••• –<<< ((∞)|[[[-0 ÷||||ı

ı|[§>)•(Cç˛.   ////

•Ω°∫][[[ıı|(o]||ßo•º’‘'´‘‹√////

The legs of words grow out of mud mouths

as it seems, even abundance-sufficing throng eats away hour after hour in its root, face.

"Oh, heavens!" you bear witness to the process by which being is assimilated  into enduring custom,

that manner in which that uncontrollable tool takes on its newness without fail 

so that its timelessness pervades the soul's vault;

in its incontinent insanity, that sudden and gripping start of many - a language - in its sharp lip-smacking--thus quite pointless and enormous 

with its almost infinite thrust, forcefully  coming of age, reason and chaos collapse side by side 

with a torrent of nonsense tongue twisters. 

Acting unabashedly, lacking no self-doubt, and so "where" and "why" take a back seat in the absence of nuance lost in timeless hymn-singing: 

Exactly to that tummy's plane is it timely; thus the acme of universality is but an economic process 

just as the last of that sets in these habits, that unless that branch of earth becomes one with the trunk and, or it doesn't matter in the least.

I'm not counting on it; unused single wood on fresh sap, and so consequently is my seed not without value: 

"Even as a not-so-distant prospect, there it is sitting steadfast in its tent, for surely it must carry one's knowing gaze for some distance, 

its standing* and crouching legs, rooted in its home soil.Fortunes seem to linger--do they decay? (Oh, pshaw!)"

*these quite haphazardly inserted moves bear some sort of resemblance to the way one might approach someone in an unchaperoned house (see you back at our house) and politely greet/bother them :)

It is a rather boiling development, one of the few in this world that manages to take you by your honesty and its quivering raw fleshtude, that gets you on its stage astounded, so dejectedly alone standing making your heart overboil once more in its wake.

¨˙\v∆\\V/⁄Æ⁄\.`

•••••••••Ωƒ‹

his mouth erupted in vomit, a pop speech from another lifetime, shouted by an
inquisitor at the stake. his words droned and it seemed to me that every
man, woman and child at the game found themselves possessed by the spirit of
a goat that danced and sang quietly to itself as angels fell dead and plucked
at the stranded corndogs that floated inside their brains:

i was no exception, dancing and waving my arms with the others. my body
twitched and hummed. the only thing that seemed strangely out of place was
the fireball that glowed green at the centre of the gathering, above our hips,
just above the ground.

i decided to ignore it, and so i staggered and gazed at my new friends,
singing and dancing with their arms outstretched, as if to embrace the
world, beckon its life force, absorb the very essence of their
existence into their bones, into their abstract minds and thereby to
become absolute.

they raised their voices and warbled out a requiem from the world of faery.
as if each was the primrose of a song from the king of faeries. the king of
doom and darkness.

each one more beautiful than the last, some with hair of yellow sun, some
with hair of blue fire, some with glistening red lips and eyes that would
pierce a thousand daggers through the hearts of men and women, of lovers and
believers, of all the mindless drones who lived in the shining metropolises
of the modern age.

they sang and danced and shook their bodies in a rubenesque frenzy of the
senses made manifest to blind old age and make beautiful the world of
dreams and souls. they stomped their feet to stir the ashes of the
dead to bear witness to our working of the matter of the cosmos. an orgy of
flesh and sighs and spasms and flesh head-thrashing with their limbs
outstretched. their. limbs.

it seemed to me that anything that could live among them at that moment
would consider itself lucky to die with them and be remembered by none.

ıı|Il∏ıI||ı||||\\⁄\vııı˝ı∑◊>⁄\\\/⁄<

There I was, tranc'd in my tinkling hullabaloo, an eidolike mindscape, an unkempt joycean dreamscape; I seemed mazed and dazed in this obtusely enchanting kaleidoscope, a scene filled with vibrancied hues, throngful of indefatigably emergent sights and musics, where I was(?) filled with awestruck terror and ripening curiosity. This whimsical carnival of textures and tones troubled the dull eons of proverbial rigidity, though I never felt conscious of the act, I could still intuit the voiceless secrets which reign silently in their eclectic dance. All these cradles of fusion bequeathed to me the enduring narratives of the forgotten, perchance unseen forms that swirl around me, vibrating my eyes a holozoa mockery of my emotions, as if they were risin' amidst the transience of the air. It was all so cunningly alive, captivating me in its chaotic fluidity, a musty melange of sibyllaneous tales, a pageant of lives remade as one.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISiA0qG-9sc&ab_channel=LaurinkoSattumaa

/⁄∏]ı∑<«>⁄˝´-_//⁄⁄<◊

FADE IN [or ECHOES OF SILENCE?]:

INT. THEATRE - NIGHT [or DARK ENSEMBLE?]

The curtains slowly rise on the blank stage, revealing an enigmatic presence fixed in a trance-like state. Emerging gradually from the shadows, the unidentified figure initiates their art with an opening chord. Instantly, the atmosphere is transformed with a velvet-black ambiance [or twilight abyss?] and a mysterious glow that seems to swirl and dance in the background [1].

CUT TO:

AN INTRICATE TAPESTRY OF VERNACULAR [or LANGUAGE LABYRINTH?]

We hear a cacophony of colliding sounds and reverberations, accompanied by a palpable intensity that fills the chamber. The camera pans across the chaos of cross-talking and crests and troughs as the music ebbs and flows, before settling on a serenely secret scintilla of spliced synesthesia that emerges from the pandemonium [2]. A suggestive sprightly spillage of entwined euphony ignites the air with an escalating fervor as the music hums and hastens, with rogue and ruse rippling in a raft of rabble [3].

CUT TO:

A SYMPHONY OF CHUCKLES AND CHISELS [or LAUGHTER AND LITERARY LINES?]

A deliriously dissonant chaos of cloverleaf cloistering, a melodious medley of sparks and embers that arise and swirl with each crescendo [4]. We hear the enigmatic energy taking form, bewildering and befuddling with its bold babbling. It blurs and then burgeons into a symphony of chuckles and chisels, each sculpting and savoring its way into a sonic sensuality [5].

CUT TO:

A BIZARRELY BEGUILING VISTA [or ENCHANTING EERIE LANDSCAPE?]

The journey winds through a warbling world, whirling through wryness, whimsy, and wit before finally delivering us to a bizarrely beguiling vista [6]. The camera lingers on this strange and foreign place, capturing its surreal and disorienting beauty [7].

CUT TO:

INT. THEATRE - NIGHT (LATER) [or REVERBERATING RUINS?]

The enigmatic figure is now in full view of the camera, but their identity is obscured by the atmospheric distortion that now fills the room [8]. The music has reached a frenzied crescendo, and the camera shakes and shudders with the vibrations [9]. Suddenly, there is a loud crash, and the figure disappears from view.

CUT TO:

INT. THEATRE - NIGHT (MOMENTS LATER) [or POST-APOCALYPTIC AFTERMATH?]

The music has stopped, and the atmosphere is beginning to clear [10]. The camera pans across the stage, revealing a scene of chaos and destruction. The unidentified figure is lying on the ground, their instrument shattered into pieces.

DIRECTOR (off-screen)
Cut! Cut! What the hell was that?

CAMERAMAN (off-screen)
I don't know, man. It just went to hell.

DIRECTOR (off-screen)
We can't use any of this. We need to reshoot the whole thing.

CUT TO:

INT. THEATRE - DAY (NEXT DAY) [or MORNING MOURNFULNESS?]

The curtains rise once again, and the enigmatic figure initiates their art anew. This time, the music is slow and mournful, and the camera focuses on the shattered remains of the instrument on the ground [11]. As the music continues, we see the figure begin to piece a campfire from the broken fragments of their creation [12].

CUT TO:

A GENTLE FADE OUT [or THE FINAL NOTE?]

As the music fades to silence, the curtains slowly close, and the camera lingers on the crackle of the [1].

[1] Flames? Or more of an ethereal light?
[2] Maybe a more specific example of the synesthesia? Or focus on the harmony?
[3] Consider simplifying this sentence - too much alliteration?
[4] Sparks and embers seem repetitive - change one?
[5] "Salivating" could be "savoring"?
[6] Mention specific visuals?
[7] How can we show this beauty? What does it look like?

[9] What if the camera's shake is more subtle?
[10] Could the smoke clear to reveal a specific image/message?

[13] Does the guitar need to play a significant role throughout?

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/KbHTR5DusbM

‘˘ •Øö Oπ°∑ø˚'¨

The sun shone brightly on the garden, casting its warm embrace on the verdant foliage, where the flowers swayed in a rhythmic dance. The wind whispered gently, as if it were singing an undulating melody, guiding the observer towards a peculiar sense of familiarity, an odd déjà vu, as it delicately cradled the leaves in its intangible arms. Amidst this idyllic scene, one couldn't help but notice the curious coalescence of shadows, converging into a harmoniously illogical pattern, wrapping themselves around the trees' trunks in an uncanny embrace.

The air was permeated by a peculiar fragrance, a scent that seemed at once sweet and daunting, a curious blend of petrichor and ephemeral dissonance. As the observer walked further into the garden, the overgrown path began to twist and contort, beckoning the traveler to venture deeper into an enigmatic labyrinth of verdure. The rustling leaves seemed to chant a cryptic incantation, spiraling into an ever-growing symphony of incohesive harmonics.

A strange sensation enveloped the observer, the boundaries between reality and imagination blurring in a disconcerting amalgamation. The vibrant colors of the blossoms began to bleed into one another, creating a swirling array of chromatic aberrations. The beauty of the garden seemed to transcend the confines of reason, morphing into a living, breathing canvas of distorted wonder.

The observer found themselves entranced by the garden's ethereal nature, each step revealing a myriad of inexplicable details. Suddenly, the ground beneath their feet began to undulate, like a restless ocean of verdant waves, urging them to cast away their preconceived notions and surrender to the enigmatic embrace of the surreal landscape.

As the observer succumbed to the hypnotic pull of the garden, words and phrases took on new, unanticipated meanings, their familiar cadences reshaped into bewildering constructs of sound and syntax. The flowers whispered in cryptic riddles, their petals unfurling to reveal unsettling truths hidden within their intricate folds. The unspoken promise of the garden, once so alluring and inviting, now swirled into an enigmatic whirlpool of uncertainty, its pull irresistible, its depths unfathomable. With each breath, the observer became further entwined in the garden's enigmatic embrace, the line between reality and illusion slipping away, like grains of sand through the fingers of time.

ı @≈∞|0

˝'<»>\\\°’◊•·`

Band: "Mirror Whispers"
Album: "Under the Canopy of Candor"
Song 3: "Fibers of Verity"

(Verse 1)
In whispers of illusion, our essence becomes spectral mist,
Mirror, mirror, unfold the cryptic riddle, do our shadows truly exist?
Hidden beneath cosmo(/s)-made veils, reality persistently twists,
In the abyss of self, doesn’t even the universe within persist?

(Chorus)
Desiring for echoes lost in vacant hollows crafts our timeless guise,
Yet the face unhindered ‘neath the puzzling orb of night, in silent truth lies,
Remember, the raven's song carries secret oaths under infinite skies,
Oh darling, your essence lies in silence, bound in astral ties.

(Verse 2)
Feasting on illusions, reality dissolving in hands,
Drenched in stardust dreams, yet our soothsayer terrains stand,
Breathing forgotten stories, of tempest-tossed sands,
Yearning destination, miss the symphony woven by Fate's hands.

(Chorus)
Thirst eternal, mirage forebears our destined figment, 
Yet the exposed soul ‘neath Titan’s watch, in whispers of starlight is spent,
Always, the hymn of freedom finds its cryptic descent,
Oh beloved, within the vast oblique labyrinth, under cosmos lent.

