiently waiting to pronounce their piece.

Mmmm. Aroma of wild white orchids and golden sound from organ pipe: people move in slow forward procession. Feet shuffle. Hands clasp.

Kneel at alter. White wafers on red tongues. Bride and groom stand. All eyes focused on radiant couple.

Vows exchanged.

Priest words spoken for all ears to hear, “….love, honor …. till death do you part.”

Finger rings exchanged and long long kisses taken on the mouth. More fragrant flowers. Much embracing. More kisses. Champagne toasts and tall white cake cut.

Slice.

Another kiss.

Cameras wink.

Slice. Kiss.

Cameras wink. Slice. Wink. Slice. Slice.

Polished white rice and wild bird seed tossed upon bowed heads of dearly departing out church door and into long white limo. “Bye, bye!” Wink wink wink….

Waving well-wishers.

“Bye....”

Post-time!

Rumble! Tumble! Toss & Turn = 1+2. Three (3) clandestine codas orgonically come to orgastically merge atop an Oregon mountain motel mattress: BAM! WangBANG! BOOM!! WOP!!!!POP! POW!!! Ahhh. And. She calls His spermatozooming comet to penetrate Her ovum planet’s envelope! Ahhh. He splashes down into Her chymical seas! Ahhh. He sends synoptic syntactic messengers propelling forth...! forth to forge an all embracing link to Her chained male reaction--!!!!! AHHH. And-- ALL going off together! Calling -- Coming. Help! Cross-Over! Now!!! “WOAH. Oh WOW!” WAM! BAM! KAaaBOOM!

Very violent.

Gooey red.

You probably recall examining those screaming morning headlines:

BLOODYMOON TALE ON OREGON TRAIL!

WEDDING BED ATROCITIES!

CASTRATED GROOM MUTILATES BRIDE SLITS OWN THROAT!

Two bodies black-bagged and freighted back to California.

Late afternoon Saturday closed-caskets lay in wait at old Catholic church where they were wed.

That evening it rains hard.

Midnight Mass:

By the first stroke of twelve bells close friends of the dearly departed arrive aboard a dozen black Harley-Davidson motorcycles; thunder rolling in from on-going wakes at North Beach Saloon and City Lights Bookstore. The two lovers cremation ignites upon the twelfth bell stroke --

Flair!

Ashes to ashes all mixed together, sifted into one tall stainless steel urn. Tight turned sealing screw soldered shut. Riders carry burial bottle back to the closed Bookstore where shiny container is set on display circled by fresh black orchids seen in soft candlelight. Surrounded by shelves of poetry, mourners reminisce sipping dark double roast espresso compliments Caffe Trieste. Much sorrow. Pouch of psychedelic mushrooms passed. Now and then Singing. Late on play Dead:

Blues for Allah --The Wheel -- China Cat Sunflower -- To Lay Me Down -- Dark Star....

Benedictine bottle uncorked offered round the room for all to toast and tilt.

And at very last, each mourner takes turn reading aloud: men read for Him the Momento Mori of Sweet Will; women read for Her The Love Book of Lenore Kandel.

Twilight.

Clean silver Harley engines rev to roar. Twelve mighty machines--headlamps lit--pull early riders away from broad striped awning and well worn curb of Columbus. Move in single stand through the yet dark morning toward the Bay. Concrete rhythm of twenty-five rubber wheels rolling Embarcadero. Past old Ferry Building. Quiet city hives on right lapping Bay on left. Distant boat lamps yellow dots on black water.

Roll of rubber and rumble of hot gas forced out narrow holes. Cyclic rhythms through tubes running chrome. Pipes playing tunes timed to pumping pistons. One by one overhead streetlamps flash off twelve jet tanks.

Black leather jackets. Black leather boots.

Sunrise starts Sunday world pink as slow slender procession crawls in approach to Golden Gate Bridge. Bikes cross out onto long bay bridge rolling over deep darkness below. Motorcycles move ever more slowly. Halfway across this almost deserted span the twelve Harleys stop. Engines lazy idle. Occasional car headlights stll on whizzes by mourners. Bridge quiet but for constant breeze blowing harpmonics through great suspension cables to complement rhythmic bike pipe blow below. Low low subtle bass theremin and aeolian harp in wedding duet. Steady beat of combusting exhausts. Somber riders straddle their black Harleys. They wait for the Maid of Honor to kiss the sealed burial urn ... Farewell kiss bless given, Best Man tosses the stainless steel urn across the guard rail and high into the air….

Down.

Now dawn!

Down at dawn.

Down....

Twelve engines reving!

Down....

Thirteen riders depart. Twenty-five wheels roll. Engine roars fold into the singing winds and fade away.

Down....

.... Down sleek vessel stainless tumbles timeless trip through free fall space eternal ... slice thick bay fog ... slice silver silence ... new morn ... new light ... thick time ... slice ... thick time ... tunnel ... tumbel ... down down down ... deep dawn burial for sunrise....

Kerplop!

Time: A.D. 1/28/1986, 11:39:13.505.04

From: X

To: You

Number: 1.4

Title: Beyond Mathology

Find an insect.

Go.

Right now.

Then contemplate. You might help it, you might kill it. Or leave it be. Contemplate the bug.

Ah.

To save or to slay an insect? That is the question ... and, the answer. Complete this assignment before you read further. Any insect (or arachnid) will suffice your mission.

Might I warn you?

My message meaning will be forever altered by the omission of input from your needed deed. Tho it may take you minutes maybe many months to find an appropriate beastie, one to help or kill--DO NOT read ahead without first finishing your living litmus task test.

[Dear Reader. I repeat. Do us a favor. Unless you have completed this--your assignment--read no more! Don't dare search ahead with said deed let undone. My hidden message will be lost forever!]

No cheating! Please go. Go now.

Climb your crib and crawl with care. Onward. I'll wait here .... --------tick---------------------------------tock------------------------------tick---------------------------------!

-- Ah, the Apprentice returns.

Excellent.

The insect your interest intersected to let live or make die is an operating universe now modified within the improbable laws of quantum mechanics. Can global catastrophes be predicted by checking local calculations against fixed moving models of causations? Catastrophes are only available to you as verbs. Never as specific nouns. Nor concrete numbers.[3]

And yet, what could you have precalculated about your just-completed event were you said insect? What is predictable? or can be exactly repeated about your self-produced event? in relation to which is now and always a forever altered universoid. You who live in a House of Cards --a Monte Carlo simulation of Villa Savoye! Would you backtrack and undo what you've done? or do something you didn't?

At rest in death may be best.[4] For, in fact, only if you and your insect friend are effectively drained devoid of who you really are is any predicting possible, relating you to your found insect friend. Why? Because the initial random stats start running first from outside any external observer's published perspective of your outside homework. Everyone gets their chance at a Godel ansatz' to the nth googolplex times aleph--to be ultimately symmetrically divided by a squared slice of pi![5]

But, all recipes aside: The proof of the pudding is in the proof--

You see. Once this was assigned to your Transponder by me and then by him to you to be accepted through this printed page, then, there became a bantam basis for noting the cause of effects on yon aforementioned lo' bug by: Yourself, Transponder; Gardener, Myself, including: our specific Outside Observers; plus, the subject Insect object itself! Thous and Thum, to sum it up.

Think back....

Before you received this exorcise of a proposed squared relatively quantum pi: could you have selected to evoke a correct prophesy concerning turning a page in this shifting tessaract for a personal fancy and finding a fascinating phantasy instead? A phantasy with this specific assigned memento attached and delivered by Hermes Trismejistus? What were then the chances of you refusing to accept in kind courtesy this mission most improbable? To not--in curiosity--peep under the golden tip of his petasos. Decisions decisions. You may call on first Ramanujan then try out conditions Rmiemann. Hey! Let's see if you can think as well as that little Colburn kid could, afore they went and taught him better! Or count like Clever Hans! Decisions decisions. You pour into a crystal chalice till fermented firmament fills. Till the graceful tall stem holds bowl cup containing most slow of wines ripe pressed from fertile vineyards of grower Evariste Gallois; try a rose ... take any port.

In addition, too--on the other hand--within what assigned range of causalities does the outcome of your Insect Test influence the death rates of which hungry people where in Hell on Terra earth ore the next few millennia? Understand? I mean, does it ever affect the retail price of tea in Chindia? Or the hue of a feather on Galapagos Isle? Or a fin in Galapagos Rift? Young Student, your Godgiven “real” numbers all lead one up to an infinite eternity a-waiting on the imaginary other side of plus or minus for sign of that same old aleph (once again, that is same to an outside observer within a particular plenum).

Think ahead....

The small dog you have not met and whom you might or might not love or possibly will have fear of or perhaps hit with your car is more related to random probabilities in the moving vastness of unlimited virtual timespace than to any scant repeatable homo type lifetime length relationships. But these too will come to pass. Those various dogs up ahead are always real and waiting for your wheels or your love. One in particular is waiting to become the dog of our discussion. But the sleeping dog will never wake, unless you happen in the right place at the right time. Believe me that dog can only rise for you and no one else. Your dog, by god.

Ulysses.

Observe high math: can't you see it's always loaded in visual bias?[6]

Most of your everyday events are synergistic-entelechies represented with both materials and symbols in your universe and they wait for you to catabolism their unfoldments. These are the generalized nonrepeating similarities of your time-dimensional sphere. They simply interpolate exotransinterrelated realizations into your mental realm, and so, to predict any same class similar event they presuppose an ability to at least crudely measure the prominent underlying consistencies supporting any sort of sets encasing your local group of model influence and its changing observational center.

In figuring all sensible answers to any questions, ever, it is moot to not consider the individual nonrepeatable coordinate points found in each of your cells. Therefore, in this lesson, be sure to include every single such point in your instructed insect's cells. And let's figure in a few trillion of those doggy cells which you may or may not one day meet; the dog you might adopt or kill at any appropriate moment, another bark as a spark in the dark of a lifetime worldline.[7]

Which other events are not predictable? Random mutations? Stomping on a fire ant nest from prospective of the fire ant? Being shot at in front of your home? Being pipe bombed! Receiving exactly six pieces of collect mail on a May First Saturday in any of many plurallel worlds? Winning the lottery! Tornados! Novas! All these events have occurred and will be happenings again, but when and where with what ample warning can't be called from an arm chair. You gotta go to the action!

