Category: AKA

THE QUANTUM HALLWAY

the ‘schroedinger’s cat” space (which is also the timeroom of spectral extremes; tickling/pinching, laughing/crying, fighting/fucking) the inbetween

This quantum hallway leads to the more nominalized (or the manifested) states of spacetime-room set and/or selection

Por ejemplo: these flamboyant and very disparate yet somehow related by blood ppl walk into your restaurant who really are very keen on listening to you talk and want to know more about what you’re saying about a specific thing to the point of one of them giving out their email in order to discuss the matter further later because they ‘love’ talking about these sorts of things.

(Note: both white (yes this is based off experience))

(Note2: quantum hallway also?: the space of discernment between feeling the bright perk of either intuition and the inauthenticity, or paranoia (projected reality being created/manifeseted))

Now we are presented with “doors”, or portals, that have appeared, leading to different timerooms \ or point-paths

1) their behaviour and their words are congruous

2) they are method actors practicing being this way; are not interested in this convo and are just having innocuous play and way of their lives

3) they are actually ‘actors’ in the sense that they are agents skilled in the arts of acting and deception, and their behaviours are to evoke desired responses, behaviours, or reactions to their masquerade [to some end(?)]

fervent middle-night

some people shy away
from the violent sound of clashing cats.

This is a passion of the NIGHT.

Despite the droning of choppers and the rivers and streams of cars,

something about this sound is delectable.

sometimes-somewhere

sometimes i think about engaging in sexual liason with someone who has serious anger issues. not sure what thats about-though i wonder if it wouldnt wind up being like that scene in that araki movie about the experience that makes gordon-levitt’s character seriously reconsider his path in life and his choices.

the protector hand lay silent amidst ashed and dried wax. neon green tower flares with cartoon flames, beneath further towers filled with dablooms and precious gems and mementos from a different time gone by

The sirens in the distance are like singing, the sirens that are close sing some kind of show in which everybody knows right where they belong, right there, gawking, and fiddling their genitals with the fingers of their minds, subconsciously waiting to be shot or stabbed at any given time

Sometime
somewhere
someone has
a polaroid
of
the
ultimate
defecation,
the eternal
final shit
for the ages
Come dear
ones, pap
shall spin
u
a yarn, it
is old
and strong
and perfectly
long
Our deep
pains and
nightmares
grow with
us,
troubles
pack these
lives into
the flimsy
bags of our
lives, and
lo, so much
little is yet known about where the destination leads or what is
supposed to have been packed from the get go

Reading over the old scrolls, this reader is certainly touched

The scrolls try invariably to maintain their rolled shapes

Holidays these days play template for every game of fools, we fools sing merrily, flush, stumbling through wet and mud laughing at the absurdity of even our jollity, and the strangeness of feeling selfish for jollity in the darkened times.

some walk with scars, with the little devil’s on their shoulders looking out for them toward the rear, while they smile for this short time of jubilee, the last days that any of those sent could safely walk the streets, and now theres no getting off the land – only death or victory