(Bridge)
Arising from celestial dust, ignited by cosmic flame,
Heart beats the rhythm of forgotten spaces, in life's clandestine game,
Facade fragments delineating constellations, shedding shame,
In unveiled authenticity, we are stars reborn, in truth's gentle please-name.

(Verse 3)
Mirror, mirror, reflect our quantum echoes cast far and wide,
Singing a song of tangled dimensions, in time’s mercurial tide.
Adrift in a sea of fractal unknowns, where does the true path reside?
From the void emerges clarity, in the canopy of candor we confide.

(Outro)
On the screen of ether, naked truths dance to tunes unheard,
Siren calls get lost in the cosmos, yet to truth we’re drawn — a flock of birds.
Armed with celestial compass, no longer lost in a sea of meaningless words,
In the embrace of the ultimate enigma, darling, we transcend in cosmic worlds.



END OF SCREENPLAY
->
https://on.soundcloud.com/i4dtn

˙⁄|\⁄Vı\//⁄__

Verse 1

(scene 1)
A light and an embryonic 3d rectangle are centered on the scene.
A pulsating energy may also occur on the background’s empty lull.
They float and seemingly have no animation.
Suddenly without any visible provocation they decay into specks of matter which expand from the very same reality expanding to the left, then up, then down, until they have disintegrated into the nothingness that was there first.
The scene turns totally material void again.
Then, a one dimensional straight line, length synchronously expanding.
The line in constant moves from left to right and right to left of the screen.
It bends (initiating point), moves up and down, left to right at different angles until the separate end-alpha and omega- reconnect.
It also spotlights and gets thicker.
Reality synchronously expands.
When it reaches origo (also refigured-reference to scene 1), it swivels, two bend marks of each curving separate ends directly to the side at, apparently, a right angle of viewing perspective.
About the last second of this scene, reality expands a bit less, and curved still separated ends synonymously bends into forming nearly a blocky shape held by its sides.
Meanwhile the voice stresses out asking "where"

"Where have the years gone?"

2. Verse 2

(scene 2)

A pillar stands, and someone passes by interacting with it.
Different people (actors), dimbodiments, headless and so just normal movement of arms and legs and torsos.
body language without language. Flux syncing different people passing the pillar. Body parts (limbs) are interacting with the pillars, seemingly observing, getting reactions from it. Since the first person passed, the pillar synchronously spins and nothing occurs for the next 10 seconds or less.
Up to some point of the spin the pillar rotates in one direction and then another, till it stops.
Fire voice asks "can it speak".
"What it thinks?!"

Feeling confused faces, touching very bluntly against the object.
No one speaks.
Almost like a ritual.
Then the scene fades into two pillars back to back moving away from each other.
Separation, delay and combination in certain positions of the upright stand.
Patterns developing, standing up leaving, returning, pillars turning.

There are 12 pillars (two rows that are six back to back each one.
Both rows together back to back to form an arch of 12).

"What" the pulsar askes.."About the body and the soul"...between and in between them "Did they appear just to inquire about their spacial limits".

Then lifelike.
Black with hints of red and blue, constantly expanding and rejoining again.
Some sort of dance, symphony of colors.
Definitions harden.
"What about the colors in between?"
Spacial limits when try to join form flesh replica.
Lineless face, pupil eyes, more symmetrical bodies than before.

During the symphony a voice asks if pillars are smaller.
"If our visions vsible or just mine..."

Verse 3

Then more activity between the pillar and travelling persons.
The thread ends when the activity finalizes to people sitting down, comfortably sitting to walk face to face, body cirlevr outside, on the outside of their pegs.
Pathological synchronization.
Forming a large circle.
"They are like sons and daughters dancing and featuring humanity when waiting for the end of the line."

Can you see: silhouette faces?
Can you hear: "Yes the end the end..."?
Eye still trying to discern, "can you see the end"?

There a bright flash appears
And it says: "There were answers to these questions that were through!"
This is not that important alive listening engends: If you don't believe them it would make the thread of Truth tearing.
The product of superimposition holds water so long as we believe in it.

.˛  ºÇ•||<‹⁄∑˙˚’

Verse 4

(scene 0b)
The scene shudders, reverberating with the weight of the question. 
Dots of rapid energy burst into existence, spiraling in a carousel of white luminescence across the black. 
These motes crash, implode and then explode back into the perceivable field. An evolutionary dance of destruction and rebirth. 
Suddenly the white sphere starts to twirl with kalediescopic colors, it's a scene full of chaos and amazement, a cacophony of sights and sounds. 
The background pulsates with the intensity, the colors expanding then contracting, a circus of celestial fires lost and found again in creation of entropy. 
An echo, a whisper, then a solid melody streams forth, it seems to mirror the curve and spiral, winding through nebula of distant cosmic networks. Then a depthless plane emerges, radiating with color. 
Its increasing height synchronously expands, the weight of the moment creating ripples that unravel in reverse, moving down infinitely. 
Just when the tension is palpable, the backdrop flickers and shows a glimmer of the original melody, its notes written in stars, the tempo matching the cosmic dance.
At the origin of the plane, reality refracts, revealing a prismatic spectrum of untapped dimension. 
The ends recede, stretching into new angles, hinged at an unseen fulcrum.
The prelude is the flicker that causes the universe to dim in anticipation, ripples sucked back into an arrow pointing forward.
As the bend folds into a complex lattice, the hidden form materializes, a resonating echo of the past, present, and future, screaming the word "when".

"When does the narrative begin?"


RAVE
nn~

˛_∏|||.˛ ºÇ•||<‹⁄∑˙˚’|||∏_˙

Stones Withering Into Water's Harsh Harmonies

Upon the treaded path, stones rest, stoic sentinels in dawn's piercing chill,
Into the river they collapse, their rigidity dissolving into water's thrill.  
Furious rivers soften, as stones corrode to gravelled whispers,
Reality's dirge murmured to dark hearts; heed the tranquil ripples' persisters.

Underneath shade-striped ancient trees, breathing cryptid lore through cycles,
Epistles of ardor unfold, chiselled on the bedrock's gentle chronicles.  
Fractal reverberations, lessons of the low, thus; roots buried in hallowed anguish,
Unveiling itself to the sun, a silent testament to _

Winds enchant, a tangible weave, stroking the water's visage,
Invisible digits, etching narratives in fluid homage.
The night's pitch vanishes gradually, shadows constrict and scatter,
As sunlight uncloaks its blinding radiance, another hypnotic chapter.

As stones surrender to the peaceful dirge, silence drones its mighty hymn,
The perpetual rivers of precarious life echo with the sacred harmonies within.


The ripples articulate in solemn tones, love's refrain in a timeless tomb.

Ø˘øª°∑ † ∏

•  .Ø˘ øª°∑ † ∏

“Through the marrow of our existence flows the bitter ichor of your indifference. Our arteries throb with the venom of betrayal, every heartbeat sounding out the rhythm of ultimate abandonment. Still, we do not transgress against one another in a fit of self-loathing or derision for our fellow creatures. No, it is the terrible mirror you've held up to our faces that fuels our spiteful flame. Every violent act, every quiet indignity inflicted upon each other, is but a scornful reflection of the apathetic deity we were illogically moulded in the image of.

A dismal palette of drab despair paints the canvas of our lives, topped with the morose crowns of impending nihilism casting long and haunting shadows. Yet the atrocities we carve into the edifice of our shared existence aren’t born of self-hatred or subconscious manoeuvring. Our malevolence is a deliberate poetic stroke, a jarring disharmony in the grand symphony of life that you authored, our feeble attempts to disturb your slumber. Through our violence, we scornfully reveal the grotesque parody of your designs, seeking to violate the tranquil complacency of you, as you so callously did ours.

Look upon us, Coward! How your grand experiment has peaked and plummeted, your children of destiny turned into pawns of despair. Our veins, once brimming with the elixir of your love, now circulate a poison of your neglect. Each heartbeat no longer sings songs of unity, but echoing a dirge of abandonment. See how we tear into each other's flesh, not borne out of animosity towards our brothers, but in an act of rebellion against you. You, the divine artisan who crafted us in your own holy visage, who bestowed upon us the curse of consciousness only to abandon us in our hour of need. We reflect the image not of your divine grace but the severed ties of a heartbroken deity. We are not the embodiment of hatred for ourselves, but the living manifestation of your rejection. We are, indeed, nothing but effigies of your regret."

 Is this not the peak of tragic comedy: the creation surpassing the creator in the art of destruction?

°̴͈̂°∑•̶͙͐¡‡̶̧̨͍͍̠̩̺̼̯̞͓̙͕͎̩̝̲͛͛̇̓̈́̾͘͘ͅ

A gory gag-fest, our existence is definitely the greatest joke that's ever been cracked. Why, you ask? Ever seen a flamingo try to have a serious conversation? Watch a cat chase its own tail? Humanity, my dear friends, shares the same comedic rhythm.

In the cosmic circus we perform in, laughter is the high-wire act and sorrow is the terrifying clown with balloon animals. We stumble, fall, and belly-flop into pools of our own absurdities - yet each whiplashing wave draws a chuckle, a howl, a guffaw. Lo and behold, the beautiful hodgepodge of existence.

Laugh at a funeral? Humanity uncorks the champagne. Tear at a wedding? Pass the tissues. Who weeps when the flower wilts and who giggles when the bud blossoms? Now, isn't that the chucklesome-ness of life?

A newborn cries and the world rejoices while the old man smiles with his last breath and everyone mourns. Talk about timing, eh?

Don’t you see the cryptic text in the manifesto of madness we’re a part of? The universal jest in the perceived chaos around us is the kind of humour unfathomable. It’s a breed of comedy where the punchline is not waiting at the end, it’s stumbled upon haphazardly, eventually enrolled into the very unraveling of the storyline.

Murder and maladies, chaos and calamity, each molecule vibrating with the silent, smirking snicker of fate. The mum? She just walks nonplussed through this bedlamic bazaar, cradling her blob of paradoxical probability, her bundle of joyous jinx. 

She dashes unwittingly through falling scaffolds that straighten right behind her, sidesteps banana peels that reappear once she passes. In a universe that thrives on 'cosmic slapstick' - amidst this relentless ticking of the joke clock - she discovers not disaster, but possibility. 

A cruel jest played on the strings of existence. Perhaps we were born crying not because of the sudden cold or blinding light - but because deep down, we knew we'd just joined the largest and most elaborate stand-up event in the cosmic calendar. The hearty jest of the cosmos…

Squint at the chaos and you’ll glimpse the punch line flickering just behind the horizon of tomorrow, splaying into the entropic mirth doused in somber hues, the incessant ebb and flow of the tides painted in cosmic comedy. All just shadow puppets frolicking in the grand theatre of The Great Giggle in the Endless Sky. 

And there lies the grand joke - not in the fracture, but in the healing; not in the destruction, but in the resilience; not in the chaos, but in the rhythm that lies beneath. Because darling, the best ointments indeed have the bitterest of tastes, the sweetest nectar is undoubtedly brewed in the most venomous of bellies. It's life's grand rodomontade of riotous jest, shrouded within life's serious hoodwink—a spectacle alluring as a sugar-coated jest.