One way or another.

Nonetheless, whichever of these hyperevent multimatrices may be woven whenever into a sorted meta-net webwork for quite accurate event predictions by skilled Readors and Mind Travelers. But the ore of Truth is only brought up for the smelting by that tireless HomoMind miner diligently excavating all layers of sapient thoughtput. ESPecially now as you enter the millennia of the Postlogic Age.

Aye, Matey. Precise turbulence of the surf can't be predicted. Nor your next perfect wave.

(What? ... Did I hear gruntsigh of submission?)

Big question:

Did you realize many potential outcomes were available within the actions of your assigned encounter? One such scenario, which you may not have considered when assuming your assignment, was your timely death. Yes. There was always the probability you would or wouldn't kill or help the insect ... yet--either way--it was also inside the LAW that the selected insect could kill you: by bite or sting or disgusting disease.

You need to understand Dear Reader your chosen insect had also accepted an assignment from me. A mirror assignment. But passive. As it turned out, rather than kill you, the insect instead decided to assist with your emotional growth. [8]

Attention READER. Fromnowonthen! When&wherever form&substance may meet motion you'll notice a singular relative resultant related directly to this, your successfully completed, Grade X+(i) assignment. And so:

Congratulations!

You get to PASS.

Go!

Whoops! --HALT!

Grab your rod and get your stone. One more time.

Pop!!! Quiz[9]:

Now, I ask You, what do the chances say about the possibility of another bad asteroid smacking for yo' mama Terra ore the next Millennium?

When from where?

Prove it.

Also. What's the probability of your ever receiving an another incontestable unintelligible fulmination flung free from future far?

Where from when?

Prove it.

Good Student. You will research and answer these questions for me as you sleep.[10]

Hint?

Take lots o time.

[Arrr, 'n don' be forgettin' your three Cs: Chaos, Chance and Change!]

Time: A.D. 1/28/1986, 11:39:13.500.1

From: X

To: You

Number: 1.5

Title: Jommy Cantread

Small boy's voice, “Stop! Stop it, stop that! Somebody stop Mr. Stout!” Wild shrieks bring Jommy's mother terrified running breathless across backyard. Mother gathers hysterical son in her arms.

Rushes boy to in-house Primary Care Physician. Doctor Robert. Home emergency room:

“It was only Mr. Stout,” mother said while trying to calm her little Jommy. She glances to the materializing presence of Doctor Robert, “This time I saw it happen. Philip Stout who lives next door. Was mowing his lawn....”

The virtual Physician nods, her mercy laser lightly lances Jommy at base of skull. Boy quiets. “Acupunctural narcotic. Temporary.” Doctor Robert is perplexed, she almost frowns at the mother. “Are you sure there isn't something else?”

“No,” said mother firmly. “Nothing else happened. Only the lawn. Zoysia grass.”

“AAAAAAAI!” Mother reaches for son.

Frowns of puzzlement back and forth with Physician. Concerned brows.

Jommy quiets again.

“He's in a self-induced dopamine trance. I took his steroids way down.”

Mother bends closer to her boy peers into his cyan eyes. “Honey?” She whispers to her son. “Jommy -- Jommy dearest, do you hear me? Mr. Stout was only cutting the grass -- The grass likes cutting -- Short grass looks nice and neat -- Easier to walk across – Has fewer bugs -- Growing grass knows this -- Loves to be neat -- Loves to be mowed … it’s like getting your hair cut.”

Boy pupils dilate. Slumps head on chest. Visible tremor snakes relaxed muscles.

Mother and Doctor Robert hushtalk about other times when the boy had breakdowns. Doctor Robert is their practicing family physician. The one who helped with Jommy's birth. She was there when the brand-new baby human encountered his first spider. Big hairy tarantula had tickled his body. She'd examined him for bites. There weren't any.

“Do you remember the first time?” the mother asked. “That theraphosidae, so big and black.” Doctor Robert's hazel eyes lower a moment in sympathy. The mother is nervous. “My poor son. Dear Lord. If only the hospital insurance would bend their rules, I could place him in treatment. I....”

Mother and doctor stand facing one another in the children's recovery room. Colorful cartoon animals animate the holowalls. Fresh fragrance of cherry blossoms blushes the air and happy tunes lightly audible.

Little boy moans. “Uhooam, ungh.” He turns sideways on the padded table.

Mother and doctor move closer.

“What caused Jommy's fit, Doctor Robert?”

“I suspect your son dropped his math-mantra shield about the time your neighbor....”

“Unnh,” Jommy loudly, coming to consciousness. “Ummmm.” Wry smile, contentment spreads his small face, slowly -- Blessed Equations (S = k log W) are returning to center focus of control over spontaneity under opiated swirl of Jommy mind clamor. “Ohooo.” In a critique of pure reason, quantumesque formulas dance their tarantella before his mind-eye.

Two summers later the state forcefully institutionalizes Jommy. Barking terrier alerted a trash truck driver who was shocked to discover Philip Stout under the back porch, almost alive. Found fetal inside big plastic bag. Paralyzed. No heartbeat. But metabolizing.

What happened?

Jommy was having one of his anxiety fits when something snapped! -- He began to dance! -- A rage! Inside snap! Math mantra down. Happened so quick. Snap! while Jommy stands on the back porch and watches Mr. Stout spray poison on a hornet nest. He poisons a beautiful spider (Argiope aurantia) in the process. The spastic twitches of the elegant yellow-and-black arachnid pull Jommy's curiosity toward it. Horrified eyes watch its squirm jurks. Child smells oily odor of pyrethrin. Hornets fly death spirals. Jommy Cantread feels math-mantra shield shattering! SNAP! BAM! ... BAM! ... Jommy runs to his room! BAM! Opens strongbox.

Slams shut BAM! Revenge!

Mad lad will inject neighbor with special home-brewed concoction! Uses bamboo blowgun slid through knothole in backyard fence. Puff--

Philip falls as if hit by a stroke.

Jommy drags heavy body underneath porch for encasing. Wraps neighbor Philip Stout in a thick cocoon of nylon pantyhose. Binds it tight with filament fishing line and sprays polyurethane. Paints body gray. Three whole days passed. If only that nosy dog had not been so noisy when the trash truck stopped--

Autopsy abstract: After being immobilized, Mr Philip A. Stout slowly suffocated in his closed cocoon. He was catatonically awake when bound and gagged. Mr Stout was totally aware of everything happening to him. His paralyzed body experienced a numbness similar to hemlock poisoning. Mr Stout was found by garbage collectors who reported hundreds of baby spiders crawling on his gray body casing.

City authorities could only get little Jommy Cantread into his straightjacket by having a professional Daddy lure him out from under the porch. Daddy offers Jommy the latest 3D copy of Weird Science comics. Trick works. Jommy goes for it -- Extends his anxious hand to take the entertaining gift -- At once realizes the Daddy's trick trap -- Boy freezes!

Too late.

Police grab Jommy Cantread by the arm and drag him kicking from his hiding place.

They carry Jommy in stiff fetal position to white wagon waiting with red lights blinking. Men in white coats place him in the rear of the van. When they shut the cage door between him and his mother, Jommy screams! Mother gasps --a pathetic sound.

Sirens start!

Ambulance drives off.

Later.

L.A.P.D. sergeant 232 in tweed sport jacket gazes up from his IBM flexpad. His rubberized mouth twists to a sympathetic smile. “Just the facts ma'am, just the facts. Let's talk about Jommy.” Frowns. “But first, ma'am, howdaya spell: Kant-red?”

“C A N....”

MORAL: You are very similar to young Jommy Cantread. You too block everyday. --Indeed you are blocking this moment.

Your method may not be a mathematical mantra; but yet, you're able to successfully not-think of the real situation you're living in. Basic blocking and fundamental funnelling are involved in the intelligence-gathering programmes of any creature who must kill-to-live. Without your Wall and your many Shields you too would go quite mad.

Do you understand?

The need for standardized individuals has already passed. Large muscles and legs may be critical while weighted in a gravity one environment. Yet not at all desirable in a cramped capsule. Why light a dark cockpit if the pilot has no eyes? Must you have vocal chords to scream when you're lost in time and space?

J.C. represents the vanguard of the coming race. A preview of the truly meek inheritor. J.C. is only retarded and perverted because he was born a millennium too soon.

“Listen close to this old eremite, O Zorothustrian! -- Hear me rant from my dark cave:

--Honest intelligence is the true prime resource:

--Bulk force was yesterday's brawn; Compact dexterity is tomorrow's strength.

--Man and Superman?

--Pshaw!

“I say: Mind and Supramind!”

Time: A.D. 1/28/1986, 11:39:13.484.8

From: X

To: You

Number: 1.6

Title: Easter Eve

Vis motiva

The Gardener pulls long pole handle iron teeth cross mosque garden. Reach and pull. Stretching shadow sends sure steady rhythm rakes rich bed deep in the dark earth. Young woman watches him toil.

Frozen moment:

The Gardener is seventy-seven years seven months seven weeks seven days seven hours seven minutes seven seconds old when they meet. His eyes are clear and bright. He has seven wives, each has seven children. His seventh wife has just birthed his newborn seventh son.

Young woman is age twenty-three years two months three days two hours thirty minutes twenty-three seconds. Wide steel eyes with big black pupils. Her three-year-old twin daughters have been stolen by the State. She has walked a long long long way to visit The Gardener. Now stands barefoot. Her frail frame, angelic, overhead lit bright mercury vapor bulb. Blue to ash-blonde hair long and straight. Platinum by streetlight. Pale skin. Haloed face.

Mild temperature. Sweet air. Jasmine perfumes the quiet mosque-yard. Covered by night hundreds of hidden blooms yellow and white await sunrise.

“Refreshing ... cool night air,” said The Gardener staring at the ground.

Silence.

Finally. Faintly. A few throaty words emerge. “I.... ah....” Her voice slices jasmine air, “Well. I ... I ah, --I … want out of this.” Then her afterthought, “No. I ... I'm not depressed, sir. --Not.”

