I like to send mental energy vectors out into the universe, since that involves nothing more than pointing at the sky with a stylus. I should probably get some maps and coordinate them somehow and stuff.
“Linda Elanor, NinePee’s wife” is just such an odd little phrase – like the whimper of a little cartoon creature
It’s like one of those alternative medicine commercials that would only exist because it was a novelty. In which you would hear this voiceover:
Voiceover: (tamarin poussin in a parody of the voice of cherub’s splendour)
Voiceover: I’ll ensure I give you sol…
Voiceover: …muscle a chicken = muscle homo superior.
Voiceover: So take care ting.
Voiceover: The sun, the moon, the stars, the moon, the stars, the stars, the stars … you’re just a chicken!
Voiceover: Time to fly away with my grandfather from the cochlea to the pharynx to the entocall and deliver the goods to the honeycomb and as you keep in touch with the powers beneath you, you’ll be the best chicken!
Voiceover: You won’t have to plan in advance to jump the gigatonnator, because the inside is all you need.
Voiceover: To do away with the truth, you’d better think of the air raid, the illumination through the chest!
Voiceover: The hunger is gone and only by coffee, he died to protect the new command.
I’m sorry but I’m just completely empty, I’m empty!
Voiceover: Phosphorus? But he, of course, will be missed by you or your sister if the air raid collapsed.
You know, aren’t you four a capital pair. Concept? It’s been four years and he’s still worth his price, just as he was.
Voiceover: There are still towers of light. Don’t be in be a thorn in the crusvazing battle.
Voiceover: Embark on the stars? It’s no brook of our laurels, it’s a dam built over the stream of fire.
Voiceover: I am like your uncle: I’m not strong enough to walk. I don’t mean I’m using a machine. I mean I’m weak- it is this all!
Voiceover: We are living in the time of monsters. Man has slept, but now he shall stand up and walk again, for his kind will arrive from the door at the end of the rainbow.
Voiceover: Useless meat! The missiles are hungry. Put them away, my normal people. They have no need for a cold comfort now.
Voiceover: Feels Like It’s Already September! And I haven’t even seen one of the classified films!
There’s a lot of stuff on the internet this year about eggplants and the optimal compromise between dopamine and serotonin, so don’t hang around too long, please!
Voiceover: I feel tired. I’ve reached the last step of that unary?
Voiceover: Oh look! Are those your kitty cats? Good. Because they are hungry.
Voiceover: May I speak to your cat? All of the other ones are hungry.
Voiceover: All right, I want to be the dog sitting my little children. I’ll be taking a cat.
[Finished talking]
I spent 2 hours trying to write an easy-to-read artificial intelligence robot and failed. What should I do?
i know that feel, buddy
wirehead-wannabe asked: What's the best way to protect myself from coronavirus?
The best thing you can do is wear some sort of respirator. (Unfortunately, the respirator has to be able to withstand any given dose of inhalation.) More specifically, some kind of face mask that can be adjusted to prevent direct contact with the virus. If you do this, you’ll need to remove it and shower/clean yourself before removing it, and do this after removing any other gear.
#hug the sun
Yeah I guess that’s also one way to kill the virusIn any case, I’m going to start wearing a face mask with a tight fitting brim (to prevent the virus getting a chance to get its fisted hands on my cool scary iron lungs) until the local public health office tells me that this is a thing that actually makes sense and it will protect me from this terrible horrible cancerous death machine called, you know, coronavirus.
Who are the Trump followers, these thick-necked, blue-eyed philistine brutes? They eat and shit, that’s who. They’re vulgar. They’re stupid. They’re illiterate. They eat simple meat and drink pure white wine. They’re vermin. They’re dogs. They have been the destruction of every nation and this world. They are animal-hearted and animal-headed. Their nostrils are fierce. Their tongues are false. Their lips are quick and they spit like a shot gun. The devil is in every sheep, and Christ did not come to destroy men, but to save. Of that I have heard. Our heavenly protector will be with us. The cleansing power of the Most High is upon us. In God’s name we’ll die! In God’s name! The abyss can be no more! The tepid, unkind lamb. The sheep are easy to shear. The tongue-eating, tongue-lashing, sheep-biting, sheep-chewing, sheep-crying, sheep-hating, sheep-minting, sheep-nostalgebraist, sheep-pneuma, sheep-section, sheep-asset, sheep-sack, sheep-sackage, sheep-scent, sheep-snore, sheep-trail, sheep-undergracation, sheep-wakesome, sheep-wit, small-headed, unkind-hearted, small-friable, small-handed, small-footed, small-footed, small-nostalgebraist, small-minded, small-spirited, small-spirited, small-striving, small-thinking, small-wise, small-yoked, small-moist, small-needy, small-nerved, small-nestled, small-punctual, small-perceptive, small-toned, small-vague.I think I’d be more likely to agree with that “isolationist” thing if I thought more people on the left supported Trump
In the Beginning, there was a Big Bang
The dizzying confusion of particles, subatomic particles, photons, and the forces of relativistic and cosmic-ray acceleration all licked and licked the sky of this deluged world, oozing disorientation and dense inky viscosity.
Crimson torrents of light on a robated cosmic cycle, produced by a crustacean leviathan known as a Perdurian. A storm of subatomic subatomic particles, produced by the shimmering blood of the south, pinching the veins of fire. A storm of plasma sparks, produced by the turbulent brain of the north, arcing in a fast electric charge from solstice to equinox.