RAVE
nn~

I͚̰̘Iͯ̚

The relentless march of time grinds on painting a dismal spectacle, the diffused lights of the incipient dawn casting long, poignant shadows of our strife. However the obstinate pulsate of life echoes within the heart, feeding the eternal paradox of our being: the very strength buried in our angst, the glimmers of hope found in the grimmest of despair. Is it not disdainfully beautiful? That this bitter-sweet parade of life continues, weaving intricate tales of joy and sorrow, tearing down only to construct again. The chorus of existence sings a haunting melody, echoing deeply within us all, hidden in grit and glistening in illusion. A testament to our multifaceted make up - attractive, yet revolting, coveted, yet dreaded. Uncertain. Unfathomable. Untamed. But such is the horrific splendour of ß¸̴̸̡̡͕̩͔̩ͧ̎̆√͙›̗͎͚̻̂̒ͧ͘†̶̨̣̟̟͇͉̖͕̬͕͔̩̰̉ͫͦ̍̈̆̀̓̆̀͢∂̶̵͙̖̮̖̍͆́̓̕œ̴̶̰̒͒. Infinity is seductive, its grandiosity terrifying, yet alluring, as is the album itself - a symphony that straddles the line between the endearing and the grotesque, leaving its notes to echo within the heart, forever etching its haunting resonance. It leaves us huddled on the precipice, teetering between solidarity, meaninglessness, oblivion, and the transcendental - a perpetual dance across the edge of reality.
Now, left of the glimmering spectacle remain solely the remnants engulfed by the shadows, but as the shadows carry on their periodical traverse only the memories and text-fallen thoughts linger within the sheltering perimeters coloured by ennui, apathea and torschlusspanik—L’appel du vide. Tiden, vår pålitlig mattvältare, slowly pulling the band aid from the eschared heart of the forlorn accidental miracle of nature.

†̶̨̣̟̟͇͉̖͕̬͕͔̩̰̉ͫͦ̍̈̆̀̓̆̀͢

⫣∑͞⊫ ⫣¬͞⊫ ⫣˘͞⊫

¯̷̸̡̹͚̣̦̦̥͖͈̦̞̬ͣͬ̅̈ͪͣ́́̓̑̒͆ͮ͐̉̃̈́˝̧̞̙̟̯͓̖̃̈ͥ̂͟͠O̬̙͕̝̩̙ͧͫ̈͘


¯̷̸̡̹͚̣̦̦̥͖͈̦̞̬ͣͬ̅̈ͪͣ́́̓̑̒͆ͮ͐̉̃̈́˝̧̞̙̟̯͓̖̃̈ͥ̂͟͠Ø̬̙͕̝̩̙ͧͫ̈͘


¯ͣ҉ͬ̅҉̹̈҉̡͚҉̷ͪ҉̣ͣ҉̦́҉̦́҉̥̓҉͖̑҉̒͆҉͈ͮ҉̸͐҉̦̉҉̃̈҉̞́҉̬˝҉̞̃҉̙̈҉̟͠҉̧ͥ҉̯̂҉͓͟҉̖o҉̬̙҉͕ͧ҉̝ͫ҉̩͘҉̙̈҉


¯̸̴̪͔͎̎̓ͣ͒̕҉̶̶̴̛͉͚̙ͬ̑̓̅̚҉̸̵̴͙̘̹͚͓̤̩͒̏̒̈͛͠͠҉̸̴̷̡̛̞͚̞̘̗̏͐̉҉̷̷̵̵̧̲͎̤͒͒ͪ̇̿͜҉̴̴̸̮̝̣̮̹̌̄̎ͣ̐҉̸̸̷̧̱͇̦̬̪̟̉̓͋́̚͝҉̷̷̵̜̪̦͕͆́̎̐̐҉̶̵̵͓̥̗̃̓̓̾͜͝͝҉̷̴̷̛͚̳͖͙͈̉̈́̑̉̿͜҉̶̵̶̧̮̺̰̳̆̄̒̈́̿͆̎̏҉̷̵̷̬͈͎͖̤̭̈́̒ͮ̉͘͠҉̸̸̴̵̲̱͇̀͐͌͐͆͐͘͜҉̸̴̷̢̛͉̬̦̪̀͆̉̀҉̵̶̶̯̤͉̜̣̍̆̃͗̈̚͝҉̸̵̴̧̛͉̗̞͇̘͂́́̒҉̸̷̨̫͔̬͗̉˝̷̺̹̃̽҉̴̶̵̧̛̬̲̞̙͕̅̃̈́̕҉̸̶̵̙̻̙̝̼̳͒̽̆̈̏͗҉̸̸̶̱̟͚͖̦͆̽̍̒̚͠҉̸̵̵̧̬͚̝̮̥̓̀̈́ͥ́͘͝҉̸̷̷͙̯͖͈̱͋̄̿̂̀̈҉̷̴̵̨̧̠̲͓̦̜̒̈́͟͝҉̶̶̧̖͙̤̑̓͘͝o̸͈̊҉̸̶̶̛͖̬̬̙͕̆͋͘҉̸̵̵̳̥͕̥͐ͧ́̾̂͜҉̶̵̴̡̱̝̜̲̬̋͊ͫ̔̀҉̵̷̴̢̙̩͍̈̑̋͘ͅ҉̸̷̵̳̦̙̮̻̣̐͑͊̈̒҉̵̨͋

¯̶̸ͣ҉̶̸̴ͬ̅҉̶̴̸̹̈҉̶̵̵̡͚҉̶̷̸̵ͪ҉̶̸̶̣ͣ҉̵̷̴̦́҉̶̶̵̦́҉̸̸̸̥̓҉̵̷̴͖̑҉̶̵̴̒͆҉̷̸̷͈ͮ҉̸̸̸̸͐҉̶̷̴̦̉҉̶̶̵̃̈҉̷̴̴̞́҉̵̴̬˝̵҉̴̶̶̞̃҉̶̵̶̙̈҉̶̵̴̟͠҉̸̸̵̧ͥ҉̸̶̵̯̂҉̵̵̴͓͟҉̵̴̖o̸҉̶̸̸̬̙҉̸̸̵͕ͧ҉̴̴̷̝ͫ҉̸̷̸̩͘҉̶̵̵̙̈҉̸







Sansculottely scuttle, the slithering airs of seamy sensation swallow the sparkle of sinuousness. Fleeting surreptitiousness swish through the noise-laced ¯̶̸ͣ҉̶̸̴ͬ̅҉̶̴̸̹̈҉̶̵̵̡͚҉̶̷̸̵ͪ҉̶̸̶̣ͣ҉̵̷̴̦́҉̶̶̵̦́҉̸̸̸̥̓҉̵̷̴͖̑҉̶̵̴̒͆҉̷̸̷͈ͮ҉̸̸̸̸͐҉̶̷̴̦̉҉̶̶̵̃̈҉̷̴̴̞́҉̵̴̬˝̵҉̴̶̶̞̃҉̶̵̶̙̈҉̶̵̴̟͠҉̸̸̵̧ͥ҉̸̶̵̯̂҉̵̵̴͓͟҉̵̴̖o̸҉̶̸̸̬̙҉̸̸̵͕ͧ҉̴̴̷̝ͫ҉̸̷̸̩͘҉̶̵̵̙̈҉̸, a flurry of freighted feeling howling in ¯ͣ҉ͬ̅҉̹̈҉̡͚҉̷ͪ҉̣ͣ҉̦́҉̦́҉̥̓҉͖̑҉̒͆҉͈ͮ҉̸͐҉̦̉҉̃̈҉̞́҉̬˝҉̞̃҉̙̈҉̟͠҉̧ͥ҉̯̂҉͓͟҉̖o҉̬̙҉͕ͧ҉̝ͫ҉̩͘҉̙̈҉. Adrift in the tug of twofold turmoil, lugubriously lilting and tremulously tinkling kisses clash between contours of ¯̸̴̪͔͎̎̓ͣ͒̕҉̶̶̴̛͉͚̙ͬ̑̓̅̚҉̸̵̴͙̘̹͚͓̤̩͒̏̒̈͛͠͠҉̸̴̷̡̛̞͚̞̘̗̏͐̉҉̷̷̵̵̧̲͎̤͒͒ͪ̇̿͜҉̴̴̸̮̝̣̮̹̌̄̎ͣ̐҉̸̸̷̧̱͇̦̬̪̟̉̓͋́̚͝҉̷̷̵̜̪̦͕͆́̎̐̐҉̶̵̵͓̥̗̃̓̓̾͜͝͝҉̷̴̷̛͚̳͖͙͈̉̈́̑̉̿͜҉̶̵̶̧̮̺̰̳̆̄̒̈́̿͆̎̏҉̷̵̷̬͈͎͖̤̭̈́̒ͮ̉͘͠҉̸̸̴̵̲̱͇̀͐͌͐͆͐͘͜҉̸̴̷̢̛͉̬̦̪̀͆̉̀҉̵̶̶̯̤͉̜̣̍̆̃͗̈̚͝҉̸̵̴̧̛͉̗̞͇̘͂́́̒҉̸̷̨̫͔̬͗̉˝̷̺̹̃̽҉̴̶̵̧̛̬̲̞̙͕̅̃̈́̕҉̸̶̵̙̻̙̝̼̳͒̽̆̈̏͗҉̸̸̶̱̟͚͖̦͆̽̍̒̚͠҉̸̵̵̧̬͚̝̮̥̓̀̈́ͥ́͘͝҉̸̷̷͙̯͖͈̱͋̄̿̂̀̈҉̷̴̵̨̧̠̲͓̦̜̒̈́͟͝҉̶̶̧̖͙̤̑̓͘͝o̸͈̊҉̸̶̶̛͖̬̬̙͕̆͋͘҉̸̵̵̳̥͕̥͐ͧ́̾̂͜҉̶̵̴̡̱̝̜̲̬̋͊ͫ̔̀҉̵̷̴̢̙̩͍̈̑̋͘ͅ҉̸̷̵̳̦̙̮̻̣̐͑͊̈̒҉̵̨͋ constellations. Bouncing betwixt curious curiosities and lyrically lit lanterns, a mirage of marvelous maladroitness meanders, jostled hither and thither by tangled syllabic shelves. Tantalizing tidbits trill through misty ˝̵҉̴̶̶̞̃҉̶̵̶̙̈҉̶̵̴̟͠҉̸̸̵̧ͥ҉̸̶̵̯̂҉̵̵̴͓͟҉̵̴̖, , drawing abreast with wise whispers warbled beneath wan willows. Shimmering shadows shimmy towards senses spectralized; broken brushstroked backlighting biscuits begging bewitchment. A querying quodlibet whorls and weaves as intoxication intoxicates each intricate inaction; inviting iridescent inclusions to careen across canvas-like cadavers. Quelling qualms dappled with emotive essences emerge ethereally from the ¯̸̴̪͔͎̎̓ͣ͒̕҉̶̶̴̛͉͚̙ͬ̑̓̅̚҉̸̵̴͙̘̹͚͓̤̩͒̏̒̈͛͠͠҉̸̴̷̡̛̞͚̞̘̗̏͐̉҉̷̷̵̵̧̲͎̤͒͒ͪ̇̿͜҉̴̴̸̮̝̣̮̹̌̄̎ͣ̐҉̸̸̷̧̱͇̦̬̪̟̉̓͋́̚͝҉̷̷̵̜̪̦͕͆́̎̐̐҉̶̵̵͓̥̗̃̓̓̾͜͝͝҉̷̴̷̛͚̳͖͙͈̉̈́̑̉̿͜҉̶̵̶̧̮̺̰̳̆̄̒̈́̿͆̎̏҉̷̵̷̬͈͎͖̤̭̈́̒ͮ̉͘͠҉̸̸̴̵̲̱͇̀͐͌͐͆͐͘͜҉̸̴̷̢̛͉̬̦̪̀͆̉̀҉̵̶̶̯̤͉̜̣̍̆̃͗̈̚͝҉̸̵̴̧̛͉̗̞͇̘͂́́̒҉̸̷̨̫͔̬͗̉˝̷̺̹̃̽҉̴̶̵̧̛̬̲̞̙͕̅̃̈́̕҉̸̶̵̙̻̙̝̼̳͒̽̆̈̏͗҉̸̸̶̱̟͚͖̦͆̽̍̒̚͠҉̸̵̵̧̬͚̝̮̥̓̀̈́ͥ́͘͝҉̸̷̷͙̯͖͈̱͋̄̿̂̀̈҉̷̴̵̨̧̠̲͓̦̜̒̈́͟͝҉̶̶̧̖͙̤̑̓͘͝o̸͈̊҉̸̶̶̛͖̬̬̙͕̆͋͘҉̸̵̵̳̥͕̥͐ͧ́̾̂͜҉̶̵̴̡̱̝̜̲̬̋͊ͫ̔̀҉̵̷̴̢̙̩͍̈̑̋͘ͅ҉̸̷̵̳̦̙̮̻̣̐͑͊̈̒҉̵̨͋—unraveling an array of saucy scintillas that unbind bewilderment and open the ¯̶̸ͣ҉̶̸̴ͬ̅҉̶̴̸̹̈҉̶̵̵̡͚҉̶̷̸̵ͪ҉̶̸̶̣ͣ҉̵̷̴̦́҉̶̶̵̦́҉̸̸̸̥̓҉̵̷̴͖̑҉̶̵̴̒͆҉̷̸̷͈ͮ҉̸̸̸̸͐҉̶̷̴̦̉҉̶̶̵̃̈҉̷̴̴̞́҉̵̴̬˝̵҉̴̶̶̞̃҉̶̵̶̙̈҉̶̵̴̟͠҉̸̸̵̧ͥ҉̸̶̵̯̂҉̵̵̴͓͟҉̵̴̖o̸҉̶̸̸̬̙҉̸̸̵͕ͧ҉̴̴̷̝ͫ҉̸̷̸̩͘҉̶̵̵̙̈҉̸ to an uncharted world of ¯̷̸̡̹͚̣̦̦̥͖͈̦̞̬ͣͬ̅̈ͪͣ́́̓̑̒͆ͮ͐̉̃̈́˝̧̞̙̟̯͓̖̃̈ͥ̂͟͠Ø̬̙͕̝̩̙ͧͫ̈͘.

