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comix64cruel!
lives are so short. quintillions of duodecillions of googolplexes of nothing in particular. an overwhelming, overstimulating, mindnumbing number of singularly uniformly empty nothing. otherwise, one singular everything. we are in this. the everything. an infinite page with every combination of everything combinable and uncombined combinables and combined uncombinables. so cruel! that there is no god to me. in this combination there could be one. there could be a spider god or a god that is simply the number two or five quintillion copies of Neon Genesis Evangelion (N64) as our god. it could simply just occur that five quintillion nintendo sixty-four cartridges have, in conglomerate, gained an amalgamated sentience and decided to create this exact world. or one change that makes it an alternate universe. and the cartridge gods do not prevail this one. all entertainment i, the human author, have seen, that seeks to entertain its viewers, like all media does, everywhere, presents universes as almost identical. i want to change that. entertainment is in your life. everywhere. alternative: to live in grueling work, and think and imagine nothing at all. not even cave men escaped entertainment. the fire's sense, an entertaining feel. this world is simply one of an infinite jest. all events are jokes. the death of my grandmother was one singular joke played to present to me the numbingly suddenly close events to bring one from a ascendatious philosophising mind to one of dead minded sorrow. i am forcing you! to imagine as many numbers as possible. add one. add one. keep adding. i told you to keep adding. i am humiliated that you are unable to add one without me telling you to. universi, there is one in which everything is overwhelmingly "watermelon".
you are blind. ask me any question. i will respond with "watermelon". this is both the fictional and genuine state of this universe that either does or does not exist. watermelon.
does this universe have life?
watermelon
does it know?
watermelon
do its inhabitants love?
watermelon
are watermelons existing?
watermelon
now. imagine being there. all of your senses do not sense as they do. you do not see. you see watermelon. your vision is not vision. it is watermelon. you hear watermelon. you smell watermelon. you feel watermelon. you think watermelon. you?
did you, there, after "you", think "watermelon"? what does this say about you? what does this say about this writing? what does it say of what i know of you? what does it say of what you know of me? what will happen to you? what will happen to me?
such sorts of intensely abstract are in my mind lots. i happen to percieve this at the right time. so much time! so little experienced! it slips from me. i feel its tendency in my mind, but am forced to continue with my tiny existence, biting, crying, feeling the nerve, exuding violently iotic nothing.
so do you. you cannot feel what i do from the scripture you are reading. you never will. skill of writing never meets perfection, as nothing does. you are not perfect. you do not perfect. you cannot perfect. you will not perfect.
an art: one letter. you, unfortunately, do not consider what it means hardly enough. what letter is it? why was that one chosen? is it supposed to represent interruption? is it a proposal to all viewing to add, if it is not already, it, to their vocabulary as a word, as some already are, singular lettered words? what color is it? where? what texture is it made of? is it made? is it a physical letter? how tall?
imagine the letter P, made of a fine leather, placed directly behind you. i have just, without explicit, made you, hopefully, imagine your surroundings directly outside of your vision. how does it feel? to view that i am either wrong or right? did you, really, imagine it?
lives are so short. quintillions of duodecillions of googolplexes of nothing in particular. an overwhelming, overstimulating, mindnumbing number of singularly uniformly empty nothing. otherwise, one singular everything. we are in this. the everything. an infinite page with every combination of everything combinable and uncombined combinables and combined uncombinables. so cruel! that there is no god to me. in this combination there could be one. there could be a spider god or a god that is simply the number two or five quintillion copies of Neon Genesis Evangelion (N64) as our god. it could simply just occur that five quintillion nintendo sixty-four cartridges have, in conglomerate, gained an amalgamated sentience and decided to create this exact world. or one change that makes it an alternate universe. and the cartridge gods do not prevail this one. all entertainment i, the human author, have seen, that seeks to entertain its viewers, like all media does, everywhere, presents universes as almost identical. i want to change that. entertainment is in your life. everywhere. alternative: to live in grueling work, and think and imagine nothing at all. not even cave men escaped entertainment. the fire's sense, an entertaining feel. this world is simply one of an infinite jest. all events are jokes. the death of my grandmother was one singular joke played to present to me the numbingly suddenly close events to bring one from a ascendatious philosophising mind to one of dead minded sorrow. i am forcing you! to imagine as many numbers as possible. add one. add one. keep adding. i told you to keep adding. i am humiliated that you are unable to add one without me telling you to. universi, there is one in which everything is overwhelmingly "watermelon".
you are blind. ask me any question. i will respond with "watermelon". this is both the fictional and genuine state of this universe that either does or does not exist. watermelon.
does this universe have life?
watermelon
does it know?
watermelon
do its inhabitants love?
watermelon
are watermelons existing?
watermelon
now. imagine being there. all of your senses do not sense as they do. you do not see. you see watermelon. your vision is not vision. it is watermelon. you hear watermelon. you smell watermelon. you feel watermelon. you think watermelon. you?
did you, there, after "you", think "watermelon"? what does this say about you? what does this say about this writing? what does it say of what i know of you? what does it say of what you know of me? what will happen to you? what will happen to me?
such sorts of intensely abstract are in my mind lots. i happen to percieve this at the right time. so much time! so little experienced! it slips from me. i feel its tendency in my mind, but am forced to continue with my tiny existence, biting, crying, feeling the nerve, exuding violently iotic nothing.
so do you. you cannot feel what i do from the scripture you are reading. you never will. skill of writing never meets perfection, as nothing does. you are not perfect. you do not perfect. you cannot perfect. you will not perfect.
an art: one letter. you, unfortunately, do not consider what it means hardly enough. what letter is it? why was that one chosen? is it supposed to represent interruption? is it a proposal to all viewing to add, if it is not already, it, to their vocabulary as a word, as some already are, singular lettered words? what color is it? where? what texture is it made of? is it made? is it a physical letter? how tall?
imagine the letter P, made of a fine leather, placed directly behind you. i have just, without explicit, made you, hopefully, imagine your surroundings directly outside of your vision. how does it feel? to view that i am either wrong or right? did you, really, imagine it?
