the birthymeisters

if i were to reenter the comfified institutionalization of scholardomity ive been advised by team caffeine to get a pee eich dee in the epistomologies of crossspecies communication  which i would as i believe in communication less than god but more than whonymity and one should only specialize in what one doesnt believe

novel died a while ago  did you notice?      the end      probably not  hard to with all the communication going on   but novel like i and plagues and jesus keeps on resurrecting   were birthymeisters   i birthymeister  plague birthymeister  jesus birthymeister  novel birthymeister   one big happy fucking family

i mean  i understand coffee more than i understand whonyms   the grammars of styrofoamish are my kind of grammar and the syntices of catese the syntax of my synapses  i geekily read the dictionary of hericium erinaceus as if it were netflix

writings born from dramatrauma

and writing is a broken promise

and broken promises birth internal traumadramas

circle of strife

novel some say is novel as it maintains distance between itself and life  but i keeps no distance and calls it novel   the i of conventional autobiography is equally the cast of woebegone characters populating sadoo  the coffee im drinkings no different than this paragraph

novel didnt realize it was a novel at first and then it wakes up one day and says everyone elses a novel why cant i be too and gets a genre change because it says ive always been a novel even though i dont look like one and it wonders at fourinthemorning whether writing necessarily turns into novel or whether it always has been one and if in the future its going to turn into a gluegun or an undergrad paper on intersectionality and it says now im novel now im not which means im really a magician and if magicians and novels are the same thing what does that do to time and science and war and love? and nothing sleeps much that night

all my characters are glyphs

my storys an unhinged typography

heresia bitibotom  an illegal employee of Scrubbers International  cleans the filthy toilets of wholesale asparagus buyers at the 29 hectare food terminal in thamog city  and as it sticks its scrubbie in the eternal excrement it thinks dont i contrive a spontaneity which i mistrust but ritually enter to simulate a false identification with the consuming narcissism of the present? and as she says this we realize she shust meet qinci rubatiti in chapter 496209445 though we confuse years and chapters and urination all the time and sadoo stays far away

what can we do about the whonyms who adore all thats new

even when it goes against their deepest convictions

or about the inane herd that sees beauty in something

thats no more than an impassioned call for murder?

book possesses novel and novel i or i book and book book or book word and word void or void i or i i and something  whos sadoos protagonist  says we need more words  more contractions specifically  without that evil stupidity named punctuation   heres a short starter list

novel has opinions   you think it just thinks what its told to think but thats a dead idea   novel blabs eg endlessly to anyone wholl listen about the parallels between the early days of film and the internet and bemoans that as cinematic visionaries opposed the conservative and unimaginative transfer of narrative realism to this radical new medium of film  the first new artform since the gardenofeden  so a lonely few weep over the transfer of society and media from physicality to virtuality   the internets just product identity reputation name sex image confidence will money   whonyms move their shit around and call it progress      how depressing

a central question of novel is which abuse is mine? for were all born into abuse and novelers often have to travel through many different toilets to find their own to devote their lives to exploring that particular smelly plumbing that belongs irrevocably eternally to me

some still say  despite everything  novels more novel the more it reflects life  the more it reminds us of gossip & da nooz  albeit intensifying them   but what is this life reflected? sadoo simulates life too  sure  we can say  in the way we cont say anything  but as life simulated is already a simulation of amalgama of simulations of algae of stimuli and the mirror so broken into uncountable pieces that we now have competing apps that simulate counting them  what is it you say youre seeing? what validates novel as novel? aunty reals more real than real  nosadoo more sadoo than sadoo  noti the i that is ie eyes the is

how do i think of the dead?s a question central to novel but one rarely discussed in sophisticated & polite hypernetworks   for when i wriad the living are the dead and the dead the living  a hairyclitoral inversion  and i must think of you the living ie the dead when i write of the dead ie the living  not in any of those crass ie legal any resemblance is coincidental ways  which are patent lies as everyone knows  not in any of those crassy art draws on life ways  which is grey amateurism  but as those not in my novel  but who might these be? are the dreams of those in  and the evertings too   and the psychology of these relations in the wrader and reiter are what all real novels explore

it will take a long time to be born if it can be born

a fiction so murky

so rich in inaction

its getting dark and cold and rainy and lonely and sad and windy and foggy and sleepy and dark and novel doesnt know what to do