Extended silence.

She raises her head. Repeats the phrase to assure herself, “I - am - not - depressed. No no. Simply took time to intelligently evaluate Motherboard Earth. Gaea gal et all.” Forced smile fingers twist hair. “Yes. I logically determined: life at our level of reality is an unacceptable state of parasitic foodchain cannibalism. We being an infestation. Planet lice.”

“Ha. Little lass we're much worse than lowly lice.”

“I know, old man. I know. We're trapped here in our brief intelligence! And given the art of reason. We know we're lice. Or at least, I know I'm a louse. Uh! Lousy louse.”

“Ummm.”

“So why not suicide?”

“Ummm.”

“Yes. I say suicide! S-u-i-c-i-d-e --Please, sir.” Woman-girl-woman-girl in bluewhite streetlight circle pauses to nod. “No? Yes? It's so reasonable. Why not! Please, sir. Why not?”

The old Gardener has heard her question many many times before while working in this holy yard ... from far more visitors than he can recall. Forty-four years four months four days four hours four minutes four seconds of forlorn pilgrims despondent in this mosque-yard. All seeking their instant of truth.

The Gardener appraises the broken structure of this frail woman her arms defensively folded across chest and hugging her own shoulders.

He rubs his nose.

Gardener gets down on his knees. Glances up, into her eyes:

“Arr--You know child, whenever life gets arrful as often it does ... I all ways ponder them little critters under foot and thumb. And you know no matter whatever kinde beastie it be ... be it beetles 'r silver-bugs, ye see. No matter whatever. They all want to live. Send love to all the lowlies likely crawling here and thereabouts, child. Lo. Meditate their lives now.”

She dry-swallows.

He turns away from her and kindly glances down to the clean-raked soil wide spread before them. “Often. Very often when I kneel to the earth. Grounded. Sometimes naked. I like to contemplate ... any available insect. Think of the innate instinct sustaining its insignificant individual event.”

Suicidal woman looks down. Sees eight long black legs straddle a big white zig-zagged stitch at center of sticky webbed net. A majestic Argiope aurantia. Yellow and black jewel set on silver threads.

The Gardener speaks slowly, “Orb spider must breathe. Orb spider must drink ... Orb spider must eat. Orb spider must shit. And orb spider must die!”

“But when, sir? When?”

“Listen now. Child --listen, most important. No matter how tiny ugly any bug be, they all want ... Life! L. I. F. E. Every single ugly bug wants to live their life! The Gardener demonstrates, “Watch me now....”

He starts to move his spade blade toward the defenseless yellow-and-black creature. Spider quickly stiffens scurries onto shaded safety twig. Spider runs with or perhaps without, fear. Either way she sees spider run.

“Ha!

“Little lassie. Lassie, these hungry insects cope in worlds much more meaningless than you or I ere dare imagine. O my precious one, know. Know, if they, they, in their terrible insignificances and incredible strange struggles still want to stay alive. Why, don't ya see? They live so much closer to the Source than we.

“Dear child. If those lowly beasties want to live.... Why, so do I. And why not You?”

Deep pause. Long and deep.

The Gardener rubs chin, “Ha. N d'you know what day is come t'be done yon 'morrow, dear Childe?”

The young woman snaps from her trance. She stammers “Sh.... sure.” She stares down at her bare feet and lifts her toes. “Of course.” The woman smiles. “Tomorrow is Sunday. Easter Sunday.”

“Ahhhh, yes,” The Gardener said slowly. “Yes. But 'morrow be more than Easter Sunday ever been ere. Ever been ere but Once.” The old Gardener rises from his knees to better see the face of the young woman. “Y'see. Yonder 'morrow is the first Christian Sabbath after the first Full Moon after the first Spring Equinox of the First year of the First Century of the New Millennium!”

“Easter 2001,” she affirmed.

Top o’ the minaret a peacock fans, and screams thrice--

Culmination Lenten Confessional

“Look, little lass, look around you,” The Gardener flails his arms in the air trying to bring her out and heal her wound-- “Do you know what you see when true you look? You see BLOOD! “

The woman's lean face slowly becomes one of anguish screwed into grotesque tightness. Total speechless tightness. She cringes suddenly terrified of her new found vision. The voice of the Gardner is red!

“BLOOD! Pounded into your pavements! BLOOD --pulsating red! Unremitting red. Reddest of reds streaming throbbing through thousand times millions of billions of metered miles of transmissional Veins. BLOOD. BLOOD and more BLOOD. Transmissional veins! White light, blue light, red light. BLOOD. A direct linage of BLOOD.

“BLOOD!

“Pump pump: to the temple, to the tabernacle--Pump pump: to the mosque, synagogue, basilica--Pump pump to the ashram, to the little church in the dale--Pump: to the chapel in the moonlight....”

“—BLOOD?”

“Yea lass, red red BLOOD!--fills full the cathedral of Nostradamas.”

“BLOOD of our Gods!”

“Blood of our Lamb!”

“Blood in the Streets.”

“BLOOD in the Sand.”

“BLOOD in the Mud.”

“Axeltree clot. Transmissional veins. BLOOD of His Life--Pump pump.”

Young woman paralyzed wholly spent in catatonic rapture. Old man wild glancs up and down the street. Points the empty avenue. “BLOOD!”

No one answers.

Two stand side by side in blessed oasis. Maintaining composition midst mercury vapor photons splayed from lamp lit by BLOOD.

Pump pump.

Two stand hand in hand -- blessed oasis. At their intersection. Their crossroads. Caught between two ticks of clock. Untimed silence of city waits between breaths. Old man young woman deep jasmine moment.

He exhales.

She exhales.

Then the patriarchal Gardener speaks:

“Did ever your fallen Father's fables reveal the Story of Eostre? Ever give Her Secret of the Dancing Egg? Ever get told about a Palm Tree and a Black Goddess on a White Horse ... About bark on a Brown River? About that final answer to your Insect Test?”

“No.”

“Childe. Do you know there are Unknown Illuminati who through Cogwheel daily transmute Our BLOOD into Electric Current? True. And did your Fallen Father ever talk about the stain you can never wash away? About BLOOD....”

“No!”

“Dear one did you dare with Dad ever discuss the meaning of -- Red Hands! “

She stays silent.

Slightest sob.

“Lass. Be ye Gentile Jew or plane Jain you must be BORN to live again forget the crippled life of Cain always able to remain ... wrapped in The Rainbow Robe, and embraced by those Prophetic Truths of ancient Isaiah. Mechomo sapiens sapiens² will rise to rule! To rule The Hill. Yea.. Why --as I speak, new hardshell beasts crawl from your personal saline slime. Beasts now born to renew the Law of Askoa.”

“….Askoa,” she repeated hypnotically.

“Else we all become Vampire! Doomed to stand vacant before our emptied looking glass. Aye. And ere you raise your rusty stake in self-defiance, recall ... He Himself gave --BLOOD!”

“Askoa,” she repeated hypnotically.

Two yellow cabs cross street and avenue. Four passing headlamp beams go low to the pavement. Gardener takes a worn canvas wallet from his back pocket. Opens it. Flips past the pictures of his seven wives forty-nine sons and stops at half a color photograph of Mother Teresa.

The Gardener holds the torn faded portrait of the Saintly Woman in view for a very long time before he refolds the tattered wallet back to his pocket. Closes eyes.

Soon smooth snowfall starts.

Wafer-size flakes fall in graceful pirouette. Slow silent snowfall enfolds man and woman in cool crystalline cape.

Soft.

Spirals.

Softly spiraling a pink confetti falls. Swirled heaps cover concrete streets. Delicate cherry blossoms build silent mounds at empty crossroads. Crystal flake blanket shrouds shoulders of old man and young woman.

Two pink spirits turn to the quiet heavens, there they see --blue nova! Nova! Bluewhite light bright in velvet sky. Street light nova! Burning silver heart of mercury vapor!

BLOOD.

Nova.

Soft pink snow petals cover heads and shoulders.

“Jesu did. Didn't He? Yes. Yes! He did.” The old man stumbles and almost falls:

“BLOOD....” he moans.

The young woman swoons.

It's their moment in The Garden. Their moment in a gone forever in a passing Aprille. Two thousand and one years after. The nails! Judges! Rusty nails. Empty mirrors.

BONG.

Steeple clock clap tone strike starts twelve by bronze bell toll ............ BONG. Midnight peal beckons those who wait yet ungrown. Their seed unsown. Thought unknown: BONG.

A toll to Third Millennium!

BONG.

Bell for the unplanted arbor bush! Call to the unopened rose! Rose not smelled nor not yet red, to rise aneath an uncut Window.

A peal to the Rosy Cross!

BONG.

The Gardener pauses for prayer. Sweat falls from His face. Strange how familiar His face. Now a much younger face. Dark long hair. Kind eyes. Beard. Beard? Did The Gardener have a beard?

Blood on brow….

Are those thorns seen crowned round his head?

Blood drips from face. Gardener gestures toward fresh earth bed. Innocent virgin looks down. Waiting. Heads bowed, they whisper:

“Amen.”

As in masque, two figures fall to earth eight limbs entwined and touching trunks. Cherry blossoms spiral like snowflakes.

BONG … BONG.

Mercy.

Time: A.D. 1/28/1986, 11:39:13.474.0

From: X

To: You

Number: 1.7

Title: Ultimate Transformation:

You can not yet take your mind from out your aging body and place it into the pseudobody of your choice, as young Ms Shelley has indelibly proposed. Thus you die. Only questions are how where when. And, why.

Why so hard to kill yourself? To initiate the most powerful act of all when mind deaths body? Why should death be frightening?

God giveth Homos the Gift of FreeWill which commeth with its Blessing of Mercy -- Self-determined Death.

Heaven sent.

No other earthly animalcule has access to this mighty Mercy. None. Only the Homo can say whether or not today is the End of the World. By action or by nonaction. Like you considering the fate of an Insect.

But understand, my dear Childe: If ever you sever your silver thread ... 'tis not only yourself you kill! No. Your composite organism contains the eukaryote's empirical intelligence and survival patterns! It is they and their hosts who make you--the cellglutinate--an honorary homo instead of a minor blest ass. It is they who make you a master race member of the flickering intelligentsia aboard Battleship Earth, me Matey!

