Losslessness

A smashing of glass.

The brick,counterpane to false transparency. Solid image. (The brick = an antique brownish clinker blistered with embedded grog in haphazard variation, cored with twenty small holes and stamped in the shallow oval frog with "Ignatz Brick Co. 1919"), Krazy Kat sez, "heads I'm ebsent, tails I'm not here."

Flip flip.

Coinage of deadweight anchor into thrown-ness of the way things are.

What?

The next thing he knew wasn't next, but moments before : a smashing of glass. Shards sticking in the slight space between zig and zag. Such was zugging the fabric of tapestry which entwined fibers come to unravel until rough edges wrinkle or unwrinkle a crest of creases releasing to the fold an unfolding blank blanket on cover of coldest uncovering. A quilting in comfort of unwrapping old long bones demagnetized from the shattered skeleton of completeness. It is gone. A lack of need for enumeration. A loss of thrust for propulsion. Zero sum total. Emptied. The nullified scrimmages of image lactated by the strange spectacality within inhabited space claiming placefulness as prerequisite for becoming an actuality outside or inside so many screens projected upon magistrated massings of full streaming informations. Outside looking in or inside looking out, he never knew which.

Up he hove detrital elements of his erosion, dreg by dross seemingly worthless bits of himself sunk to bottomdwelling residuum in sediment of any stamp claiming authenticity. Another atrocity for exhibiting dustily deformed on his simple shelves of categorical confinement. Cozy enough. Howcome his lungs suck so much staleness of stifling airs, his breathing without even thinking of inhale or exhale -- desperate heaving for hell or highwattage regardless of any wretched ramshackle to overreach boundaries binding his spine to gravitational pullings
on backbone close to breakage.
(doubletalk)

Quitchyer dizzyin 'nd gettit right gummy!
Spit some straight dope!

Who said that?

Noticing the niceties of observation in succinct distinction, how to begin the ending : match of actual fracture -- every single word of which was impenetrable. Upon entering the room, he glimpsed a shadowy figure smokily standing in the corner. Step by step edging closer to the thing, it spoke softly :

"Hey man, howzit? They call me Shadfig. These stinking streets once yielded such vastness of trove I was fully formed and ever forming, now with its trenching drenchery of depthless dank I'm only half the asshole I once was -- reduced to scavenging gutter crust for my inexhaustible uniquity. My dark adapted eyes are essential scanning sensory pickups : pinpointing in saccadic fashion just those lost littered things needed to dehisce my hidden innards and open up all and for once the stromatic intricacies which we could call my essentialness, er, the eeing within being, uh y'know like my ontological identity of existence, yeah, my fundamental thingness thrumming sum, cogito, um, uh, the is of my isness..."

Mumble murmur mummble.

"Are you still listening?!?

You look disoriented, lemme tell you about disorientation..."

He wasn't listening,

but he felt an explicable magnetism to Shadfig and he was thinking about all the constant phenomena which cannot be fully ascertained or agitated by any hypotheses. He wanted to unfuck the fucking and within the danger of death, a disappearance of maintenance discontinues with slopping spoonful by slothering spoonful of nothingnesses left none less than loss, complete and utter loss; a loser so lost as to even lose loss. Nonsoma. Deathbody. Ghostsoul.

He was just another future corpse lost in fog of dreams,an instant inferred verily that an eidolon of shadowy outlasting expresses the films peeled off surface of all objects, thus revealing a waking nakedness beneath the idolon : as the umbra endures and these sciamachies continue there'll always be the pugilism between nonself and selves aspirant. He found himself again listening to Shadfig saying something about the :

"...survival of a savage exaggeration, these illusory infallibilities illustrate airy evidence, especially ambiguous and exposing an explicit plot to instill anthropological evolutions intent on furthering the whole stinking species yet further distant from the ghghostghod. Of course, this conclusion was reached by erroneous processes, thus we, the erorrists, must wear this undone knowledge glaringly on our furrowed brows emanating as darkest star between our eyes --

so that we can't see, you see.

This belief in our lack of faculties to perceive is that which sweeps our faithlessness aside from any retainment of its afterimage so fulgurated in our many minds resounding an echolalic anthem evermore of the original and authentic intent."