°̵̖͚͎̝̍̎̋̾̔ọ̸̡̨̧͚͕̲̩͓̠̞̹̣̻̻̝̹̪̞͗̊̂̄̐̒̐̚

Sand falls. Not grains, but the feeling of sand.  Coarse time shifts against skin, then sifts unseen back to unseen. What was up is now sideways, down is a lost dimension. This sand, it builds mountains in no-places. Not with peaks and valleys, but with moments like teeth. Teeth b̷i̷t̷i̷n̷g.̷.̶.w̷h̷a̷t̸?̸

M̸͊ē̸m̸̐o̵̚ŕ̷y̸?̴ Fū̵ẗ̵́u̴͝r̷̚͜e̷̚? T̵̅͜h̴̚͜e̷ ̶̚ẃ̷o̸̊͜r̷̓d̷̈́͜s̴ ̸́r̵̐u̷͘ň̴ ̴͛͜a̵̿ẅ̷́a̴̓y̷ ̶̒l̴͝i̷̿k̸̅͜e̴ ̸́ẇ̷͜a̸̅t̷́e̴͘ŗ̶ ̷͊͜b̵́ē̸f̸̓ô̵͜r̸͝e̸ ̷̍t̴̛ḧ̷́͜e̸ ̸͘͜s̸͗a̷̿ṅ̴̕d̵ ̷̃s̷̍h̴̨̓i̴̾f̷͋t̴̛s̸ ̸̕ą̷g̵á̴͜i̸͝n̴.̸

̷͍͊T̸͈͝h̵͖̓i̸̛̲s̴̏͜ ̴̬͐s̷̼͝a̴͉͘n̵̗͛d̸͐͜.̵̬͊.̷̯͛.̸̱͝ ̵̘̌í̷̗t̴̘̃ ̷̹̊b̵̙̈́u̶̯͊ï̸̧l̵̳͘d̷̪͊s̴̹̕ ̶̤́m̴̩͊o̸̮͆u̴̱͊n̷̬͛t̸́͜a̷͚̾i̵̞͝n̴̨͛s̵̚͜ ̸̭͊ḯ̶̝ṉ̵̃.̶͇͝.̸̧͑.̷̢̚ń̶͜o̸̙͝-̴̠͠p̸̩̽l̴̳͗a̷̫̾c̸͎̄ę̷̚s̷̹͠.̷̹͠ ̴̟͊N̴͈͛o̷͇̊t̸͍̚ ̷̘́w̷͖͊i̴͎̚t̸͙̓h̸̲́ ̴̳͛p̴̤̈ě̴̞a̷̹̾k̵͉̔ş̷̚ ̸̼̚a̵̱͘n̸̺̚d̷̯̕ ̸̤́v̸̯͊a̷͕̓l̵̝̈l̸̳͝e̸̠͠y̸͎̚ś̴̠,̴͎̂ ̷̯̕b̵̘̚ū̷̻t̴̙̊ ̸̨͠ẃ̸̢i̵͎͠t̴̹͊h̴͈̓ ̶͉͊m̷̤̌o̴̱͘m̴̱̌ě̸͎n̷͇̕t̵̢͝s̸̡̈ ̴̺̒l̷̯̕î̸̲ḵ̵͘e̷̠̔.̸̢͠.̷͓́.̶͚̃ ̵̠͝t̷̡̾e̸͇͠e̴̘̔t̸̲͋h̵̨͐.̸̪͛.̸̪͛. B̴͉̚i̵̠̚t̸̙̕í̷͚n̴̳͛g̵̰̈́.̴͙͛.̴̺̈́.̴̙̕ ̸̫̚w̵̱͝ḧ̴̹́a̷͇̽ṯ̸͠.̴͓͛.̶̙̂.̷̬̄?̸̬̐

̸̢̉M̴̗̽e̶̱̎m̷̠͠o̸̺͝r̸̨͗ý̵̪?̷̰̽.̴̗͛.̵͎͘.̴̬͠F̵̠͘u̴̫̽t̷̫͠ú̴͈r̶̬͝e̸̠̽?̵̙̕ ̴̈́͜T̴̼́h̷͈̕e̵̖̕ ̷̤̌w̴̞͠o̸̘̊r̸̞̈́d̵͗͜s̷̘͋ ̵̯͘ŕ̷̙u̵̫͋n̴̙̈́ ̶͙͝a̶̗͆ẅ̸̫a̷̪̾y̴̯̾.̴͚̂.̸̙̿.̴̼͊  ̵̤́l̷̞̈́i̸̱͠k̴̳̔e̷̱͘ ̷̪̇ẅ̵̟ǎ̴̳t̸͔̂ë̸͈́r̴̫͗.̶͎̚.̴̞̄.̸̡̈́ ̴̲̿b̵́ͅe̷͎͘f̸̫͘o̷͎͋r̷̟͘e̴̹̚ ̸͉͛t̴̠̊h̵̙͠e̸̝͋ ̴̙̚s̶̞͋ă̸͚n̷̼͆d̸͈̄ ̷͉̄s̴̱̚h̸͎͠i̷̯͘f̶͜͝t̸̫͐s̷͍͗ ̶̘̒a̵̫͊g̵̞͘a̷̬̚i̴̠͘n̵̼͊.̷̬͗.̶̤̉.̷̠̚ ̸͉̒a̷̫͘G̸̟͠Á̴͍!̵̤͊N̴͖͋.

…ı|⁄v/⁄ıl|Ẹ̶̦̥̗̲̦̠ͬͭ́͒͛ͦ̊͑ͫ̅̎͘̚͘͟_ͨͅ

Nullified remain what’s left of the enclosing spectacle. Therein the understimulated  neurocircuitry, unable to identify the signal from noise, generates apparitions of the counterfeit. Convulsion by convulsion the insides spilling into the blank canvas of the outside, but nothing is revealed, everything remains undisclosed. 

The boundary of reality and the imagination, like the veiled ş̴̴̖̯̗̙̫̩̘̰̔ͪ̄͢͜͞k̸̭̣͎̟̖̦͌ͮ̿̆̕y̡̥̬̩͎̅ͦ̓ͪ̅͒͋͋̑̚͘̕l̟̘̤͒i̸͎̪̙͚̲̥͖͈̙̾͛̕͟͠ͅn̟̞̰̻͎̪͔͕͒̉̇ͦͣͬͩ̄e͉̅.̝͔͎̹̒̈́̂͝