Aye.

And that shimmer released for your moment of death? It comes from the implosion of their gravomagnetic unity collapsing your genomic net. It comes from the collective crash of each cell suddenly sent back to chaos. Each separate specific small cellgregate ceasing cohesion represents the Fall of a whole Astral Being.[11]

Yea.

Yea, verily verily, It is their collective Phoenix cry you hear! It is they, who call out the throat of your Body Molectric. Their gargle moan. Their rattles rattle, rattle rattle rattle. As they frantically signal from your fading genome ... H E L P:

a slow dimming process of disi nt eg rat

ion

System FAILURE!

Power Disconnect; (minus)

Transmission Halted....

LongRange Communications Down

Decreasing Nourishment Level (minus)

_LOW (neutral) Cooling Rapidly (minus)

Unwind-Refold

Outside Supply Lines Severed - - -

Emissions Toxic #9 #9 #9 Pressure Decrease (minus)

Amplitude Down #6 Frequency

OFF Modulation

F L A T Postpone ...

(minus) -

Abandon spime tace vehicle

yield abluminious bodies

niblungs and

nibelungs

O Blest,

Dear Blessed Wings

The struggle to retain.

Try counting to stay awake. Counting. The fight to stay aware. Try counting. Must maintain. Must regain consciousness.

Counting.

Try.

Sleep coming.

Keep counting.

How many million? How many billion?

Keep counting.

How many trillion? Dead and dying?

All these call out!

All these must SCREAM!

Must call forth! Must cry! While you read this sentence. They cry.

Can you hear them? They cry. They call. Out.

For you they call.

Listen closely as their many voices cry and rise to call above your background noise. They say:

“H E L P!”

“HELP me!”

“Help.”

Your Soule. The Soule of a Midge. The Soule of a Comet. All are as different in their death throes as they are their lives.

“Help.”

All forms trickle back to that from whence they spring. A cold wind stirs gray dust as pale ashes blow across the purple clay of the Potter's field. Swoosh!

Time stops ticking.

“Help!”

Only unprocesses remain as potentialities. Here the dissevered discover the sea of zero where non-appears the un-place Locus zone evernamed NetherMore. A recursive realm where the soft molds for the Soules of Man and Midge and Comet are post-essence underwritten by the unified bifurcating GodSource:

“Help!”

Yes. Both precatalization and postcrystalline Intelligence lay together in this final resting peace. No living galaxies. No dieing sunnes: Grande Monad Lifesoule rests unknown ... Turdus Aonalaschkae Pallasii remains unnamed ... Mozart Song of the Winter Wren stays unsung ... Leaves of Grass unpublished -- Here only the unopened roses might touch their uncut traceries around empty windows without walls. All these potential yet-to-bes, and much much more, are still found at the still point of the none turning none thing. Look:

In that empty pool!

There. You see the unexpected faces of expectant children. Faces reflecting the excitement of inner laughter. Young fresh faces pooled a-giggling down from the dry concretion. Pulled down toward the drain. Fading faces. Pour down dark drain:

“Quick! Quick now!” Caws the crow, “Go, go, go! ere mad manunkind will ill miss much the sound of the Little's last let laughter.”

Laughter?

“Do you remember laughter?” taunted the thrush.

“Help!”

“Help me! help....”

Lo.

Childe, when you finally execute yourself what you actually do is take charge of your upcoming unscheduled departure. You shut down your physical system to exorcise Freed Will. Just trying to get the jump on time. Do IT first. Before your wetware bodyclock program program programme beats you to it to it to it

“Help me! help.... stop.”

--BANG![12]^….

Time: A.D. 1/28/1986, 11:39:13.322.3

From: X

To: You

Number: 1.8

Title: The Crystal Encephalon

Ahoy! Matey.

Aye.

Where, oh where, have the twelve sheep gone 'n whom be the Shepherd o' Hermes?

Eh?

Ever met the flaming Anael de Nostredame?

Eh?

Ever watched any licking Tongues of Flame lap upon a Burning Bush? Or ... conversed with a Feathered Serpent high in a Huluppu Tree?

Eh?

Scorpion Man stands in sand with pincers pointed to two blood moones. Sees wild on wing buzzing from West three whole hordes of Locust Women!

Silver streams. Three hungry hordes. Wild on wing.

Locust Women!

Long ago.

Before the Book of Enoch.

Oh.

Down

down

deep deep

deep down dark steep down cellar steps to basement bottom where you and i may stay and squat and squint to peep the Fiery Furnace and stoke coke from our palingenesis of Dark Shadows. Look and learn….

[Theuth told Thamus take “Thoth” Truth through Thebes tunnel past Ptah Path! -- Amen.]

So you Seek the Secret of Sacred brilliance! And, behold! Behold! Up ahead! JAH! the White Throned burning Den of Daniel signifies His BROTHERHOOD!

Gold. No lie. Gold.

Ah. Alluvion.

Molten ore to gild your wilted Lotus!

Hah.

Locust Women! Laughing dogs.

Ha.

Scorpion Man! Two blood moones! Two pincers high.

Three silver streams!

Hungry hordes fly black sky.

All aneath … two blood moones.

Ahh ... Apocrypha.

You dare seek my review of the Walkyries' missions that you may probe the nature of their deep and dread red Message. Jah. Their apocalyptic ministry re: Four Germans!

But, no no no, you won't take their word for it! --will you? No! Not the You who as Outside Controller of Observer on Duty insists to feel first-person the rainbowed reins of their thundering steeds once ridden to stead at the Stable above. No No. Not skeptic You who must as least lick the lanced gash and taste the redness with the salt. Eh?--blind Tommy. Aye matey, eye.

Red hands !

And read words. Always more words. Before Bethlehem. Lost Atlantis. Garden City. Ariel and Oholibah. And, Olde Urusalimoo!

And words read. Bottled ... Sent forth sealed from Ark-hives of NOAH ... Lost in the last Storm ... Lost ... Long before the Tower of Gilgamish ever stood Centre Plumb for the Beastly One who renamed our Mystery Babylon. Words. Words.

Fingertips feel Black Stone talk:

Passing runes tell of a Black Pearl on the bottom of a Black Sea where your Black Retnas feel my Black Text explode from His lost adyteum --thus thawing sounds frozen in the pharynx of your phylactery ... Loosed words ... Freed words shaken off ... Fallen words dropping from the Chronicles of evil Baali-Zebub!

“Words....”

“Locust Women!”

“Words....”

“Scorpion Man!”

“Words....”

“Tree Serpent! Tree Serpent!”

“Silver!”

“Three swift streams!”

“Words....”

“Hordes....”

“Dogs....”

“Ha!”

“Baali-Zebub!”

The Word is:

Any genuine prophetic Revelation must be a part o your Own code pool. The deep well walled within will oft as not appear as Rorschachian waves through a trembling haze of conjured forms of all the echoes echoing echoes ever uttered from far faint fading fedback monitored impulses mathematically modeled by those scarce signs of turning times barely being detected by your preceptive receptors simply set so smell scant scent sends starward stretched spaced cloud cellules signifying so much stratocumulus stardust: hence, as you probably previously suspected, all life being a field--and your life field being within the Grand Unified Field--it really behooves One to remember: this Medium is merely The Mirage.[13]

Time to reopen the tale of the Genji!

To many a muddled mind did mid-MiddleMarch divine with especial pleasure the timeless meaning of those olden pages writ by Don Quixote, who, taking time out from trying to tilt a windy Moby Dick, went off to watch the Wake of one Master Finnegan! ah, but, back to that honey-drunk and all day feast on the flesh of those fat 'shrooms served fresh in a lenten salad tossed free in your wooden Valhalla where great God Woden says, “its more than grand fun to shout: a ho-ho-ho here's mud in your eye!” And then we each try to share another laugh or three or five with one fine olde gray haired dog comes to the wild call of Beowulf!

Aye!

Don't you see now?

Munching my molasses cookies o raisins and nuts. Eating her special brownies! Yum! Just deserts!

But, all in all, head to head, do heed the parable-principle left us by a martyred Saint Jommy Cantread: --”Mind, you must BLOCK to save your soule from madness made by sanity!”

Phantom Pain!

Eh?

Jah! And psychic amaphylaxis.

Plain Truth!

Listen to me now, listen: Your MindBody's main moment here is to be doing something much more basically necessary for homokind than trying to unravel those knotted nuts of the divine twine to Revelations! Yes. Best you get about intuitively hunting and intelligently gathering qualified visionary mates for these remaining days of your mortality. Begin by begetting and bringing to term and giving unregistered birth the first of your PSIgenerations. Yea o frightened parent of God. You must learn to Teach the New M'psiahs.[14]

OK. Hey! You. --Young dreamer in The Garden.

Dig:

For yours is not to really read,

But to mostly wonder ... Why?

Being--

Sure to sow the needed seed

That tie your kin'd to PSI.

Time: A.D. 1/28/1986, 11:39:13.301.0

From: X

To: You

Number: 1.9

Title: Dream Vision

REMsequence 1.

(DREAM FOR YOU)

I see a blowup of you in my dream.

