Beyond the Infinite.

There were some others, like at the Renaissance Fair or something, standing there at the concessions trembling with confusion as to what to blog about.  Even filing a post about not knowing what to blog about.  Seeing pictures, as of "werewolves of London" in the old Starlog 'zine, an early screaming of hook-up culture, but a tinge of the seismic shift of "love poetry" which are really "pick-up lines" disguised as art.

We so confuse.  Y u do dis, pls?

Blog yourself.  Blog the world.

Read on and be edified, then, if you would be edified, with the monocle stuck to the sticking place.

As a generic truth, a widely-agreeable truism, that which is contrary to nature falls away, unappreciated.  Just today, I suggest that if one sees one of those toy monkey figures with the funny jester cap and the symbols in his hands, we expect music forthwith.  Kind of a clinking noise.  If we can dance to the music, great, and if we can sing along, even better, but for it to fall flat is for the whole thing to be lost, and being lost is not even having one moment.  Sometimes a life doesn't even go on but for a few moments, but that is enough for dignity and meaning; hell, we could write books about even those, despite thinking from one end that the work was uneventful, we could find meaning if we are worth our salt.

As per CNN, they dramatically say that travelers in some parts of the world tread across historic soils without even being aware of it, something of a submerged "continent" lost long ago in the undertow of history.  This they figure out, that millions of years ago, plate tectonics forced a significantly-sized piece of North Africa to slip its silly self right under the soils of Europe.

Just another example of the popular narrative f*cking Africa, I guess.

Now, I know, I, We, You will deal with some people that are unsavory types, like my family's magnetic appeal to drug addicts, and those people will say bad things to you.  But you hit them with the Drake, which is to say, the slow-talking, that they can follow along with.  If you came at them first with Shady having the bedspread stuck in his "disrespectful ass", perhaps you've given a wrong impression right off.  They go on what they know, and that is all.  If there stomach is pushing them along, then that's what is whispering the words into their eager ears, what the empty-headed person says to you eventually.

Here I've condescended to give advice, and its like Seneca says.  Do I think I'm so well-developed, well-adjusted, contented as to offer advice to some people?  Quite not, but rather I share an experience with a common malady, me to you, as from inside the same hospital ward, me in one bed, head turned, speaking to you, who are in the other bed, right beside.

And here I am, the dude on the mountaintop, some broken mirror-glass rendering of the Ubermensch(the bad picture), considering suing everyone in the world this morning, the people around me saying "you can't prove that".  But I hadn't even told them the evidence to support my claims.  In the analog of memory, daily claptrap, with the end result, two cardboard dioramas pointed at one another, each side performing actions for the benefit of the other, with neither really watching the other, instead more worried about their own little fascinations within their own box, and in the odd moment, if they did look over to the other box, they wouldn't even understand what they saw anyway without some sort of annotation.

Paraffin coffin nails which are just enough to stop an average breeze from upsetting the lid.

What was the gist of the talk with Scarfaldt, had when the lights were brightening, starting to hum with power, heating, and the Mantis did his penance once more?  Those words were rolled and blurped about, like looking at a pencil through a glass of water, the sense of it not making it through, but the average person could look at it and recognize what it was, but clearly, a thousand years in the future, language archetypes lost anyways, it comes out some kind of expressionist gibberish that does not say anything, instead just painting a picture of the mood at the time, like Jackson Pollock sneezing nosebleed onto a sticky note.