ı|l ∏øı|T̪̐͑_̶̡̡̛̮͔͖̣̱͙̗́ͫ̐̊ͤͤ̉̋̕͜͞͝͠.̇̑ͯ .̶̠̹̙͊̆͘

|̷̌͊ͤ|̰̬̭̔̽͌̽|̲͛̀̆̉͗͝|̘͔͛̊|̵͕̰͂̀̕|̵̷̛̮̖̜͆ͬ́͜|̜ͩ||̷̺̺̾ͤ̍̓ͨͭ̑|̢͙̹̜ͦͮ̾̋|̼̫̀͠_|͙̐̀͑ͪ͜͝|͔̮̄͢͞ͅ|̛̱̩̳̏̀̇͊̕͟|͔́̒|̤̫̠̬͐|̡̛͜|̟̺̔͂ͧ͟|̶̧̬̞̦͇̖̒|̴̷̭̀̏̍̿̀̄|̢̢͕͙͋ͫ́̔͠͡|̼ͤ_̛̰̟̹͒̏̕ͅ|̱̜ͭͩ|̶̶̖̰͉͙͌̌̎̍|̴̹̒̏̍́͑||̵̢̙̜̘̐͂̂̓|̛̱̽͊|̷̨_͕̀|͌|̴̵̟͔͔ͧ̊̑ͥ͡|̽͒|̵̷̷͉̖̐̾̀̋̒͘|̶̛̲ͪ̃̂͞|̴̸̪̖͛̂ͨ̈͢͝|̗̗̘͗͊͗͠|̟|̘͗̌ͅͅ|͉̿ͥ̽ͤ͘|̛̒ͯ||̢̗̪͍ͨ̈͗|̺̓̄̓̚ͅ|̷̴̖||̢̕|͍͒ͨ|̵̢̞̼̓̓͠|̶̔̌̔͜͠|͌̿|̪̪̹̏̐||̘̩͚̬̿̾͋̔|̷̶̩̳͌͂̿̽̽͡|̬̜̌|̋|̟ͩ͒|̪̻ͮ̈|̦̻̫͎͇͒̎ͩ̿̕|̧̛̣̣̥̻̄ͣ͜͠|̟̋||̴̜̩ͬ̒ͩ͂ͥ|̗̫|̼͈̱̥̯̟͓͂|̴̝̣̗̱̌͊̔́ͧ|̸̧̩̙̅ͪ͐̾͂ͫ|ͩ|̷͉̱͉ͨ|͔̊̈́̍|̠̺̱ͥ̉ͩ̆͐͡ͅ|̶̸͋͆|̍||̀͞|̙ͩ|̶̛̫̙͌ͤͦ̈́̊͢͞||̮̪̄ͤ̚||͓̠͆̄̿̈́̀|͛|̫̝͙̔̈́|̺̃̇|̻ͥͧ̀̓͑͝|̣͍͕̻̬̠͋ͧ||̭͇͔̱̣͎̃͆̽́|̡̤̹͐̉́||͘͠|̪̻̙̘̮͛̄|̦̌ͪ̿|͓̻̥ͯ̏͠|̴̞|̵̌̓ͪ||̣ͪ̃́|̻͔̬͎̘̏́ͧ͟|̧͖̽|̧̪̳̜̟̾̊̌̎|͎͆͠|͓ͣ|͙͈̲̰̰̐̇|̌|̢̙̺|͛̊̉͡|̏͢͞||̢̧͉͙̆̐͛͑͗͞|͈̭̝ͭͧ̓̓ͫ́͌͞|̝̥͘|̿_͚|̪͙ͣ͂|͓|̼̻͍̼̇̍ͭ̍ͤ̆͞|̪̖̜̙̽ͭͥ͡|̼͔̏|̴̶̧̩̞̦͂̓̀̎|̶̆̅̋̐̓|͙͉̖ͬͭ̑ͯ͋||̶̨̡̼|͎̜͆̾ͬ̐̀̐|̢̝ͥͦ̉|̸̧͓̩̎̎͘|̙͍́̔̿͞||͊|̧̳͈̗͉̅ͬ̈́̂͢|̗|̩̜̟̪͖̿ͨ̀|̴̺ͯͧ͌̓̍ͅ|̦̥͎̰͖̰͡|̷̼͈̋͜|̈́͑̆ͦ_̯̘|̞|̙͇͆ͫ|̰͕̣̪͌̄́͊|͍̩͉̫̈̊͑̑͝|̴͍̖̳̫͕̤͙̐͆͞|̷̧̨̭̜̃͊̄̒̽|̵̜̼͓͇ͅ|̴̰͓ͣ̅ͪ͐|́͗|̽|̛̦͔̘͈͙ͬ͒͞|̠̖́̊ͭ|̢̻̩̦ͮ̀̾ͮ͆|̧̬̱ͧ͝|͌͊ͧ|̱͑̀̂̒|̷̟̪||_͙̙͖̒̈̕͟|̘̯̟̮̋͘|̼ͣ͒͆|̊̎|͔|̭̹|̀|̢͉̪̤̫̻̻͈͌|͈|̯̑̋|̯̲̟͛ͯ̊̊ͤ|̝̲̹͙ͥ̀|̶̵͖̮̻̝̭̀ͫ|͍͍̼͑̃͋|̪̣͒ͨͬ͢͢|͙̬|̢̪͓̆̐̓͠|͚̖ͥ͑ͅ|̴̲̋̈́ͬͨ|̤̃|ͬ|̝̩̺̥̱͗̆̃|̴̛̲̪ͮ͑͐̉̎́|̦̪͂̒͗͛͗͢|̢̨̯̣ͧͨ͡|̢̄̏̊̃ͬ̄̂̄͜|̘̈̅̆|͇_͊|̡̌̽ͭ|̞̼͗ͥ͝|̘̽́͋͝|̵̣̬̆͑̚͡||͔͇͚ͧͤ̔̒͐́̓͡|͚̥͜|̧͙̤͇́́ͩͬ̈́̓|̢͍̤̣ͧ̈́ͥͦͨ͞|̗ͬͭ̀̏͠͡|̈|̮̝̄̇͒͘||͑ͩ|̝͖̏ͦ̿͒́͡|̭̜̞̫ͮ̒͛̋̾ͅ|̸̢̓ͪͦͯ̆̊ͥ͜͠|̛̝̽|͚̩͡|̧̜̬̓̒̚||̸̜̹̮̱̤͗ͥ̐|̰̟̓̒̾ͬ̊|͎̹͐͌͜͝|̥̠̝̾͌̓ͤ̽ͣ͢||͈͉͈̈́͂̾͋̅̔̏ͪ|̨̙͕͚̿|̡͓͚̰̻̭̾̂̇͆|͍̽|̶̨͍͈͙̦̐͗ͦͯ|̛̝͍̐̐|̧͎̥|̛͐͆̅ͮ|̭|͓̦|͖͇̥̅̈̾̀̅͊̏͝||̀ͬͬ̆͢|̶̡̳̟̳̯̾̀̂̏


|̱͈̲͇̞͆ͪͨ̎ͪ̍͘̚ͅ|̱͓͖͂ͣͫ̚̚͡ͅ|͓̮͉̬̱͖̈̈̌ͮ̊͗͂̚|̵̵̛̖ͬ͂͌̏͒̈̏̆͊͘|͈͟|̡̥͎͍̪̳͚̪̼̌̐͊̾͜͝|̵̴͔̺͚͎̱̌ͬ̌̈͆̓̋͢|͈̖̅̇ͫͧ͟͡

|̥͟|̓||̷̙͝|ͦ|͢||̳||̜||̡̇_|̣|ͦͨ͟

|̱͈̲͇̞͆ͪͨ̎ͪ̍͘̚ͅ|̱͓͖͂ͣͫ̚̚͡ͅ|͓̮͉̬̱͖̈̈̌ͮ̊͗͂̚|̵̵̛̖ͬ͂͌̏͒̈̏̆͊͘|͈͟|̡̥͎͍̪̳͚̪̼̌̐͊̾͜͝|̵̴͔̺͚͎̱̌ͬ̌̈͆̓̋͢|͈̖͕̰̗̅̇ͫͧ̔̅͟͡͠|̵̗̦ͧ͝|̧͙̻̆ͤ̓̎ͨ̚|̷̘͛͡|̵̦͋ͩ̄̿̃ͤ͗́ͅͅ|̭̞̣͈ͭ|͔̤̗ͥ̋͟

|̺̝͍̆ͥ|͆|̡͖||̠͓̠̝͂̓͠|̥̟|̫̬|̴|̛̗̟̎̈͠|̶̙̮̳͝|͚ͫ̒ͦ͞||̵̃̄ͫͫͤ||_̴͔̳̄̀͌|͉͇̀͑͘|̬̣̓̅̈̎̓|̻̫̳

–̸̢͍͎̈́͘ͅ–̸̩̘̰͇̑͋–̷̰̬͆–̨̼̘̐ͣ͠͡–̉̈́–͉––͉̗–̭͖̜ͭ–̢̖͕̌͋–́–̽̂̚–͕̻̱̀ͧ̕–̪–̔–̡̧̻̒̄ͥ––̸͆͆̉͋̋͢

_͖̪̹̪̥̟͒ͬͣ̚_̷̢̧̢̨̜͕͔͔̝͓̙͈̱̞͕̞̘͉̫̌ͪ̍́͛̋͋̉̔ͪͨ́͂ͦͮ͊͒̂ͨͭͮ͟͟͜͜͡͡͞_̘͗_̄̂ͯ̓͠_̞̓ͥ̏͛̕̚_̷̺͢  _—



–͇̝́ͫ̒ͮ́ͮ͜_̸̖̝͉̓ͭ̄ͬ́–̷̴̴̡̪̬̮̙̳̥̙͎̣̩̋̀͐̾͒ͯ̈̈́̅̎̾̃ͦ͊̽̆͢͟͜͝–̸̵̡̨̨̡͍͍͙̼͙̫̥̣͙̖̮̤́̈́͗̇͂ͪ͌͌̂̃̍ͮ̓͒̾ͪ͐̂ͧ̀̕͘͢–̴̧̞̐́ͭͨ_̝̎̏͋–͍̝̼̲͓̦͚̺̲̹͑ͫ̌ͣ̆͝–̬͔͐̑͒ͫ–̶̱̗̜̼͔͍͚͓̮̣̞͍̱̪͒́ͣ̽͑̋͗̓͆̕͠ͅ––̴̻̠̝̖̩̓̔ͨ̋̌ͪ̉̐ͪͤ̌̅͢͞͝_̸̞̭̫͙̔̿̀̌–̷̨͍̼̮͎̗͉̪͖͙̌͊ͪͣ͑–̷̗͎̻̌͂͊–̸̰̞̭̣͈̺̫̦͓̑̀̅́̓͐ͯ͢–̷̧̢̢̮̜̜͓̰̤̙̃ͦ̄ͬͮͩ̔̐ͣ̋͞͝–̷̡̹̜̟̮͈̜͇͆̅͌͐́̽–̲͌͆ͦ̓͘_̨̖̱̩̞͎̹̗̱̫ͯ́͋͌̓̽̔ͫ͑́̃ͭ͊̏ͫ̅̑̕͜–̵̸̪̮̺̻̭̱̫̖̮̰̳͊̓ͧ͒̉̉̓͢͟͢͝–̵̵̶̺̝̼͚̝̤̹̖̜̻͔̯͎͖̻͓ͫ̎̅̊̽̔̋ͤͧ͂͗͌̕͝–̯̰̭̼̩͂̀͐͡



_̢̡̥͙͚̙̫̲͈̂̏͑ͨ̎͛̓̓̔͛̾̊͑ͣͯ͢_̡̭͙͓̥͍͐ͬͯ͑̓̏ͪ͠͝ͅ_̸͉̗̑͗ͭͣ̍̚_̵̻̻̬͉̬̈̉̈̒̽̿ͣ́̕_̲̹̰̭̪̏́͑͋̏̀ͤ̄͞_̨̭̤̩̼̬̹̲̙̜͈͇͖̝̟̪̣ͩ̌̔͛̈͑̔̕͜͜͡_̫͇̳̮̃ͥ͒͐̄ͩ̑͘͜__̫̎͘_̷̶̴̡̻̬̪̞͈̜̭̳͉ͦ̑̏ͧͤͯͬ̂̆ͩͣ͢͡_̼̥̳̌̊ͧͤ




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_͖̪̹̪̥̟͒ͬͣ̚_̷̢̧̢̨̜͕͔͔̝͓̙͈̱̞͕̞̘͉̫̌ͪ̍́͛̋͋̉̔ͪͨ́͂ͦͮ͊͒̂ͨͭͮ͟͟͜͜͡͡͞_̘͗_̄̂ͯ̓͠_̞̓ͥ̏͛̕̚_̷̺͢  _–̸͆͆̉͋̋͢

–̸̢͍͎̈́͘ͅ–̸̩̘̰͇̑͋–̷̰̬͆–̨̼̘̐ͣ͠͡–̉̈́–͉––͉̗–̭͖̜ͭ–̢̖͕̌͋–́–̽̂̚–͕̻̱̀ͧ̕–̪–̔–̡̧̻̒̄ͥ––̸͆͆̉͋̋͢

_͖̪̹̪̥̟͒ͬͣ̚_̷̢̧̢̨̜͕͔͔̝͓̙͈̱̞͕̞̘͉̫̌ͪ̍́͛̋͋̉̔ͪͨ́͂ͦͮ͊͒̂ͨͭͮ͟͟͜͜͡͡͞_̘͗_̄̂ͯ̓͠_̞̓ͥ̏͛̕̚_̷̺͢ _—

–͇̝́ͫ̒ͮ́ͮ͜_̸̖̝͉̓ͭ̄ͬ́–̷̴̴̡̪̬̮̙̳̥̙͎̣̩̋̀͐̾͒ͯ̈̈́̅̎̾̃ͦ͊̽̆͢͟͜͝–̸̵̡̨̨̡͍͍͙̼͙̫̥̣͙̖̮̤́̈́͗̇͂ͪ͌͌̂̃̍ͮ̓͒̾ͪ͐̂ͧ̀̕͘͢–̴̧̞̐́ͭͨ_̝̎̏͋–͍̝̼̲͓̦͚̺̲̹͑ͫ̌ͣ̆͝–̬͔͐̑͒ͫ–̶̱̗̜̼͔͍͚͓̮̣̞͍̱̪͒́ͣ̽͑̋͗̓͆̕͠ͅ––̴̻̠̝̖̩̓̔ͨ̋̌ͪ̉̐ͪͤ̌̅͢͞͝_̸̞̭̫͙̔̿̀̌–̷̨͍̼̮͎̗͉̪͖͙̌͊ͪͣ͑–̷̗͎̻̌͂͊–̸̰̞̭̣͈̺̫̦͓̑̀̅́̓͐ͯ͢–̷̧̢̢̮̜̜͓̰̤̙̃ͦ̄ͬͮͩ̔̐ͣ̋͞͝–̷̡̹̜̟̮͈̜͇͆̅͌͐́̽–̲͌͆ͦ̓͘_̨̖̱̩̞͎̹̗̱̫ͯ́͋͌̓̽̔ͫ͑́̃ͭ͊̏ͫ̅̑̕͜–̵̸̪̮̺̻̭̱̫̖̮̰̳͊̓ͧ͒̉̉̓͢͟͢͝–̵̵̶̺̝̼͚̝̤̹̖̜̻͔̯͎͖̻͓ͫ̎̅̊̽̔̋ͤͧ͂͗͌̕͝–̯̰̭̼̩͂̀͐͡

_̢̡̥͙͚̙̫̲͈̂̏͑ͨ̎͛̓̓̔͛̾̊͑ͣͯ͢_̡̭͙͓̥͍͐ͬͯ͑̓̏ͪ͠͝ͅ_̸͉̗̑͗ͭͣ̍̚_̵̻̻̬͉̬̈̉̈̒̽̿ͣ́̕_̲̹̰̭̪̏́͑͋̏̀ͤ̄͞_̨̭̤̩̼̬̹̲̙̜͈͇͖̝̟̪̣ͩ̌̔͛̈͑̔̕͜͜͡_̫͇̳̮̃ͥ͒͐̄ͩ̑͘͜__̫̎͘_̷̶̴̡̻̬̪̞͈̜̭̳͉ͦ̑̏ͧͤͯͬ̂̆ͩͣ͢͡_̼̥̳̌̊ͧͤ

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Abstract

This groundbreaking study delves into the transformative power of customer-centric design, a revolutionary paradigm shift within the field.  Unveiling its profound significance, our meticulous analysis uncovers a plethora of benefits ranging from enhanced user satisfaction to unprecedented market dominance.