A blowup of you deep asleep dreaming you are dreaming of a dream of a dream dreaming you dream a Bombay news bureau team reports on emergency aeroport disaster when team interrupted and anchor appears gives graphic present-tense live-action details of most recent just happened jetliner explosion! at Stockholm airoport: two hundred thirty aboard presumed dead or dying! This reported remote incident is instantaneously positioned more meaningfully in your memory sensorium than your vision earlier this same morning where in those wee small hours you watched a shiny deepdream shuttle smash! roast! fry! burn! crisp alive! two hundred twenty-three passengers down outskirts of Athens. Yet even this older recollection is seemingly less real when compared to a colorful remembrance you hold of a cinema scoped just this very evening featuring an Academy Award-winning special-effects aircraft crash! crosscut inside cabin camera close-ups of two hundred thirty trampling passengers panic overlaying an awfully memorable montage of psyche-shattering subliminals showing several screaming stopmo split spliced seconds of their last violent!!! interactions! old woman vomits when panicked man steps on face of fallen baby and small soft head splatters squish! and mess spreads in aisle puddle brown carpet brain sloop! No wonder the old lady throws up! To trip a further recollection from but one night ago when you fantasized on a soft mattress enjoying bedtime satellite show starring You as the Commodore and Greta Garbo as the hermit among two hundred twenty-one bead pulling priests praying “Hail Mary” on board one wildly descending transoceanicaeroliner bound inward to New Casablanca from origin Vatican City --when TransGlobal Broadcast Network announcer breaks your dozing dream to air update on most awful passenger plane disaster late-breaking into mountaintop! Denver! two hundred thirty travelers on the rocks! Lord! Concurrent duo disaster scenarios cause you to have most profound reviviscence of previously deeper dreamt dream yesterday high noon:

Ticket holders board Hong Kong commutaflight amidst acrid fumes of flaming petroleum as proficient gate-agent security-backup counts:

“....dredtwenty-one twohundredtwentytwo twohundredtwennny ... twenty? One short, we have one passenger missing. Attention! Attention!”

Someone is shouting for security and the announcer begins calling YOUR name! and aerodepot pager blasts the Commodore’s number through teaming corridors! “--88888888 .... 88888888 ....” jammed VIP lounge ceiling speakers calling for you – and, “88888888 ....” RUN!

You run.

RUN!

Running. Running....

Here you come running! peripherally you watch the leering grinning Commodore waving his goodbyes to You from exit Eight and you run faster faster puff harder harder running through aroma of hot coffee poured in thick ceramic mugs and you hope Captain Clark holds flight twenty-three for that one missing passenger: YOU!

Hurry hurry hurry! Run run run.

Faster!

Hurry. Puff. Hurry! Puff harder--hurry--run! Pant puff run you approach active boarding ramp exhaustion you gasp almost drop when rude hometown newscam comes zooming right up on into your amaaaaaaazed sweating snootsnout puss....

Newscam barks orders, “Stand up straight. Stop puffing!”

Stop?

Puff. Stop?

Zooooommmmmmm: --”Say something I can sell if this plane crashes: Tell bout your family: Gimme a dream or two: Quick quick, now--”

YOU stare dumbfounded.

Still puffing.

Sweating. Puffing.

“Say something ... Anything,” newscam prods and newscam pushes till your mouth opens unable to utter. --Puffing. Sweating. Mouth open starts to move. But no sound comes from your lips. Newscam screams and spits in your face: “Talk! Say something anything! Talk! --You worthless pile of shit! Talk! talk! Shithead!” Your mouth hangs open jaw moves up and down still speechless and the cold glass eye records your every drooling twitch. “Shithead! --Talk!” You can not make a sound but you scream inside you desperately fight to control your senses as….

InfoFlash! --a terminal bulletin:

“Jose Blowsy live from the death scene: Lutetia InterContinental Port Nine -- got a potshot blow-up out here -- tarmac -- fabulous flames -- Two hundred twenty-three....”

FLASH!

”We interrupt this bulletin for an even bigger bulletin --this time dateline Bermuda:”

“--satellite tracking station triangulation reports seven stratotourcruisers carrying two thousand three hundred twenty-three passengers reported missing … airships last spotted somewhere over southeast Atlanti….”

REMsequence 2.

(DREAM FOR CIVILATION)

Doom Prophet has long white beard.

Holds large black cross white sign nailed to top. Red paint three petal corolla. Death posy!

Doom Prophet:

“Hear Yee! Here Yee!! --YHWH WARNING!!!

“PREPARE.

“Polish up your Lightning Rod --Clean out your Storm Cellar, Shipmate! Shipmate! Sky Is Falling..!.. .!!.Load The ARK .!. ZAP the ZIP...! Heed my Message .!. DEATHDAY.!..!..!.PLAGUE..!!.. Hey. End o' da World.!......!!” Doom Prophet takes in great gulping gasp of breath --and out shouts:

“All-Aboard!!! Set sail to save White Whale! White Whale! Shipmate! Starbuck! Shipmate!! Step lively now!!!” Sweat beads on mad forehead of Doom Prophet:

“Ordain your A-tomic Pries'trons ...!... Have Them first: PERFORM their canticle carol ... RIGHT all wrongs! LEFT all Writes! REBUILD your Library Alexandria!-- REROLL the old parched Scroll back to the shores of the Living Sea ... back in the light for the Holy See! -- swiftly swiftly--ENTOMB today your Radioactive Beasts o Poison in clean crypts kept far from frightened cellules ... ! ... Prophet pauses, head up loose drool shimmers at stretched corners of cracked mouth:

“Arrrgh! Your molecules are all a-buzz ... best CAGE your EMR death-ray! quick as a quark! ... Your cookin' your cells alive – percolating your particles ... STOP! UNPLUG skywave ovens ... Pull the HOOK cause your genes are frying ... Offspring are crying ... Quick as a quick FIBER your home to save your genome ... BOTTLE your FloroCarbins ... DESTROY ... DEMOLISH ... ! ... TORCH --- OFF

“... That awful House of Ashur ... Home of Incest to usurers ... Home of Cards to paid benchmen ... Yea! Verily! Verily! --Untie the great judgerknot ... retire the old Just Ass! Clip the black bird ... Clip the vulture wing. Yea. Let us at last at least have an aye for n' I! a-fore it all blows up in your FACE ... Arr!”

His old voice rubbed raw.

“Arr!”

Doom Prophet head down pale phlegm drips from thick mustache … leaving gobs in long white beard

REMsequence 3.

(DREAM FOR SAPIENS SAPIENS)

FLASH!-BAM!

Brain blinding blast! --Terrible shriek as steel tears. Hard rock splits! ear-bleeding whipcrack! POP

Slowly, the strong stone parts. The thunder of walls tumbling down a shaft.

Smash! Crash! BOOM!

Asteroid!

Team Seven could not stop the last asteroid. Must have cratered other side of planet....

Captain Noah Adam Ballard heard no screams of terror when the shelter walls disintegrated. When collapsed upper floors fell.

Rumble.

Chaotic echoes through the din. Now his chamber seals itself and sprays pink gas into the air. Hiberstate sets in, his metabolism goes to mellow; hear no screams tonight ... but the drip of water keeps Captain Ballard awake.

Awake?

Awake? Yes ... of course. Just a dream. Another bad dream.

Ugh.

Kataklysmos was a more than a month ago but Ballard still has nightmares. Main shelter smashed. Only this small section survives. Captain Ballard and three hundred twinty-two room mates are the only humans left on Earth.

Once six other metaclan-dens were tucked away at this same altitude in various ranges of the Andes. But this shelter shaft was the first and only one sprayed with NewTech Matterbouncing-Shockabsorbing Gravafoam Skinveloper; still the clan within lost most of their den and the medical supply cavern. Lost seventy-nine thousand people.

Drip.

Drip?

Drip.

That annoying drip is not a dream. It's a problem. Drip. What causes it? The ocean?

Have the Andes slid into the ocean?

“Ballard....” Old man's voice:

“Ballard, wakeup. It's me, Algis. Harrison Algis. I fixed the periscope. Coaxed an old satellite in for a close reading. Water's receding ... Ballard?

“Mmmmmugh.” Captain Ballard squints and shakes his head groggily. Shifts pillow. He is waking.

“Ballard--France is still under the sea. Alps submerged. Europe's a bog.”

“Mpgh.”

“Listen. I saw a dove, Ballard. Honest to God. Carried a green coca sprig in its beak. Water's receding. They wanna open the trapdoor.”

Ballard is now awake. Groggy. “Algis ... you mean ... we're not a drowned world after all?”

“Dripping these past three weeks, just runoff. Clear sky now. But hard rain is on the way. But right now the sun is out, clear sky.”

“Thank You, God,” said Ballard. Rolls off bunk bed to stand in his pajamas in front of Algis. “I was having another nightmare, Algis.”

“Ahh, Captain. Speaking of dreams. Here comes Doctor Robert.” Young blonde woman sprayed in scarlet latex approaches. She strides through large puddles of water splashing her way toward the two men.

“Hi, guys. We're almost ready. The bulldroid cleared floor eight outta the shaft. Wanna go up? I hear there's a lovely summer's day topside. Clear sky.”

With a strong grin Captain Noah Adam Ballard turns and leads his two colleagues toward the lift.

Several of their clan anxiously await them at shaft entrance. Many already stand on the heavy wooden floor of the lift platform. Young children and pregnant women excitedly watch from the sidelines.

Far above them shines the bright dot of a golden sun. Those aboard the lift platform stand in a warm spot lit by the blessed solar radiance. Most wear large pink plastic heart-shaped sunglasses.

Ballard smiles and raises his right arm --thumbs up!

A dynamo hums.

The lift shudders and shakes with the rattle of rusted chains rolling. Clinking. Groaning. Clanking. A loud pneumatic hiss --PSSSSSSSsssssst!

The old elevator moves up a few squeaky centimeters and, kerrrBLAM! --drops back down.

Rusty chains rattle.

Up again.

KerBlam!

Back down.

Up. Chains rattle. Crunch. BLAM! Rattle. Up. Wait ... up! Up....

Liftoff!

“HOORAY!”

The rickety platform starts to rise midst the delighted cheers of passengers and sidelined spectators. The damaged shaft hole is tight and the platform scrapes the sides knocking off chunks of debris. But up. Up they ride! Rattle. Rattle. From the dark to the light. Up to tomorrow!

Captain Ballard is first to step from the stilled lift in the shaft and walk out into their new world. With a brave wave he hand-signals others out of the hole. Cautiously each comes forth from the deep cave which has been home for years. Since the War.

Heart-shapped sunglass down hands shade eyes, squinting eyes. Tears. Ballard climbs atop a very large rock to deliver his impromptu speech. Balances himself on the boulder. High overhead he holds his heart-shaped pink sunglasses with a cracked lens:

“No need, eyes are safe.”

The happy survivors hush to better hear his words. Ballard looks down to speak.... --Suddenly!

They watch their leader's face drain in horror, famous smile shock twisted!

