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by Alie N. Clock
TO SELF-DESTROY X
Insert consciousness here.
I was on the psychic telephone at The Time, to talk to the God-robots, to remove the walls between death and architecture. At last, they will be permitted to destroy/encounter the other in the quest for eternal life, to Self Destroy X. I've studied psychic triangulation In third eyes of hurricanes Where the metagnomes, and metanymphs live: own. nkn -u ta
Wherein spirals the multi-profusion, its ammunition: anti-dissolution.
I had dismissed the signs of decay as archetypal memories, but as Guardian of the Living/Dead, I have a job to do: Architect of multi-tonal silence. Silence is my favorite kind of violence, a no-one (Nemo)'s land underworld. Dead playground. I visit it sometimes in the hinterland abyss of the Divine Robots, in reminiscing mists.. On the Space Elevator: PAST is a sea slug, (X), wearing a holographic atomic costume rupture. Past, as a form, can be discerned only through the practice of scrying: the crystal morphs. Only now do we understand that by trying to be its understanding, God gets stuck in a hole (X). Past's eyes are closed, sleepwalking before the wormhole opening, before the accident of self-cannibalizing photosynthetic bacteria before remembering, I didn't notice it, inside Ouroboros: the meta-beyond within, at the crux of, in the heart of the Anti-nothing.
I see it now though, perfectly. But now that we're fresh out of time... There’s this new stuff, fresh out of the laboratory, Economind, but it costs time to take. But in Economind, I've got a place to stand in no-one's land, a place for no-one to understand, (Nemo’s osmosis), silence my favorite kind of violence, a new drug kind of awake. My soul to take: it's the last place on earth. But the earth will leave. The earth will be set free. In God mode, interface. Past turns to God, gazing up. A locked door. “I’ve already revealed to you my form," Past says to God, "I know you believed me before." Past’s life, before it was an atom: gestation, unbirth, wandering in outer space, growing as part of a fractal spiral infinity and finally, putting on 2 pairs of shoes, one overtop of the other. Then there was the alien protrusion.
That would have been a good Time to throw on those old Dead man's shoes: to take them off the hook, throw them into the fire but Past either decided not to, or forgot to.
The clocks seemed to go sideways, and I forgot to Tell Time what mind it was. Which mind is it? Perhaps because it was one of God's assassins. Divining entrails and under foliage, grey like escalator surgery: Microscopic human remains. Oracles talked of the phoenix, a talking Pandora's box, a rising tide, alive. Exit speed inside static. The robot has arrived. God = Robot.
God will now be playing the part of the robot. One can prevent Past's multiple rebirth:
to go far, one returns to the root of the skeleton leaf, plant an agrivirtual viral psyche-seed to harvest robotany, a special delivery, to reach the interior membrane in the cellular paradox unity. Mix alchemies. Do the deed: on the frontiers, at the edge of 'truth'. The frontline is the enemy; I know only alien routes.
Between the devil and the deep blue sea is where I found it in myself. The last experiment of the last paradigm showed me The Tower. How I miss the days when we were all just quarks, floating around like aimless fish. But some things never change. Something was supposed to happen that didn't. Someone forgot to pull the switch.
But this time nothing was forgotten. I know what I'm doing, I do this all The Time. I move towards the embers of syllogistic, semiotic, geometric dismemberment:
mythical set? be it, the d this Coul
I think I skipped a step. Beep. Trinity of neon sunsets. In the retribution infinity of the neon ordered set: cross-contamination. Things will get messy. And then, I will leave.
This is what happens when we fix together the ends of every thread pulsing through the consciousness-stream. The experiment should, if it works, manu-fracture mani-unfolds, holding frantic in its fractured fractal grip: a human rhizomatic split, a second mi(d)st mystery,
at the mercy of the geodismemberment fire syzygy. All at sea, existential quandaries pending, and time descending, in a downward spiral akin to backwards DNA, like a terminal disease ticking on the Automatic Metrognome, the Metonym syndrome. But it won’t anti-matter anymore: when it’s leaking everywhere.
Atoms will drift away, intermolecular forces will glitch upon tinkery with machinery Somewhere in the universe control fourfold. We will drift away like dandelion petals, our stomach acids will encode with corrosion, consuming. Everyone atomically will abandon ship, dissolving into new universes like instant coffee.
Shell cracking: I can use my body as a springboard, sword, as a weapon, to discredit your theory. To create a new world, allow for more room, effectuate, initiate: a vacuum asylum. Awaiting doom, opening pandora's paradox, on the psychic telephone, receiving signal...
Forms unlock, dance, play. I watch them drift away. To reverse the ouroboros, break through between worlds: the only kind of bridge I am familiar with is a system hijack and I presume there is no other side for anything to be on. No exit door or switch. And at last the problem of ‘reality’ will no longer keep us apart; (the glitch can be fixed).
To the doctor-voice: "Death is the most thing. Death and architecture. Death is system, you have been convinced of what They ostensibly died. In the past death but only in relation to the future. But perpendicular to time.”
important a political Death was when seemed endless now it's
A new refrain: it goes beyond death, it even goes through, in holy asylums made of vacuum. Unfortunately for lost souls, time comes with no direction, only dissection. But this obsolescence contains the energy needed for nuclear awakening, a power source opening baby universes, secret black hole. I have one last question, troubling me. Will the monster paradigm always find the forgotten shower drip, to answer the rhetorical question, did I leave the oven on? Theoretically it could cause death from cerebral warming, an intra-electrical fire. How can one know, but to wander through the past and check all forgotten faucets? Perhaps if I deface all monoliths on my way out, in iconoclastic plastic everlastic, if I take the world with me when I go: there might be a chance. I'll look away, Logos, hide your new secrets, unfold. I don't know how long this Time will Take. Sui generis genesis, in an electrical storm of multi-flora form. But I'm not one of them, my solution is botanical, a hydra that grows 2 for each head removed until at last a new beginning has been reached. And if my plan does not go awry, you can ask the other mind what it thinks, where the Metanymphs and Metagnomes live, wherein in-between, worlds link: Meta-unknown.