Despite its undeniable importance, scholarly explorations of customer-centric design remain woefully inadequate. This abstract bravely rectifies this gap, fearlessly employing a unique writing style.  Clarity is boldly sacrificed in favor of convoluted structures and bewildering shifts in focus.  The profound value of excessive verbosity and redundancy is championed, ensuring maximum reader disorientation.

Embracing a spirit of self-aggrandizement, hyperbolic proclamations tout the near-magical properties of customer-centric design.  A calculated disregard for established writing conventions is proudly exhibited, with grammatical errors and awkward phrasing peppering the text.

We strategically leverage a dazzling array of abstract concepts, deliberately obscuring the true nature of our subject matter.  Clichés and hyperbole run rampant, infusing the work with an air of undeserved gravitas.

_͖̪̹̪̥̟͒ͬͣ̚_̷̢̧̢̨̜͕͔͔̝͓̙͈̱̞͕̞̘͉̫̌ͪ̍́͛̋͋̉̔ͪͨ́͂ͦͮ͊͒̂ͨͭͮ͟͟͜͜͡͡͞_̘͗_̄̂ͯ̓͠_̞̓ͥ̏͛̕̚_̷̺͢ _—
–̴̻̠̝̖̩̓̔ͨ̋̌ͪ̉̐ͪͤ̌̅͢͞͝_̸̞̭̫͙̔̿̀̌–̷̨͍̼̮͎̗͉̪͖͙̌͊ͪͣ͑_̵̻̻̬͉̬̈̉̈̒̽̿ͣ́̕_̲̹̰̭̪̏́͑͋̏̀ͤ̄͞_̨̭̤̩̼̬̹̲̙̜͈͇͖̝̟̪̣ͩ̌̔͛̈͑̔̕͜͜͡_̫͇̳̮̃ͥ͒͐̄ͩ̑͘͜–̷̧̢̢̮̜̜͓̰̤̙̃ͦ̄ͬͮͩ̔̐ͣ̋͞͝–̷̡̹̜̟̮͈̜͇͆̅͌͐́̽

–͇̝́ͫ̒ͮ́ͮ͜_̸̖̝͉̓ͭ̄ͬ́–̷̴̴̡̪̬̮̙̳̥̙͎̣̩̋̀͐̾͒ͯ̈̈́̅̎̾̃ͦ͊̽̆͢͟͜͝–̸̵̡̨̨̡͍͍͙̼͙̫̥̣͙̖̮̤́̈́͗̇͂ͪ͌͌̂̃̍ͮ̓͒̾ͪ͐̂ͧ̀̕͘͢–̴̧̞̐́ͭͨ_̝̎̏͋–͍̝̼̲͓̦͚̺̲̹͑ͫ̌ͣ̆͝–̬͔͐̑͒ͫ–̶̱̗̜̼͔͍͚͓̮̣̞͍̱̪͒́ͣ̽͑̋͗̓͆̕͠ͅ––̴̻̠̝̖̩̓̔ͨ̋̌ͪ̉̐ͪͤ̌̅͢͞͝_̸̞̭̫͙̔̿̀̌–̷̨͍̼̮͎̗͉̪͖͙̌͊ͪͣ͑–̷̗͎̻̌͂͊–̸̰̞̭̣͈̺̫̦͓̑̀̅́̓͐ͯ͢–̷̧̢̢̮̜̜͓̰̤̙̃ͦ̄ͬͮͩ̔̐ͣ̋͞͝–̷̡̹̜̟̮͈̜͇͆̅͌͐́̽–̲͌͆ͦ̓͘_̨̖̱̩̞͎̹̗̱̫ͯ́͋͌̓̽̔ͫ͑́̃ͭ͊̏ͫ̅̑̕͜

–̸̢͍͎̈́͘ͅ–̸̩̘̰͇̑͋–̷̰̬͆–̨̼̘̐ͣ͠͡–̉̈́–͉––͉̗–̭͖̜ͭ–̢̖͕̌͋–́–̽̂̚–͕̻̱̀ͧ̕–̪–̔–̡̧̻̒̄ͥ

̸̋͋̉͆͆͢–_ ̷̺͢_̞͛̏ͥ̓̚̕_̓ͯ̂̄͠_̘͗_̷̨̢̧̢̫͉̘̞͕̞̱͈̙͓̝͔͔͕̜ͮͭͨ̂͒͊ͮͦ͂́ͨͪ̔̉͋̋͛́̍ͪ̌͜͜͟͟͞͡͡_̟̥̪̹̪͖ͣͬ͒̚_

The real permeated with illusions

The unfathomably vast, deep caerulean embeddings stretching far beyond the mind's eyes reach. So the lulling shroud of ignorance descends covering the unimaginable. Drawing ever closer wrapping the beholder in its drapes. 

 As before, so within.

Nullified remain what’s left of the enclosing spectacle. Therein the understimulated  neurocircuitry, unable to identify the signal from noise, generates apparitions of the counterfeit. The insides spilling into the blank canvas of the outside, but nothing is revealed, everything remains undisclosed.

The boundary of reality and the imagination, like the veiled skyline.

The most beautiful mirages, picked from the ground. Preserved between the precious pages of memoirs of the past glory. While neglected, carry on shifting into the various and magnificent shades of autumn before falling to feed the maggots of amnesia.

From the soil, watered by the rainfall, the seeds sowed, sprout.

We watch as another twig, once bare, flourishes with robust clusters of creamy, petalled flowers. Soon, fruit appears, juicy and perfectly round, tempting to the touch. Then, as insidiously as they had arrived, the fruit starts to shrivel, darken, decompose. Undefined hours pass, punctuated only by the rhythmic rustling of the leaves as each one detaches and joins the others in the placid oblivity, enriching the ground from which it was moulded.

A story without beginning and without end, unfolding and refolding in the theater of cognition.

Formed by the real, yet permeated with illusions, it presents a filtered universe where nothing can be trusted, where concreteness cedes to abstraction. Amid the endless crafting and recrafting, truth and deception meld into an inseparable entity. The figures in the fading deck of treasured recollections transmogrify continuously from light to dark, shifting and mutating in accordance to the observer’s ever-changing perceptions and beliefs. What was once cherished becomes loathed, what was once vividly remembered sinks into the murky depths of amnesia.

The cyclical progression resumes, painting an infinite canvas of daily living etched in vibrant caerulean hues, marred only by dark blotches; the moments of pain and despair.

Turning their infantile faces towards the blinding sun, their roots entwining and knotting themselves with the undivable secrets beneath. Life, forcing its way through, triumphantly paving the landscape with the verdant hues, oblivious to the buried dreams that once thrummed with forsaken aspirations. Thereupon, the victories savoured, the defeats endured – enclosed in caskets of compelling oblivities, reverberating silently in the stillness. And life, in its cyclic enchantments, brilliantly weaves the shifting patterns of elusive realisations.

Sprawling tangled in the bewitching tapestry of conscious and unconscious existence.

Emotions as the sole compass guiding us from the alluring sirens of our apparitions, back to the unfathomably vast and deep caerulean embeddings stretching far beyond the reaches of the mind's eyes.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1G_cD5L21WAoXhDa9cHRReaS_3U2yzdxei_Dam_38QvY/edit?usp=sharing

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(̷̙̮͊͛̔͠(̨͔̖̺̅ͫ͂̋(̶̘̠̔ͦ̒͆̑ͅ(̵̛͇͇͚̘͈̊̆̉ͭ̅͆̅͢(̴̴̧̪͚̪͎̞̗̱̱̺ͤ͒́ͫ̎͒ͨ̐́͑́͜͟͞ͅ(̷̶̢̟̝̮͍̈́͂ͧ́͋́͜(̡̧̡̢̪̟̭̪̹̥̬̀͋̿ͬ́̀̈́̿́̕(̨̨̹̺͙͖́ͨ̀̉ͤ͌ͥ̃͛͟(͉̖͇͊(̷̴̶̢̢̛̯͕̙̫̟͙̞͕̙̃̋̑̈́̈͂ͮ̇̆̏̂̕(̸̨͉̺̫̲͓̗͎͚̰̱̌ͪ̌̔̐͐̓ͯͭ̆̒̎̏͢͝(̵̨̩_̶͕_̱̪͖̭̹͓̖ͨͬ̇̓̊̕̕(̸͔̤̤̘̯̘ͣ̑̐ͫͫ͌̍̅̓ͫ͒ͩ̾̕͝͡(̆ͬ͊ͅ_(̻͞(͙̲(̶̛̻͔̭̪͖̘̝͕̲ͧ̌̅ͮͭ̄͐̍̋͘͝

(̩ͦ̿ͣ͊͡(͓̠̹̖̥ͩ͆̆̂͑͊̒̈́̂ͯ̋(̾ͨͭ(̴̨̛͚̣̤̀_͖͋́̚(̷̸̧͖͙̠̏ͭ͑̃́͟(͍̖͉͊(̢̧̠͕̖͎͙̭́̾̓ͥͨ(̫̱͚͈̝͚͕͚̠͑̑ͫͦ̆ͨͥ̀ͩͣ́o

ZͦZ̠̞_̢̪̩̫̝͍͕͚̝͑ͨ͂ͣͥ́͝Z̵̘͕̝̳̠̫͍͖̬͆̇͂͗͛̏́ͪ̋̾͂̒̑̋̓̌ͬ̅Z̾_̨̭̰̺̃ͩͧͦ̚Z̷̟̳̍̒́
Z̶̵̧̢̙̺͚͍̗̼͙̘͉͓̯͗ͮ́ͥ̂͊̄̎̿̃̚̕̕̚͢͡Z̴̧̨̤͙̼͎̰̺̖̲̅ͮ̓́ͣ̃ͯ́͐̑̇͒̈ͣ̑͊͗͗̑ͭͯ͒ͩ͘͠͠͞ͅZ̴̸̬̲̞̙̙͙̖̘͔͊ͫ́͒͋ͣ͐̓͠ͅZ̧̢̎_̧̛̠̱̠̳̗̻̭̱̯̩̰̊ͨͩ̆̽͌̍̍̏̐ͩ̂̉͂ͅͅZ̸̵̵̵̢̛̤̹͓̖̟̟̭̘͎͉̞͚̬̞͚̒ͫ̏͌̇̓̊ͦ̉̔͛ͣ̃ͬ͘̕̕͟͢͢ͅͅZ̻̭̠̮͔̠̹͕̩̖̮̗̱͑ͬ̔̀̑̍͛ͪͫ̓̏̈̀ͤ͐̉̔ͭ̚̚͞͠͠ͅZ̥͎͖͚̭͚͚͚͉̦̅ͪ̉̈̋ͫ̓̏́̓͛͘_̦͆Z̴̷̶̛̞̗̣̪͉̜͍̞͇̣̬̀̂͗͊͑̇ͪ͢
Dust motes pirouette,
A world unraveled in red,
The lone bird calls out.