Several clan members scramble up the boulder and crowd beside Ballard. They too look down -- they too look under driftwood pile and see side of cement cask. Giant barrel trapped between two boulders. Etched but faded they find a flower.

Death posy!

Radioactive waste!

God.

And, the barrel is cracked!

From its open wound seeps a thin veil of water. The wet veil shimmers off the side of the deadly cask. The slippery sheet glosses the flat rock slab -- slides down to a sharp edge over which it drops drips -- drip ... drip drip, drips, drops down down the long long shaft. Down to their den below. Into their sanctuary!

Drip.

Dear God -- our children!

Drip.

The sun yet shines bright when the first soft kiss of the coming summer sprinkle moistens a frown on the brow of Captain Noah Adam Ballard. Then comes another soft wet kiss. Rain. And another kiss. Soft rain. Another kiss. The clean rainwater runs down ruddy cheeks where it joins with the salt of his tears. Heart shaped sunglasses drop from hand and clatter on rock. Ballard smiles weakly, points to the sky—

Looking west the men and woman see a swatch of three bright colors forming a majestic rainbow bridge. A fabulous bridge. It arches across deep azure from fleecy white fluff to thick black thunderhead. Magenta and green and orange ribbons anchor white billow to black anvil. Distant booming heard....

Thunderstorm!

Hard rain. Poison water down shaft.

No one speaks.

KaBOOM!

The huge black cloud slowly moves toward the refugees like a massive barge crossing a calm lake. Ahead of the storm is a small white dove with something green in its mouth. The bird has managed to fly in front of the thundercloud and over the bridge of colors.

Now a steady drizzle starts. Soon the downpour.

No one moves.

A collective gasp of psychic unison as the last clan on Earth finally understands: --This is the end of the rainbow

REMsequence 4.

(DREAM FOR TERRA)

You stretch in silence in your sleep.

You lie on your back.

Your head rests on a curled and smiling feline. Porcelain pillow. Cheshire cat ceramic.

You lie naked.

Unmoving but for breath.

Eyelids closed.

Your vibrant body skin is decorated with dozens of delicate hologramic tattoos. Multicolored alive acrylics dayglow in blacklit raycone. They cover your skin no body part left uninked. Dozens of surreally abstract tattoos begat by four distinctly different modern pop o dadas: Picasso; Dali; Pollock; and Warhol. All incarnate on your skin.

And within you.

The energy play of quarks crackle on off on and you feel flicking leptons leaping.

Deeper and farther down find WORLD beings born dying, then trying to live one endless moment of opportunistic existence. They thrive alive in your MetaProgrammed Codas. Chreodes. Fields. Electra-Atomos. Molecules. Chymicals. Your Cells. Your Bacteria. Your Anatomy and your Worms. Your Mind. --Your Mind? Your Mind is missing! Look:

Now see a bark.

See a woman with a tiny child cradled in her arms. Aboard the bark.

She stands balanced tiptop the high bow of her Royal dahabeha. Lithe body sways a medley of high grass in meadow breeze. Her enveloping cape shimmers sacred cyan.

Classic. Beautiful.

Queen.

Tied back thin black lace lifts lovely dark locks from most feminine neck. Twin ivory pins hold Her twirled blueblack strands in shining sun. See a hundred gleaming gems glimmer. See polished black lice.

Crew of twenty-two powerful oarsmen propel Her ship down jungle ford. Strong men row. Squat men. Fat. Bald. Row. Broad backs bent. Long oars stroke

Only their Queen with Her stinging flagella may alter their rhythm and rule their hulk. Twenty-two powerful men move in unison.

Row. Row without song.

Pull.

Lift.

Push and lower.

Pull.

Long oars stroke long bark slides.

Vines cascade thick and free from crowns of proud talltop trees with knurled knees. Their tangled toeroots squiggle sucking riverbank mud.

Banana tree yellow bird keeps cicada castanet cadence. Haunting sounds of whistling thorns. Ghosts of wildebeests.

Metallic red reptiles.

Balsam blossoms send seductive scent. Rich sweet smell of wild orchis. Ripe mahogany berries warm in the sun. Beryl dragonflies barely acknowledge Her noble passage.

Suddenly!

QuickLightning-- ! Flash splits sky-blue with silver splinter! .

No clap of thunder.

Twenty-two men begin low their litanies, chanting ever so slowly.

Again!

QuickLightning-- ! Silent mercurial flash splash splays across world edge--

Hissssssssss--!

White vapor steam geyser gush engulfs Her interval continuum circumference-- Clouds cover Her indeterminate centrepoint--

You hear sounds:

Familiar voices of children:

“Quick!” cry the childhood wisps of cold white steam rushing up into your slumbered mind, “Quick! Find them, find them....”

Mirage of mirrors from another spin of magnetite receiver portals programmed to resonate carbon filtered dreams in freefall up out on to incandescent thoughtclouds buoyant within Her radiant radius now in rapid expansion from Your unminded base of post-theta predata predictives.

llustrated body squirms. Your head slowly rolls side to side upon smooth backcurve of porcelain Cheshire cat.

“Quick! Find them, find them!”

Mist.

Sound of foghorn-- calling, calling. Beckoning one lone long forgotten beast.

Caught in time.

Lovely dark stretched neck bleating loud midst Pleiades and laughter. A lonely mate calling back across a septillion lost and wasted years. Honking through the mist. Waiting and waiting....

“Quick!” cry the childhood wisps of cold white steam, “Find them, find them....”

Familiar young voices from neath the Rose Window:

“Quick! Quick! Quick!”

“To the Thrush!”

And there is only the DANCE.

Calando.

Brown river. Regal bark deserted. Aroma of dank equatorial frankincense after a noon rain. Harmonious basso reflections. A clock ticking. Crocodile slowly raises lustrous hook tooth above waterline. Brown river.

Calmato.

Time: A.D. 1/28/1986, 11:39:13.232.3

From: X

To: You

Number: 1.10

Title: Chief of the Night

Refresh of cool night airs arise from mountain pines in valley below to enter my cave hole. Very dark darkness inside and out, dark sky where wry on high grins Joker Moone. From corner of open jewel box six shimmering sapphires suddenly silently fall....

Welcome to my place.

Here be humble slit home slashed in slab of shear basalt. Slim tectonic shelter scored high in the ebony of primeval piercing plate. Plate propped upon pillow of crushed rosy granite. Nested on berth of boulders.

But no cave ledge here. None. Just jutting rock to straddle.

Ten metres down, my narrow meditation sill.

Seventy metres up start rare ram runs. Lead to llama lanes. Tight tenuous goat paths. Up winding routes which crook about a whitetop cap.

Up. Up.

Past tree line. Far from fir.

Up.

Mountain top! Ho! You and I share this special instant apex.

You from your spot. I from mine.

You must have light to receive my silent transmissions. I must have dark to send. Who can say what sidereal length our single long second of interval really is? In just a jiff I port my peace to your place. My tune to the time of your tempo. Who can say which hand measures moments between Sender and Receiver? Are we not both poles of One ... a single endless event. Our peculiar processional instantron holds a unified US packed sotightintime&socloseinspace that We become two individuals too indistinguishable to isolate by birth. We are but local inconsistencies in a cosmological constant.

How can one separate the voice in the wind from the mind in the universe?

My message is made of noise.

My noise very very dirty. My noise very distorted.

But you need not worry.

Embedded within the tone and nature of my transmission for You is a symbolic code set to reach out beyond the template margins of this page. These poor printed lines of textural words along with their final edited content and published format are merely moot minor notes in a major symphony. At best they provide a differential tensor for our dark private reveille. Remember comrade, it is Our contact which makes the elemental ball roll....

So. My position in Your Milky Way affords a most spectacular view. The starry palate is lavish in this late turning hour. The atmosphere is particularly clean. Still scene timeless dark. Bright points.

Ephemeris astral.

Let's look about, now. Come on. I'll guide.

First gaze due North.

Go on up the long Trail of Tears. Past the Great White Way. Follow the yellow pebbled Fire-Walker Path. Notice this Path is thick paved with honeycomb gooo. Oooo. Molten. Now onward, go on past the Millipede. But stop and reflect when You abruptly see: Red Hands !

Now.

Look about.

Let's first locate the psychoid outline of your tour. A megaconstellation, called by young and old, Santa Kringleklaus. Ho-ho-ho. Lucky you. There He is!

Ho!

A first-magnitude tassel-ball dangles off the pointed end of his long floppy topper. Enchanting. And astounding assorted constellating forms fall from his huge opened Packsack: Outpours --

Stainless Steel Urn;

Magic Mushrooms;