There was a pause, Shadfig gesticulated with his hand the motion of jerking off, and said slowly :

"...precisely striking is an isolated example of the uniformity of biological impulse, to get off, as it were."

He nodded in response to Shadfig and skulked away from the smoky corner thinking of some celestial supremo in skybeing guise gliding oversum and atmospheric above any of these agents locked into temporality. He noticed on the scribbled wall an offkilter flyer hung with a gilded toothpick, it read :

' The end of history is too often
just a topic of speculative conversation,
for us it is the only true work! '

And underneath that :

' Undeath to erorrists!
Long live terror! '

He felt not as himself, he felt as if he was in character, a character which was not himself but an oft read about man with a plan, and he knew this couldn't be him, he never had any plans, what with his proclivity for inactiveness and withdrawal from the way things as they are are. Things as they are. A smashing of glass, he remembered as he touched the brick hanging around his neck, he had wanted to wear it as a solidified metaphor aping the either-or-ness of his breathing or not breathing, vocal or nonvocal. In his throat laid scattered graves of lost words, dead words, unworded words. Buried without birth, embedded, the lodging of their scratchy tombstones rubbing dust to dirt to which he must return. The brick broke through. It was an emblem worth wearing, much more useful than a bloodless crucifix. His brick was a possible crime scene, a pure potentiality, a physicality of reflex entrenched in memory of quick flick or twist away from the catastrophic curtains of anmesistic wakefulness. In that escapement, what this meant was meaning must be made. The unmaking was already underway. A prisonhouse of definition. He knew then he would become an erorrist and with his five fingers each hand he would prod and poke forcefully into the everwatching false eyes of those judges and lawgivers and enforcement officers wielding such the long arms as an undefeated army of monstrous octopuses grasping in their inky beaks the viral pestilence of the WORDS and lengthy tentacles wrapped in tightening tangle around their delicate construct designed for binding and bound on all border of concealment, entrapment and impending acts of general skullduggery.

A smashing of glass.

He returned to the first sentence in an instant. The foundedness of his initiative reassured him. He was now involved in an active enterprise. He felt an immediacy heretofore unfelt. His ecstatic attainment took the shape of a freakwing'd ernstbird. He felt semi-embryonic masses of half developed infants lying in the earth beneath his feet. In this prefiguration of psychic totality, the mathematicity of infinite possibility within the divided state of a deficient creation layered polyfacial and polynamed was a dichotomy in its distinctiveness, a dimension unfolded for suture to reversability of the rupture. He was spinning in wicked shit, then he remembered what Shadfig had said :

" You must develop a soft head
to become a house of dreams."

He wasn't dreaming or dreeming, he still felt some sensation of being in the world and having nowhere to go. A gap in the narrative. A shoddy prop. There's nothing happening, its already happened.

A smashing of glass.

He had an immediate frightwave as if involuntary response upon tactile contact with insect exoskeleton. Shiver, shit. Tremble. His jetztzeit was over and gone, the worldwide hitparade of the intractable problem no longer superseded his idée fixe of the voidless void. Such suffocating closure. In his strange exchange with the trickstertext, he expiscated a truth truly that it can be proved that it can't be proved. He wanted to return to the opening sentence, to be always in action, not this shitty state of graceless confusion. Unfounded to finding.

Unable to handle such enormous torque, the stripping of straightcut gears in the transmission of a living language neutralized any motion to a standstill. The gaps between word and meaning blanks, blanks and blanks. Velocity of a phantom gearbox in totality of concision placemarking an absence of signifying force in inextricable particulars. All this common air sent to myriad quarries of query. What? Never heard of such a thing as literal meaning, sensus literalis, put into construal of an invisible idea outside any assigned value. In its comprehensibility it obliterates the difference of embodied things. In the wordness of words, their husk of usefulness only aids the materialism of the way things are. The detail, the detail, the detail. Degree by degree undefining itself : perish perished perishable. Writ in the official font of wellordered settings imprinted indepth by press, the binding of leaves fell from deformulations of nature : this nature of naturalization so unnatural. Shadfig had warned him :

"What would you do if things as they are, -- aren't?
You're defined by it in reactionary fervor, it wins by proxy."