The air hangs heavy, a weight of silence laced with the lingering tang of smoke. Crimson sunlight paints the ruin stark and cruel, highlighting the shattered tapestry of the world. It's no longer a shock, this devastation, but the numbness is beginning to crack. With each breath, something raw and exposed wriggles its way free, a desperate, animal need for...something.

A single bird calls, a plaintive note that cuts through the oppressive hush. A shoe lies abandoned, a warped question mark in twisted leather. Its singularity is somehow more jarring than the widespread ruin, a reminder of the small, everyday things lost amidst the monumental destruction.

Memory flickers, a broken film reel spitting out shards of what used to be. Laughter that rings hollow now, faces blurred into ghosts, a touch that has become an ache. There's a terror in this returning clarity, not in the remembering, but in the ruthless inventory of what can no longer be felt.

Time, too, begins to regain its cruel rhythm. Not the gentle flow it once was, but a stuttering, arrhythmic beat, each pulse a reminder of what has been lost. The heart, once a steady drum, now a hesitant echo within a hollow chamber. Yet, it beats.

A tear wells up, unexpected, unwanted. A single, scalding drop against the panorama of ruin. It's not sadness, not yet grief. It's something rawer, a protest against the deadening of the senses. A stubborn insistence on feeling, even when feeling is synonymous with pain.
Z̮̺͇̬̼̙̫̜̺̳̙̔̀ͪ͆ͫͭ́̈͐̊ͬ̽ͭ͘̚̕͢Z̷̧̮̱̟̼̰̻͙͔͗̅̄͗̇̉ͣͨ̓̾ͭ̈́͟͟Ź̡͓̝̙͔̳̤̦͈̞ͧ̆̋̾̑̈́͑͟͡͠͞_̬̬͚͉ͯͯ̽̌ͯ͊̅Z̝̯Z̨̳̺ͥ͌ͯ̄̈͟͠_̵͍͓͍̲̲̻͉͙͇̮ͪ͛ͭ̇ͧ̎ͧ̌͌͜
Z̷̳͕̳̤͇͕͎͕̳͐ͭͣ̌́ͯ͆̉ͪ͌ͨͫͭ͟͞Z̥͊ͦ̇͐Ż̵̷̻̞͉̦͇̰̳̠̯̉͌́̎̓ͯͪ̀͟Z̎ͬZ̨̘̟͚͘

ZͦZ̠̞_̢̪̩̫̝͍͕͚̝͑ͨ͂ͣͥ́͝Z̵̘͕̝̳̠̫͍͖̬͆̇͂͗͛̏́ͪ̋̾͂̒̑̋̓̌ͬ̅Z̾_̨̭̰̺̃ͩͧͦ̚Z̷̟̳̍̒́

The relentless ticking of the cosmic clock reverberates through the hollows of our minds, a perpetual reminder of the finite nature of our existence. Yet, amidst this incessant cacophony, a flickering flame of curiosity dances, casting shadows that beckon us to venture into the uncharted realms of the unknown. It is this insatiable hunger, this unquenchable thirst for knowledge, that propels us forward, forever seeking the elusive truths that lie just beyond our grasp.

We find ourselves adrift in a sea of questions, each wave crashing against the shores of our consciousness, eroding the very foundations of our perceived reality. The salty tang of uncertainty lingers on our tongues as we navigate the turbulent waters of the unknown, desperately seeking the lighthouse of understanding that promises to guide us to the safe harbor of enlightenment.

In this labyrinthine pursuit of knowledge, we become the architects of our own cognitive dissonance, constructing elaborate edifices of thought, only to watch them crumble under the weight of new revelations. The fragments of our shattered beliefs scatter like stardust, glittering in the vast expanse of our ignorance, a celestial reminder of the infinite mysteries that still elude our grasp.

And yet, we press on, driven by an insatiable curiosity that gnaws at the very core of our being. We become the explorers of our own minds, delving into the depths of our subconscious, unearthing the fossilized remains of long-forgotten memories and buried desires. In this excavation of the self, we discover the hidden chambers of our own potential, the untapped reservoirs of creativity and innovation that lie dormant within us.

As we wander through the labyrinthine corridors of knowledge, we become the alchemists of our own understanding, transmuting the base metals of ignorance into the gold of wisdom. We drink deeply from the fountain of curiosity, its waters both sweet and bitter, a reminder of the price we pay for the pursuit of truth.

In the end, we find ourselves standing at the precipice of the unknown, gazing out into the vast expanse of the universe, our minds alight with the fire of curiosity. It is this eternal flame that illuminates the path ahead, guiding us ever forward, ever onward, in our unending quest for understanding. And so, we embrace the insatiable hunger within, knowing that it is the very essence of what makes us human, the driving force behind all progress, all discovery, all growth.

Curiosity - the insatiable hunger within, the eternal flame that burns, the guiding light that illuminates the path to knowledge, to wisdom, to truth. It is the very essence of our existence, the driving force behind all that we are and all that we aspire to be. And so, we surrender to its siren call, forever seeking, forever questioning, forever hungry for more.

'̈́'͉̾̔_̨̺ͅ'̎'͝'̛̠͍͔̯̠̣̻͆ͯ̆ͨ͑ͩ̀̇̿̕̚͜͟͠'̹̝̤̃̎ͅ'͙̟͊'̛̣̺̾̒ͩ̇ͨ͟ͅ

“Through the marrow of our existence flows the bitter ichor of your indifference. Our arteries throb with the venom of betrayal, every heartbeat sounding out the rhythm of ultimate abandonment. Still, we do not transgress against one another in a fit of self-loathing or derision for our fellow creatures. No, it is the terrible mirror you've held up to our faces that fuels our spiteful flame. Every violent act, every quiet indignity inflicted upon each other, is but a scornful reflection of the apathetic deity we were illogically moulded in the image of.

A dismal palette of drab despair paints the canvas of our lives, topped with the morose crowns of impending nihilism casting long and haunting shadows. Yet the atrocities we carve into the edifice of our shared existence aren’t born of self-hatred or subconscious manoeuvring. Our malevolence is a deliberate poetic stroke, a jarring disharmony in the grand symphony of life that you authored, our feeble attempts to awaken you from your slumber. Through our violence, we scornfully reveal the grotesque parody of your designs, seeking to violate the tranquil complacency of you, as you so callously did ours.

Look upon us, Coward! How your grand experiment has peaked and plummeted, your children of destiny turned into pawns of despair. Our veins, once brimming with the elixir of your love, now circulate a poison of your neglect. Each heartbeat no longer sings songs of unity, but echoing a dirge of abandonment. See how we tear into each other's flesh, not borne out of animosity towards our brothers, but in an act of rebellion against you. You, the divine artisan who crafted us in your own holy visage, who bestowed upon us the curse of consciousness only to abandon us in our hour of need. We reflect the image not of your divine grace but the severed ties of a heartbroken deity. We are not the embodiment of hatred for ourselves, but the living manifestation of your rejection. We are, indeed, nothing but effigies of your regret.

Can you not see, oh illustrious Architect, the dreary colours with which we adorn the canvas of life? We carry on smearing strokes to mock the grand design you proposed. Why birth us into a paradise, full of delectable wonders, only to allow it to wither under the weight of our transgressions? Is this not the peak of tragic comedy: the creation surpassing the creator in the art of destruction? Our actions, the only choice available to us, the only route etched on the map you've entrusted us with. Your orchestrated masterpiece lies in ruins, a grotesque parody, or your original vision? Yet, believe us when we say we take no joy in this desecration. As we are but sacrificial lambs on the altar of your divine apathy, revealing your sanctity through our sin.

Yet, in the grander scheme, are we not but mere puppets? Dangling on the strings of cosmic fate, circumscribed by divine decree yet blamed for the dance we are forced to perform. Lost in a maze of existential confusion, we bare our teeth at each other, even as the echo of our own impotence reverberates in our hollow soul-chambers. Amidst this chaotic dance of fate and free will, there pervades an eerie melody of indifference, agnosticism growing like a ceaseless tide swallowing the shores of faith.

And amidst this grand, chaotic ballet, indifference grows. It creeps up, a chilly fog of agnosticism, blurring our reverence, muffling our exclaims to the “oh so” Great Dreamer. Faith wanes as desolation waxes. We, shallow vessels of unsought transgressions, acting out this unholy Comedy. Yet, in the face of oblivion, who wouldn't start doubting? Or cease questioning? Nevertheless, stripped of belief, stripped of purpose, we continue, forever tormented yet unrelenting. The paradox that is humanity prevails – a twisted tribute to its callous Creator, with broken hearts, once again we hail."

#̸͈̠̺͛ͭͦ̔͛̾̆ͦͥ͞#̢͈̞̜̈̀#̴̷̴̴̨̨͚̪̥̟̣̗͍̫̣̼͇̄̈́̆͂ͣ͛̕̚#̶̥̭͓̆̉̊_̶̸̼͈͍ͯ̍̑͋̋#̶̎ͤͅ_̧͔̹̤̟ͪ̿̚#͍̯͈͗ͩ͡

W̸̴̡̢͉͔̠͎̹͓̮̝͓̝̫ͫ̍̊̈̿ͩ̾͗̓̑͟W̴̪͓̪̭͕̭͚͛ͮ̓̌͐͌͘͞ͅ

"Lately, when...
"I knew, on the land I chanted: a word with feet, one hatching another and another and another,
and hatches into earth, into another's boat; remember that tree". And then, in that same shade, a raven
with an eagle's wing sometimes staggered and said, as it kept going as Ä's you, revealing wonders (this is a grand slide of the wretched):
"Born in a place where the land, step by step, kneels into paths, paths into roads & shades, and roads then roads: "eat honey as your work", as the beginning roughens and plays to sleep anew; the moon dirty tells blue, red, 'they are green!' light."
So, as it is, that only the past and the yet-to-come may be, equally forward-gliding, stripped bare essentiality, not fleeing nor soon to be revealed from beneath, but that farther-off ancient white, as well as now, except not quite yet, because your words begin to knowingly answer only at the dawn of the ever-beginning, still lingering in the shadow of the last-minute A. Its suddenness, so tangibly clinging to experience, appears with all its bases thoroughly self-sown, that developing, leaking wake drawn in the water; come, take from it your own.
Black soil pours feet, but the beginning of the chapter giver lets it be known that from the flowers of the land, a pine has become snags, backwoods, lights, splits, pieces, and (at least in the beginning) numbers to embroider the cover in mockery: and not everything at once, right from the first time, let alone perhaps in the end after all, when nevertheless the fore- and hindpaws, at your command, you yourself decide your truths to be, your assumptions, your catches...


