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