Shit, again, shit again.

He was hinging half-hung on linchpin of faulty logic or incomplete argument in pivot fulcrummed only by an inattention to the details at large within the smallness of his evershrinking head. An impingement on his fine filters, mere specks of dust clogging any filament from which to light his fuse. He wished he had a necklace of sparkplugs instead of his dirty worldly brick. Never a moment of ataraxy for him, an ongoingness of aboutness. Where? Unsplainable.

Air is the stuff we breathe.

The invasion began as soon as he was grunted forth from womb, or was it the moment of ejaculation, inswimming toward his other half in relentless instinct. A game of holes and putting something in them. Echo of bones. He wanted to grind and polish his fulgurite heart to the thickness of a single atom, so sharp so to slice himself from this epic of emotions. Therefore incommunicable. Winging silences. Phantasmagoria wrestled in sense of speaking : nothing ain't, if anything ain't, it cain't be known, if anything ain't and cain't be known, it cain't be aint'd in speech or spook. Knowable. No nevermind nohow.

Of glashing a smass.

So long and seeya later sodapop and superdope!

On no connexion. So much ormolu to grace this shitless turd floating amid torrid purulence encapsulated so strikingly in this golden toilet bowl flushing flesh thru digestion back into and unto that cloaca maxima snaking ways under surface of ground laying maze beneath sheer veneer of this bubblegum machine-gun pathos so integral to the way things are. Awaken the dei otiosi and gather wrath to destroy this state of things as they are and fill the forgotten skies with these lost gods thundering cloud to ground and ignition with the forge of lightning strike. Rewrite the cosmogonic narrative to reveal an indecipherable bloomday doompage always open opening in action and humming not with simple sentences but with wrackful wranguage wrangling the ranges of strange in high energy of spin-charge & mass within the riddle of four fundamental forces.

Be done with thralldom!

Ditch all dissimulation!

Slapdash this spasm to highest contrast with center nowhere and contact points everywhere. Fusedness of the primary pith. No north for southing west or easturn stars guiding coordinates of compass, the evershifting horizon. And not knowing what to know, he resigned himself of all signage replete with easy readability and ever aiming interpretability layered upon the layers of densely packed recognitions in tight-tight bindingness. No movement. How to go forward was more a matter of smashing atoms down to split or splice for recover or digest of any essence bound and bundled to the original propulsion -- such an origin of unattainable energy frozen in modes so static as even to resist default entropy. He could sense the latent possibility. He had heard of hearing, but ears needed eyes to deciper such masses as miniscule as that thisness and his macrolens relied in no small part on an ocular integration of auralness hinting to the hums of everhumming humes which oscillated in rhythm of his heart, this mere pump was just one slight segment of a system pushing nervy intricacies fro and forth : such dependent relations relying on response and reaction to keep the being being. In this bebeing lay the residuality of cause, whose effect had left lasting impact or simply implanted in such remote tangle that any implication to authentic programming had been lost to the evervigilant bugbear of sociocultural conditioning.

There was another long pause,

then the next line appeared as if a head was a hand and eyes guide rightness left over endless zag or path which led so swiftly to this unfinished finality. The thing is, (the thing is just the thing), that it's never finished, this will is easily misidentified as desire but but the longing for synopsis of short shrifting ends is simply a will to be, to do, to too -- last breath left lasting where no air can invade this vacuum of concealment and it was that exact container in which he wished not to be contained. Constrained to the last ashes of ember when full flame has rested to a soft luminosity of what once was, this small hot heat smelt melding into a completed object of singular purpose something like a spoon, but unbending and sticking to the specific task at hand, which was to eat meaning and purge the results. After that trapdoor shut so solid, an escape seemed necessary, however, his disbelief forfeited any force for lacing upon those superspecialized running shoes so vital to any good getaway. Such is the pits, the tarpits of motionless fossilization waiting to lay any conclusion from rocksolid undeniability to this amorphous mass of embalming gluck mucking muscle to surrender. It was this unconditionality of defeat with what he finally let go any and all recipe for triumph, it was simply too drenched in loss of propulsion and spent on energy to attempt semblance of any movement or movements. Checkmate.

No glass for smashing.