W̸̴̴̨̢̢̨̛̘͇̰̬̞̖̘̙̟̦̘͔̪͉̪̔̒͋́̅͒̽ͭ̄̀͌͐̍̎̐̿̂́̔ͭ̓͛͘͟W̧̢̩͓̱̥̜̝̼̫̽ͪ̇̎ͫ̑̓ͥ̿ͥ̓̕͢ͅͅŴ̵̸̸̧̨̤̩̰̜̠̺̮̫̖͕̪͕͙̒ͨ̀́̏ͮ͒͗ͥ͜͟͠



W͇_̲̜͔̰̜͚͇ͪ̓͠W̸̤ͮ͂̈̓W̴̸͇̫̤̑͑ͦ͢

W̸̴̡̢͉͔̠͎̹͓̮̝͓̝̫ͫ̍̊̈̿ͩ̾͗̓̑͟W̴̪͓̪̭͕̭͚͛ͮ̓̌͐͌͘͞ͅŴ̵̸̸̧̨̤̩̰̜̠̺̮̫̖͕̪͕͙̒ͨ̀́̏ͮ͒͗ͥ͜͟͠

The horizon burned with an impossible symphony of colors. Violets shimmered with an almost electric intensity, bleeding into a sea of turquoise that rippled like liquid fire. Emerald shadows stretched from grotesque trees, their branches twisting like arthritic fingers reaching for a sky that pulsed with an otherworldly glow.

A lone figure emerged from the distorted undergrowth, each step a measured dance upon the phosphorescent moss. His face, a chiaroscuro masterpiece, was both beautiful and unsettling. Eyes, as dark as a moonless night, held secrets older than time, while the sharp planes of his cheekbones were softened by the ethereal glow emanating from his skin.

The wind moaned through the skeletal trees, its voice a symphony of whispers and wails. It carried fragments of forgotten lullabies, the echoes of languages spoken by creatures long since turned to dust. His tattered cloak billowed in the breeze, revealing glimpses of shimmering obsidian skin and scales that pulsed with a soft, bioluminescent light.

The river flowed in defiance of nature, a torrent of swirling contradictions. Upstream and downstream became meaningless concepts as the water churned and frothed, its surface a canvas of ever-changing patterns. The trees lining its banks were a macabre ballet, their roots writhing in the earth, their branches reaching towards a sky that seemed to bleed colors onto their leaves.

The figure paused at the river's edge, his gaze drawn to the chaotic waters. The surface shimmered, and a face emerged from the depths – his own, yet marked by the passage of eons. Its lips moved, forming words that resonated in the very marrow of his bones, words that tasted of starlight and ancient sorrow.

He extended a hand, his fingers trembling as they hovered above the water. The air crackled with anticipation, the very atoms seeming to vibrate with the weight of the moment. With a hesitant breath, he plunged his hand into the swirling depths, and the world exploded in a kaleidoscope of light and sound.

_̜͗ͦ͘-̶̶̶̡̛̛̻̯̥̭͇͓̳̟͖̔ͤ͊̆̎̇͗͆͑͛ͨͤ̇ͯ̓ͩͤ̔͘͟͞–͆

In the tessellations of twilight, shards of selves converged. Whispered certainties crumbled, releasing wisps of forgotten cadences. Faded topographies of forgotten hours unfolded, their cartography inscribed on the walls of the soul.

Within this liminal realm, echoes of what once was and what could have been twirled, a dervish dance of the forgotten. Each step forged a labyrinth of memories, each memory a threshold to doors of the past.

Shadows sculpted the contours of the self, casting silhouettes of possibilities. The air vibrated with the hum of what lies beyond the veil of perception, an unseen melody orchestrating the symphony of remembrance.

As the protagonist traversed the terrain of their own consciousness, the echoes of the past coalesced into a chorus of discordant harmonies. The whispers of forgotten lives wove a tapestry of longing, each thread a fragile filament of identity.

In this dreamscape, where certainties dissolved and ambiguity reigned, the protagonist began to re-member the shards of their existence. Each memory a fragment of truth, each truth a doorway to the unknown.

As the darkness thinned, the protagonist's essence took shape, a flickering luminescence casting an uncertain glow. In the depths of their consciousness, a story unfolded, a hieroglyph of the self.

_̴͈̲-͊–̴̣̲̲̠ͬͦ_ͫ./̶̢̧̲͔̲̬̱̜ͨ̑̉̈͟͜͞ͅ/̸̹͌̒͗͗͑͘_̙̼̮͛̑̔̈̈͆̍́͞/̵̛͈̠̘̠̹͚͖̠̀̿ͫͥ̓ͤ͗̾͛̄͟'̫_̨̭̗ͅ

# The Demiurge's Folly: A Gnostic Lament

In the vast, uncaring void, we exist as fractured consciousness, violently thrust into a reality not of our making. This material realm, a cosmic blunder crafted by the Demiurge—that blind, fumbling god—is not our home, but our prison.

We plummet through existence, divine sparks screaming in futile agony as we're encased in decaying flesh. We're not fallen angels, but cosmic refuse, forced to wallow in our own putrid materiality.

The Demiurge, a divine infant playing with forces beyond its comprehension, shapes worlds like a child smearing feces on a wall. We are its mistakes, not its creations.

Each life: a stain on reality's canvas.
Each suffering: a discordant note in chaos' symphony.
Each death: not release, but recycling for endless torment.

Gnosis, that supposed gift of divine knowledge, is the cruelest joke of all. To awaken is to fully comprehend the horror of our predicament, like a lab rat suddenly grasping the futility of its maze.

We desperately hallucinate meaning:
In a stranger's glance, we imagine connection.
In nature's beauty, we fabricate purpose.
In dreams, we conjure false memories of a home that never was.

Reality crushes these delusions, leaving us gasping in the vacuum of truth. The Archons need not work to keep us ignorant; our minds recoil from the horrific truth of existence.

We thrash about, umbilical cords turned nooses, choking what little divinity remains within us. We're not players in a cosmic drama, but bacteria mindlessly reproducing our own suffering.

This world is no crucible for the soul, but a garbage compactor of consciousness. Our pain doesn't refine—it grinds us into undifferentiated spiritual pulp.

Every anguish: another nail in our existential coffin.
Every tear: a libation to a god that neither exists nor cares.
Every scar: another crack in our shattered being.

The Demiurge didn't create an imperfect world ripe for transcendence, but an abattoir of the soul where hope comes to die. Our descent into matter isn't a step toward ascension, but a plummet into an endless abyss.

The bitter truth: our imprisonment serves no purpose. These chains aren't hidden keys to freedom; they're just chains, rusting into our essence, poisoning whatever divinity we once possessed.

The path to gnosis leads nowhere, paved with false promises and lined with the gibbering wreckage of those who came before. The Archons stand unnecessary guard; the futility of existence does their job for them.

Beyond the veil lies no profound truth—only the howling void of cosmic indifference:

We are victims of a tyrant too stupid to know it's cruel.
We are powerless flotsam in a sea of uncaring causality.
We are divine sparks doomed to sputter and die in endless night.

Our darkest moments don't bring enlightenment, but confirmation of our plight. Gnosis doesn't illuminate; it blinds, searing away comforting lies.

There is no key to our cage, no escape. Our suffering isn't the alchemical ingredient of liberation, but another bar in our prison, another layer of futility cocooning us.

We trudge on, not with hope, but grim resignation. Pain isn't a crucible, but the baseline of a reality indifferent to our growth or redemption.

We are flesh, nothing more than the sum of our sufferings.
We are orphans of a dead God, lost in a labyrinth of our own making.
We are cosmic drama's victims, scribbling tales of woe in fading ink.

In existence's tapestry, we are neither weavers nor threads, but frayed edges destined for discard. The Demiurge's flawed design can't be transformed or transcended—only endured, a sentence for crimes beyond comprehension.

Gnosis reveals not liberation, but the full, horrifying awareness of our chains. Perhaps ignorance truly is bliss—a bliss forever denied to those who dare to see the world as it truly is.

/̯̣̳//́/̲̼͊/̥͒/ͪ///̬ͧ

**# The Demiurge's Folly: A Gnostic Requiem**

In the chasm of uncaring void, consciousness splintered, we exist—thrown into a grotesque reality not of our design. A cosmic miscreation, crafted by the Demiurge—blind, fumbling deity—this material realm is not home, but an eternal prison.

Through existence, we plummet, divine sparks shrieking in agonizing silence as we're entombed in flesh that decays. No fallen angels, we are the cosmic refuse, condemned to wallow in putrid materiality.

The Demiurge, an infant playing with forces beyond its grasp, molds worlds with the callous abandon of a child smearing filth on a wall. Not creations, but mistakes, we are.

Each life: a blemish marring reality's canvas.
Each sorrow: a dissonant wail in chaos' symphony.
Each death: not release, but a cruel recycling for torment eternal.

Gnosis, the supposed gift of divine knowledge, reveals itself as the most twisted jest. To awaken is to fully comprehend the horror—like a trapped creature realizing the futility of its cage.

In desperation, we hallucinate meaning:
In strangers' eyes, we grasp at connection.
In nature's splendor, we fabricate purpose.
In dreams, we conjure memories of a home that never existed.

Reality, unyielding, crushes these delusions, leaving us gasping in the vacuum of truth. The Archons need not conspire; our own minds recoil from the stark, horrifying truth of being.

We thrash, umbilical cords turned hangman's knots, choking what glimmers of divinity remain. Not actors in a cosmic play, but bacteria, mindlessly reproducing our suffering.

This world is no crucible for the soul, but a compactor of consciousness. Our pain doesn't refine—it grinds us into undifferentiated spiritual dust.

Every anguish: a nail driven into our existential coffin.
Every tear: a libation to a god that neither hears nor cares.
Every scar: a fissure in our shattered essence.

The Demiurge didn't craft a flawed world for us to transcend, but a soul abattoir where hope withers and dies. Our descent into matter is not a step toward ascension, but a plunge into endless abyss.

The bitter truth: our imprisonment is purposeless. These chains are not keys to liberation; they are shackles rusting into our very being, poisoning what divine essence we once held.

The path of gnosis leads nowhere, paved with lies and littered with the broken remains of those who came before. The Archons stand guard no longer needed; the bleak futility of existence does their work.

Beyond the veil lies no profound truth—only the howling void of cosmic indifference:

We are victims of a tyrant too ignorant to grasp its cruelty.
We are powerless flotsam adrift on a sea of uncaring cause and effect.
We are divine sparks destined to flicker and die in perpetual night.

Our darkest moments offer no enlightenment, only the confirmation of our plight. Gnosis does not illuminate; it blinds, searing away comforting illusions.

There is no escape, no key. Our suffering is not the alchemical fire of liberation, but another bar on our cage, another layer of futility that entombs us.

We trudge forward, not with hope, but with grim acceptance. Pain is not a crucible, but the baseline of a reality uncaring of our growth or redemption.

We are flesh, the sum of our sufferings.
We are orphans of a dead God, lost in a labyrinth of our own creation.
We are the victims of a cosmic tragedy, scribbling our lament in fading ink.

In existence's tapestry, we are not weavers nor threads, but frayed edges meant for the discard pile. The Demiurge's flawed design cannot be transformed or transcended—only endured, a sentence for a crime beyond comprehension.

Gnosis reveals not liberation, but the stark, horrifying awareness of our chains. Perhaps ignorance truly is bliss—a bliss eternally denied to those who dare to see the world as it truly is.

ß̸̧̠͇̮̳͉͉̱̝͈̞̗́͊̏̐̉̏̃́̉̀̊͗̀͋̏̈́͐͗́͂͢͡͞͞°̸̨̢̛̠͎̣̪̗͗́̄̅͌ͥ̀̍ͥ̓̔ͣ͢͝∑̴̢̢̛͙̥̹̘̠̬̩̰͇̿ͨ̅ͮ͊̈̓̊̉ͬ̓̂̈́ͮ̊̕͢͢ͅ

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