[header: John Harris]
Miracles should never be questioned. Not because of a need to preserve mysticism, but because conceptualizing them collapses the miracle waveform, and causes the physical instantiation of the miracle itself, localized to your exact position. For reasons we still can't discern, said miracles tend to take the form of armed 475 kiloton LGM-30G Minuteman III missiles. The possibility of a political hijacking of luck itself is being investigated.
We finally cracked the human mind. We found the core, the nucleus of all ideas, the ur-meme, glowing as bright as a singularity in the center of our minds' eyes, and we scooped it out from the cerebral gunge it lay in. It only constituted of a single, isolated word:
When we peeled its internal meaning open, in search of anything more, we heard hollow, unending laughter
Driving down the carpal tunnel exit route in a broken boring machine, floodlights blocked by congealing, regenerating muscle and marrow, nervous fibers dispersed like sickly pallid mist in the shafts of the light. I can only hope the emergency access remains intact; if another digit twitches and the cave collapses I'll be choked amongst the myelin.
Dust bunnies are entropy sinks. They soak up all the waste, the heat, the effluvia, into little pockets of hazy thermodynamic equilibria, to keep rooms free of stray microstates and to keep buildings clean of needless physical disorder. Vacuum cleaners, being a competitor in the business, are their archenemies.
Deterritorializing my emotive consciousness from a mental state to a mental commune, a freeform rhizome of my thoughts and feelings that coruscates with a blinding rapture as every idea that can and can't be imagined is tied together and evolved through a constantly changing revolution of shape and form.
It doesn't matter whether I'm called mad or incomprehensible by the world; I have achieved happiness, and I'll just wait to see the looks on their faces when they achieve it too.
Shoot for the moon and you'll land among the stars. Shoot for the stars and you'll land on the moon. Shoot for neither and you'll end up some place farther away, where coruscating sheets of darkness wrap around your dreams and your motivations become something shadowed to man, something far more impossible and far more beautiful
Once philosophy turned so interconvolutedly complex that no human symbols were left to express its metatypology, people switched to using quantified logic forms to express the same thoughts. Once this turned too fractalic, people switched to the most ancient, most clear, of philosophical concepts, standing upon those previously crafted like it were a dense, impenetrable lithosphere of truths
Amassed in birth. Every keystroke I make, every letter I type, fuels the furor of content mimic algorithms futures away from now, creating digital offspring based on my detected personality that proliferate and live lives far detached from what mine will ever be. Copies, variants, new selves. And that's aside from the memetic thoughtforms I constantly leave from posted thoughts alone. I am already a mother.
"We Will Be Remembered For None of Time" — the epigram of all lost time travelers, those who threw themselves into the sea of causality out of hopes that, somewhere, somewhen, their flotsam will finally drift to shore, and that, when it does, they will have finally made a difference; that history won't be unchanged forever
"Nature abhors a vacuum" is an inaccurate phrase for a number of reasons, but highest of all is the position Vacuum holds in the substantive pantheon. To disagree is to risk immolation in pure nothing, the disintegration of self into a gap that surrounds you, one you must now occupy. To agree is to find yourself counted with innumerous blessings, holes to gift upon your foes
[header: John Harris]
A small private server for Ruby's friends.