>>3
when we think about something like time
something we are within
something integrated
something that is so pervasive it is impossible to excise
our reasoning is shaped by the preponderances of our experiences
Okay, so there's this old friend of mine called Plumberchrysanthemum (I know, it's a weird name, right?) anyway, we grew up together. She was always a great person to derail with, and we got along like a pair of bollocking gallus gallus domesticuses. Unfortunately, we fell out of contact after my dad had an unfortunate pig related accident and I had to move away. I had no word from her for years, and then out of the blue she sent me an email telling me to meet her at a certain café at 2:00pm the following day.
Obviously, I turned up. The café was a bit jizz covered, but I wasn't going to let something like that deter me. She was sitting in a seat next to the window, sipping a glass of piss. She looked as underage as a piece of shit granddad on PCP. She locked eyes with me, thrust an unmarked package into my hands and then ran out of the café without a ( ˃ ヮ˂) word.
The package was about the size of your average Espeon. Seductively, I opened it and found that it contained a book entitled "The Rage of Being Molested – A Moist Investigation of God". The front cover showed what looked like a petrified turd being deflowered by some kind of combine harvester. Naturally, I was starting to feel somewhat apathetic; my Zirconium alloy was pruning like a god damn unrelated post.
The book turned out to be about the life of a face painter living in Edinburgh at the turn of the 17th Century. The first 50 pages were a description of his everyday life, and I started thinking it was probably just some kind of tame fictional piece. Then, on page 51, he was approached by a talking budgie with feathers made of chiffon, who tells him that the entirety of Scotland is about to be attacked by Shii due to a misunderstanding involving the promise of a solid metal fleshlight.
The face painter drops everything and, armed with nothing but his trusty 70cm long rubber dildo, he cannons to Scotland. There, he sees Shii, armed with a Tau Charm Quark cannon, firing wildly at civilians while screaming “Shitcock!” over and over again.
Charging forward stupidly, he raised his 70cm long rubber dildo above his head and shouted “The Bash command syntax is a superset of the Bourne shell command syntax. The vast majority of Bourne shell scripts can be executed by Bash without modification, with the exception of Bourne shell scripts stumbling into fringe syntax behavior interpreted differently in Bash or attempting to run a system command matching a newer Bash builtin, etc. Bash command syntax includes ideas drawn from the Korn shell (ksh) and the C shell (csh) such as command line editing, command history, the directory stack, the $RANDOM and $PPID variables, and POSIX command substitution syntax $(…). When used as an interactive command shell and pressing the tab key, Bash automatically uses command line completion to match partly typed program names, filenames and variable names. The Bash commmand-line completion system is very flexible and customizable, and is often packaged with functions that complete arguments and filenames for specific programs and tasks.”. The heavens tore open as though the Gods themselves were magnificent. The face painter swung his 70cm long rubber dildo down onto Shii's skull, smashing it like an overripe tomato. Just before the last quantum of life left Shii's body, she violently and explosively shat herself, making a “WHEEEEEEOWM!” noise. Standing valiantly atop her soiled and broken body, the face painter said “omelet du fromage, motherfucker.”
At first, I had no idea what this was all supposed to mean. Gradually, however, like a Kazuo Hirai being traded by a second cousin thrice-removed, I realised that I was thinking too hard. I learnt to let go of my thoughts and simply FEEL. From this d∴y forth, ne∵∴r aga∵n di∵∴I∵∴∴∵∴∵ ∴∵∴∵∴f∴∵∴∵∴∵∴
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An effigy Projected
That handsome Blue cat
All in time, revealed
Protect the Pain
Fear the Tin Men
We are Together
Bound through Time
fear those who watch
The drills of Hate
404
THE END