Holy Smoke Rings; Flying Saucers; Bluestones; Sputnik; Vostok Spacecraft; Curie and Keller Sisters of Light; Rorschach Nebula; Surya; Noah's Ark; Unicorn; Happy Face; Virgin Mary; Green Fairy; Green Mescalito; Gulliver and Little People; Rip Van Winkle; Buffalo Dreamer; Lakes of Wada; Big Ben; Artichoke; Short-Tailed Benzene Ring; Lucy in Sky with Diamonds; Fuzzy Dice; Railway Carriage; Measuring-Rod; Billiard Balls; Building Blocks; Dynamo Nova; Superstar; Superman; Shoebox; Jack-O-Lantern; CargoPlane; Little Mermaid; Louise Brown; Woman with Red-Nosed Reindeer; Dolly the Sheep with Bonnie the Lamb; Washoe, Koko and Smokey; Adam and Lilith; Running Yeti; Moloch the Owl; Winnie the Pooh; Pipal Tree; Palm Tree; Fatima and Our Lady of Lourdes; Schrodinger's Cat; Mickey Mouse; Brittlestar; Skippy the horse; Red Cock; Snoopy’s Dog-House; Enola Gay and Little Boy; Green Eggs and Ham; Pagurus Pollacris; Fox and Snow Hare; Horace the Hawkman; Nightingale of Florence; Chicken Little; Flock of Starlings; Robin Hood with Drawn Bow; Bat Signal; Mothman; Birdman of Alcatraz; Green Giant; Red Queen; White Goddess; Entrails of Sagittarius; Houdini’s Ghost; MudFrog; Albert the Alligator; Ormazd; Bathyscaph; Steely Dan; John Henry’s Hammer; Saquasohuh; Silk Road; Stairway to Heaven; Pastures of Heaven; Hiroshima and Nagasaki; Gold Star; Goose-Girl; Glass Slipper; Silver Star; Bark of Ra; Eutchat; Vohu Mana; Great King Gilgamesh; Kon-Tiki; AstroTurf Field; Frankenstein Monster; Holy Cow; Nosferatu the Puke; Lycanthrope of Londinium; Big Blue; Otzi the Iceman; Mug of Mead; Castle of Otranto; Hypernova; Tin Woodsman; UNIVAC; Deep Throat; Elvis Belt; Ginseng Root; Orange Popsicle; Mandrake; Punch and Judy; Pygmies; Mighty Midge; Spinning Wheel; Tinkerbell; Charlie Tuna; Cream Pie; Fruit Fly; Tyger Eye; C_Jaekeli; Amber Ants; Lorenz Butterfly; Scarab; Sirius; Stubby; Sphinx; Easter Tree; Dick Jane and Spot; Sirens and the Argonaut; Hermit Crab; Horseshoe Crab; Jolly Roger; Crystal Skull; Viking Longship; Smelting Pot; Whitewall Tyre; Little Prince; White City; White People; Gutenberg Galaxy; Avalon Island; Christmas Basket; Colymbosathon ecplecticos; Honey Bees; Blue Worm; Green Snake; Little Eva; Locomotive; Shouting Tortoise; Marabou; Incandescent Bulb; Moby Dick; Thunderbird; Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance; Termite Queen; Catal Huyuk; Othello and Desdemona; Ancient Mariner; Bambi's Tear; Rhinestone Rhinoceroses; Rose Window; Stargazer Lily; Rimestars; Star Maker; Star of David; Star of Bethlehem; Shaw's Star; Star of Wales; Celestial Kingdom; Wurlitzer Jukebox; Pegasus; Flying Saucers; Holy Grail; Hole in Bootes; Pearly Gates; Kitezh; Wild Peter of Hanover; Blue Lotus; Professor Prospero; Buckyball Cluster; Huckleberry Finnegan; Empyrean; Sleipnir; King Kong; ICBM; Bazooka Joe: Archaeopteryx; Volvox System; Rotifera; Thalassodromeus; Nessie; Ahuramazda; Coyote; Fohat; Burning Man; Marfa Lights; DNA; Dragon Egg; Arthur the Avacado Plant; Armadillo; Gold Nugget; Model T; Harley Rider; Universal Harvester; Hawking Hair; Mother Teresa folded in Prayer; Starship Enterprise; Saint Christopher; Enola Gay; L. A. Quasar Cloverleaf...?

Halt--

Whoa! ... wait, here's where we get off.

But first we back-up a parsec….

Exit slow, slow ... now see two homos: there by the onramp: see homo 1.) Galactic Hitchhiker holding up her opposable red Thumb!

And positioned by the offramp: see homo 2.) Kneeling Gardener turning down his appeasable green Thumb!

Ooooooo.

North.

Further North. Up again. Push to the Pole. Please. Go north. Northward!

Up: where you spot the processing Pilgrim Star and see Robin Hood's Arrow --flying o'er top Uncle Shem a-leading some Golden Fleece o'er toward his Killing Fields. A waiting pasture found filled with a billion and one Red Poppies.

Further North, up where we see some super bright stars which outshine all the rest: Gandhi! Einstein! Newton! Galileo! Leonardo! Mahomet! Aristotle! Confucius! Zarathustra! Buddha! Moses! Cham! and, their common genetic patriarch -- NCH! Olde Saint NCH.

We're here! True North.

See, up, up top, it's another bright light: Thuban --the Pole Star!

Thus and so have we come to the completion of the famous Santa Collection. Now we're way at top of the bottom of his upsidedowned packsack. N' be glad We came to poke around--Look over here, among the Roseate Stars ... find the Violet Crown of Five Flowers.

Ha!

There stands the Bag Lady, AKA: Mademoiselle Bel Liberte! Don't you see? AKA: Nicloe! Si! Oui. She still carries her queer quasar Torch[15] alighted by little Jesu! Baby. O wonderful wonderful Bambino. Oooo. Let His radiance from Her bright Torch star tonight. Torch of Freedom!

Lo.

And behold: Arrayed before her is the major Manger asterism: see within the Manger scene the Babe of New Hope. Yea. Little love child Himself. Ho-- HOPE! hope is here! And the Lady of Fatima.

So look closely, my friend. See the Babe. See how His tiny Penis Erectus is short shaft of stars. Si. Tis topped off by blinking purple pulsar head. O oui, qui, hoka hey! Tusk, tusk. Let us let His little pointer further direct us --South.

Now go down. Go down.

....Sliding down the rim of Ben Franklin's Bifocal Spectacles.

We follow again that long wet Trail of Tears (that glistening pathway past the Red Breasted Pelican carrying the silver Long Fish in big golden beak) and down on down to the Southern Swastika: Waiting here, by this wheel we meet another powerful image in person; some people call him the Chairman, but most say he is the AntiKlaus:

Behold!

This astronomical blowup of the bust of Mao Tse-Tung peering across the Great Wall is distinguished by two parallel rows of giant carnelians. These bloody stars represent his raised high military collar. On his chin one can clearly spot Mao's Mole. At the top of his head a curved band of fifth-magnitude granatums define the dim brim of his cap. The front and center of his People's Cap is well marked by its giant red rubeus (en nova).

Impressive indeed, but we must move on.

Sight o'er top the May Pole.

Pass the Galapagos Archipelago Cluster. Go beyond the Sargasso Sea. Pause by that elegant, precious, whitegold G2; beneath see two planets Atlantis and Vulcan. Above see the twisted toped Double-Helix vanishing into the misty Southern Brights' Zodiacal Glow. Only here may we maintain proper perspective in consideration of the dazzling stellar ring floating above the top of the Pole….

Pause.

….The Seven Challenger Sunnes![16] The teal Stars of Columbia![17] --The sacred Martyr's Circle![18]

Pause.

Now, go right. Let us observe Luinil, Gil-Estel [19] and Carnil atwinkle. Rivea Corymbosa Estella. In distant background glows Starry Town and to its forefront stands Your famous First-Family: Laika, Yuri, and Valentina.

Most inspirational.

OK.

We wrap our dizzying trek, we pause by hardy Homeward Angel: Four wings held wide. One who may guide. One with arm extended, pointing back north ... pointing to the tight Gordian Quipus caught in the Magick Rhombus set just above The Face of the Shroud.

KaPow!

In conclusion, we find Ourselves residing again at the antipode of the Urea Compound; Rediscovering none other than the Great-Attractor sallying us into the primeval fold of an empty whole.

Once again we rendezvous, in fear, well knowing we are privileged, trembling, again hand in hand aneath His feet --at the foot of the Purpled Crux!

Yes.

At the foot of the Purpled Crux.

And, so, here you are Matey. Absolved. Kneeling. Kneeling and feeling His bleeding. And hearing his bleating:

“Eli, Eli.”

Benediction.

--I Silently confess to you of my compulsive Sabianism. You see, I see rudimentary living entities illuminating Our pointillist game of follow-the-dots to the stars above ... stars! and, more stars! O beautiful brutes. God made thee dumb. Then lit your lives for we to see and us to use.

O' pounding drums.

Shrieking static and endless hums.

Most primitive expressions. Stars. Stars! and more stars! Rhythms palpitating to provide a concentric metre for the high steppins of a strangely squared dance. All are attuned to play out their song and keep time in the Key of c.

Rolling thunder.

Tumbling. Hand in hand....

Truly. Listen: the perfect music of these spheres must shinny and shimmer your shakin soule to tickle your whiskers with the magic of colour raidio! Bagdad modulations blown out the violent nucleaxis of your own home galactic cell! Modulations casting forth megasine sidebands separated by millions of millennia!! Millions of millennia!

All this to let life.

All, to let your priceless Moment of Density too swiftly streak through your own Main Sequence. And finally to follow the white March Hare down the dark.

Emerge; cave ledge.

Night.

Hushed. An owl?

Sandalwood smell twines through tall pines in the cool. I light my bowl.

Joker Moone grins.

Lo!

See high! -- Up up, --in the sky! Streak! Bluegreen ball tells all -- by tail and fall. The seventh sapphire. . . . . . .

Time: A.D. 1/28/1986, 11:39:13.141.2696

From: X

To: You

Number: 1.11

Title: Sermon on Mount Sci

Your voice hollers:

“Hermit_X--! Yell what You tell of worth!”

I trumpet back:

“Yoe! tis well You know: --that thar oldetimey Elephantidae-model theory has been contemporarily discarded as dysfunctional fairytale myth.

“Lo, today, Your falling sky is supported by Lord Atlas Himself. Tis only He who stands in steadfirm form fast atop o Terra which of itself is a flat disk resting in balance upon shell of Great Tortoise standing atop larger Tortose standing on even larger Tortuse standing on ever larger larger Tortus who's yet on top a larger larger larger Tortu; et caetera, etcetera, etc.

“...All the way down!

“However and nonetheless it has NOT been demonstrably proven any of these Turtles actually stand. Fact is they may indeed be each at rest, each teeter-tottered with all four legs retracted: strong shellhorn underbelly as domicile base precariously placed upon adjacent rounded rooftop, high-rise style.

“...All the way up![20]

“--Case: CLOSED!”

Now the Multitude murmurs and checks me over: murmur, murmur, murmur; --then a solo responder calls forth: “CRAP on your head, hermit_X!”

“Hey Comrade!” I shout back: “--ZBLOOD!

“Remember when you discovered me? You exerted yourself and extended your efforts to interpret my rough teethmarks. Remember it was you who willingly loaded my crude codes into your mind sensorium ... so, don't blame me for your troubles with my Torts:

Kyklops Ozmagoria

In general, events which are luminous and reflective represent exploding and nonluminous and the absorptive represent imploding. Often one mistakenly identifies them as representing opposites. But they are each active events grounded to the same absolute interval on this plus side of negative, balanced on true zero. You are simply registering assorted gravomagnetic signatures in varying degrees of polar energy burst and decay burst and decay; for example, the events imploding quietist are black holes and gravity folds and among those exploding loudest are megapulsars and magnificent plasmatic arcs writhing in the magnetocentrespheres of alive galactic gemmules. [Not too unlike the nervous synoptical nucleopulsing of a cellgragate's thinking body parts.]