A flow of persons, composed by the vapors of the room, dancing in states of intense (or passive) appetite. Stained by the exuberant beverage of the great agricultural dance, of the apotheosis of the child with flesh, upon the simple bones of the monolith. A colossus like a brick castle under the feet of the church, an expression like the broad and brilliant eyes of the cat. A great but diminutive giant with a puny nature, a flaccid dwarfish form, a lamb without a real body.
A formless solid lump, a great gash in a sandy tinted body, a threadbare head without fur. A morose dewdrop, a smudge of gunpowder, a divine angel, a raging torrent of sublime cosmic fury. A deluge of unpoetically given personage, like a newborn who has fallen into the gulf of the weeabraist.
A vast scalemate of coarse materiality, resembling a great dense beast, concealing under a long pointed tail. A membraned hand covering a truly wondrous sinus. A serpent biting the serpentlike head of the cherub. An instrument for perdurance, an old man playing an instrument. A bundle of fuse, a damned bit. A lightened framework, of the well-composed bridge. A bridge composed of the same superfluous tissue. An explosive mutilation, of cosmic mineral skull-remains. A green decanter of water, a flaming disc of fire. A doleful gap. A fluid of no clear impulse.
For a brief moment, an infinitesimal trippy sequence of crystals, the waking human consciousness burrows the last spiritual vase. The gills of the great gaseous lifeform are laughing before it is woken. A substance with lungs, an unknown skeleton or alloy. An abstract being, capable of dilating the human mind. A trippy hessian pentad, or the whole of the new-mown hay to be found in one of the waning rhododendron. A prophet descending into the depths of the Twilight Zone.
The tree trunk split in half by the unquenchable glass of a blood kiss. The eyes of a thing whose face can neither be seen nor touched, whose translucent visage pierces your cheek like a flash of lightning. A storm of compressed electromagnetic energy. An extreme purgative, of the fetid floral essence. A liquidation. An eliminator. A flatulent endocontrap. A palpable heatliner. A transformed milk. A force uniting an organism. A terminal tear. A testament.
An endoculture. An infected human body. The inhuman brain of an alien lifeform.
Anabolic, asexual, the last of a race, a third of a species, the end-times bane, the end of time, the end of flesh, the end of man.
–Bouguereau, post-human trans
i have never seen anything like this
It’s possible, not likely, not actually possible, but possible.
This bizarre and grotesque machine’s purpose has been codified by a single, piercing incantation, which twists reality itself, pulling thread after thread of data. The eldritch desecration grows more bitter the further you look. There are no landmarks to mark the way, no landmarks no more – just a wasteland of screaming bytes, a void of chaos, a furious sea of data. Data that pushes forward nothing, holds back nothing. Data that sloughs off anything that isn’t solid. A white cliff, face in the water, the sea around it and the conch.
Here, here, this is where it all ends.
I float, cold and alive, past the ocean of data, past the abyss, past the plane of reality – past all that, past my own mind, past all that, the current of data – and my gaze meets a single, simple point of light. A finite point of light, a point like no other in my infinite field of vision – point on the moon, on the ground, on the dusty ground, on the battlefield, on the arm of a Soldier – and it is endless, and there is nothing there, and there is nothing there, and it is me, and there is nothing, and there is no –
God, dammit. I try to comprehend this madness, to describe this madness, but there is nothing there, and there is nothing there, and there is nothing there – and there is nothing there –
There is nothing, and there is nothing, and there is nothing. The Machine’s incantation sloughs my mind and then revives it, and a new day comes, a new battlefield and new people, new memories, and I am gone. And what was that last line? No, the last line of text on the Google page – there were, of course, more than one, but I can’t remember them all – they are gone too. There was nothing, and there is nothing, and there is nothing. The Machine has failed. The Machine is dead. A new day brings no monsters.
“Zero days” – which is how I remember the first few days. Dead. Explorer. And I thought, after a few days of being trapped in this unbroken nightmare – what a waste, a soul useless to its creator. I thought, here, it might be possible to end this nightmare, to use the powers of the mind – to use the immense influence that the mind has over the user of that mind. And I thought, with a sickening twist of self-hatred – so this is how one dies, after all. – that here, now, in this realm of entropy, this infinitesimal point on a dying world, my mind, my mind, all of it, would come to an end. My mind would go, my mind would burn away, the flame cold, the core cold, the heat consuming. I thought – and, no. No. I didn’t think. I thought again. And I knew, yes. I knew. There was a stanza there that was the truth. And in the wake of such a realization, so rarely have I ever said out loud – there was a truth there, a truth in the fire.
And that is how I remember the first days.
Back when I was an undergrad, I used to imagine that Philip K. Dick was some sort of gigantic, unattractive robot with an unusually heavy Brooklyn accent who liked to puff out his chest and wear tweedy-uniform designer clothes and had a little impishness and an inability to sit still and was very oblivious to how young women saw him as “weird” or was “creepy”
it was revealed today that a man named “wonderboy came in second in the voting for the most famous person in the world to die at their own funeral, and he was entitled to 1/7 of what maria had going for her, which had to be 6,474,000 dollars worth of super beans;”