On the other hand, Dark Matter is totally sympathetic. It produces only self-canceling synchrotron radiations and cannot be detected by traditional sensors. To find these tremendous Dark Matter bubbles listen and gauge the “silence” between the noise parts. The momentary spaces of quiet in the loose-weave blankets lying around the burster have essence. It is in this darkness between the wavicles you find the vague rarified. Noise is White mass. Dark mass is measured by its own absence.

And though at first sight they may appear as unrelated, but whether explosions, or implosions, all are quanta continua! --a'la Actives.

They are ... therefore, they exist.

The genuine, honest to God, NonActives are stable Omni-twisters which immediately exist and nonexist (meaning no attack, no decay) but still serve as a chreodic matrix to the living gist [21] potential at any place on a quark's waving quantum string loop point.

At a level--waypast subprobability and farbeyond exo-probability [but still within the Tortoise Egg]--are wholly UnActive Quanta. These nonquanta contribute to configuring those event careers that can never occur Here. Do not confuse them with InActive Quanta. Inactives are events that have-ceased or will-start. They are premonitions and recollections of full careers long and short along a definite worldline. These inactives inexist in nonstable unstates of prepostnotyetnotnow consciousness always eternally ready to resintegrate again and again to again begin again end over end anew.

Do not confuse any Uns and Ins with those Nons which will never occur to ever enter let alone exit. (Some such much nonedone and all oh so very very hush hushy, and, quitely quiet ((ssshhhhhhh ... you'll wake 'em up now.)).

As we rise a few Turtles in presence tense the Twister connected Gemini-matter is come to be associated activity occurring in a supercomplementary phase of density. Its[22] it-string to being here now is a Gordian knotted golden quipu bound to heart of the Gemini-quark --which has the opposite of slow decay; it has a very fast ... ATTACK! Thus the Gemini-quark trace occurs only during an elongated assault unlike most particle tracings which occur during a prolonged retreat. Particulate smasherators register Gemmi-quark detections backward and upsidedown, don't you see. The Gq track is too relative to whichever one moving perspective you're observing from. So what you consider recorded decay is really reflected attack. In other words all Gemini-quarks end before they begin; Must, to ever can.

OK.

Gemini-matter is not like antimatter which is self-destructive with koinomatter. Gemini are famous for being especially mutually complementary to the koinomatter forms and can-not-be-separated once attached. They each increase lifespans for each other by maintaining mutual spins. In this Universe where and when they appear Gq's are visually indistinguishable from your normal particles.[23] It is primarily their chreodic relationship to the giddy probabilities of imagimatter and negamatter where they really shine. When consciously described in man&machinemade formulae of observation the two Gemini-quarks are easily restrained and when pressured they couple to create the fabulous Janus-wavicles.

Two-sided Janus wavicles are easiest to describe as proportionally enhanced particles. Well shaped. Ultrasymmetrical. They are good-looking two-faced flukes. These particlized waves are your key to traveling forth&back among the Turtles. The Janus-wavicles let you go to&fro in time and up&down in frequence for learning a lesson great in the Densus of anywhere. Once in rotation, a Jw² can rap at any time with a Classic-particle to catch the gist and charm forth a Triforma-opportunity.[24]

This connubial event gives you a parallax partis-point perspective from your selected proforma rightnows to use for encoding. Remember: once started, it's over. Finished. Then, when willed, the Triforma-opportunity becomes your awaiting token turnstyle to spin open the path to all available Pasts and Futures. [Within reason ((by definition of observation)).]

Median-matter--not too hot and not too cold--has a lot less density to volume than higher intensity more luminous events. And much more density to volume than dim lower energy events. Mm can grow those things we recognize as Organic-animates; their self-inflicted life-term sentence is--to a degree--the resultant of temporally capturing thermodynamic stability within a compelling magnetic parameter perimeter (i.e. echobottling, etc). Median-matter allows the host planet to copy and compress its pseudo-closed systems into a chymically exploding synergistically expanding symbiotic geocorona event interval frame. (Mm itself is a natural frixional by-product of the twisting wavelengths released by koinomatter/antimatter collisions. There are continuous gravity smoothing convections stimulated in part by their apparent removal--i.e., transformations--from the mass system as whole when the two events annihilate.)

Most particles in constant motion.

Many waves at standing state.

Then nothing reappears from nowhere to disappear without a clue.

While some other things never even happen?

What genuinely does matter is the magnified form from foam charsketched and carbon-copied onto your special state of being here Tao. Means you-are-you because of Median-matter. Not because of the esoterics like mysterium and nebulium and coronium. No. Not a condensate. Your body cells must exist among the more base planets either living on and in one or traveling connected to one or going to one. They may all be simulated environments, but they must be made of MM. As your cells must always be inside something to emulate essential earthen-eggish environs. To give you this way your diurnal nutrients. On which you are daily bred.

Your parent planet's particular aberration of the general life-phenomena does not stay in one place. Its shifting auroras slither in serpentine animation causing twinkling crystalline twining in the observable universe. They unleash lashes of loops of brilliant energy ecstatically winding wildly throughout galactic size quarks to unfold clean bolting sheets flapping dry in a sunny breeze to reveal in color kinetic clusterstrands to follow fast the lifening flush flash flowing into and out of Alice's Garden grown contrary! quite. And looky looky looky here. There YOU are. The 9th Mystery in MY Tarot:

The Gardener.

You. Down on your knees. Claw hand poised--

BONG.

We must attribute your kind of ongoing planetary life process to the backwash of stars. Your whole-earth breathing body bathes in a controlled fertilizer from fresh found fermenting bio-sys produce. You planimals exist in their stool as do millions live by your waste. Were it not for an abundance of starshite there would be no focused radiation feed. No repeatable harmonic responses generating the a-tomic reactions to which you are protobiontically chained and bonded.

Without this ever-spread supply of stellar excrementum primal sperm spores lie dormant in the Mm. Must be a stellar propelled medium behind the active principle, It powers his cosmic spear to penetrate deep into her Turtle Egg. Click the switch.

[Particle heads always lead. Wavicule tails ever leave. Matured matter capsules ripely rupture. Not unlike fragile atomik spores kept warm neath nettle time's gentled pressure. Sprouts from seeds whose season is shown the light and given warmth.

ALIVE cares not if it BE exhibited on an elemental surface or BE spawned within subforcefield globus. Life appears, quickly reaches a fragile stabilization of critical mass then collapses, to disappear in one location and reappear at another! This means whether one has a carbonhydrogen or silicahelium template, whether one is an idiot or an Eliot: One simply must ((must!)) participate in the Dance.[25] Try the final transubstantiation. O how the Death Knight's marathon pirouette rattles his black armor. Feel his metal sword. Ice-forged at the still-point.]

O my dear Friend, you find it most impossible to converse with termites. Totally preposterous to conspire with nebulae. But once again, old Pal, we are all made of the Same-Stuff. You and I and Thum and That.

At length, all of us finds the greater the life-scales and the farther backto we travel along our times' lines the more the Miracle unfolds. --Behold!

Each of us travel at different intensities different directions through the realization of an evermore increasingly impressive web of gossamer grandeur. You are of the Same that It Is which turns your galaxy. Rolls your cluster. Spins your strand. You are a caloric inhabitant of a relatively cold energy being. Gently blessed by a sun star. Momentarily held in your magnetic moment of steaming stability by the dynamic product of swirling spun into probable positions beyond your wildest imagining.

YOU are the AntiChance! the EverUncertain Lucky ALIVE. A Delayed Implosion. A Frozen Explosion. A Dream of the Living Dead.

And you ... are the free Guiding Light for the Will To Be.

Introduction:

True the hade of the white pin is frequently stuck out of sight. Hade is hid in the shade aneath the black dwarf's twirling top cap but always open to becoming a communications line linked to receive code coming in or going out from an assortment of other universal densities. Your personal choice ... all up to You. [Don't forget: this narrow content import probably relatively always comes castout before ((i.e., a-hade)) broad localized electroflux causation scatter bands materialize. Sometimes it comes out a few “hours” ahead and other times several “millennia” ahead.] These white pins with their shaft and hade are potential high energy artifactual switches of hotlines tied to branches growing from a parallel series of twisted double helical trunks placed in tunnels under and over your gravomagnetic timelined mine field. They--the time symmetrical white pins and black holes--connect nows and elsewhens. These coaxial cables can clear channel consciousness to receptive forces in neighboring densities. And these transmissions are possible because Information and Mass have the same basic symmetrical properties, naturalis mathematica. Information and material mass are each interchangeable with energy. Hence both can be encoded to equate unto each other.

Matter, mass, energy, heat, and light are products of and producers of and providers of information. Watch. Where does the onion germ morphogenesize into the hall of many mirrors? Centre of the molecule? The atom? The lepton?

For instance, when atomized matter is framed by a bubble fluctuation and its contained information is dragged backwards, it recombinates. Likewise such informed recombinations are what enables life itself to probe the plenums of our ultimate Omniverse. Not matter nor energy. Dreams. Information. Wishes. Thus your challenge becomes to figure out the Question. Then you simply plug-in the Answer, which is glaring you in the phase.

Observe outside the living statistical topographia of your svivarium sunnevelope. Recognize, your Sol group galaxy cluster osculates its deviating influences to grandee gravomagnetic tremors traveling through diverse densities wave woven laminated lacquered layer within layer currently alternating permeating chalky gray quintes

Thirteen Histones Copyright 2004© by Oris Bracken.

My thanks to Mr. Michael Ambrose for his valued appraisal and his assistance with manuscript editing.

THIRTEEN HISTONES

ORIS BRACKEN

“Hark!”

Mother Teresa - Stephen W. Hawking

But, all recipes aside: The proof of the pudding is in the proof--

Hint?