The text is starting to appear in front of his eyes in the post box... Hands moving automatically in the field of soft LCD light cast out across the fingers and up over the the arms and scars and tattoos and now he's imagining what his eyes look like... He thinks they're probably showing a lot of white in a hard stare and huge dilated pupils swelling like perfect drops of ink because that's just how they always are and why he has to wear sunglasses all the time... The keyboard is sticking and he's thinking that maybe it's time to replace it... He can feel a few beads of sweat forming like frost on his forehead and crawling like snails towards the edges of his skull to take the big plunge... He thinks it's worth noting he's bald but just because he hates dealing with hair even though he's been told he has a nice natural color... Attention turns to the music coming out of the speakers shouldering either side of the desk... Electro-Industrial, a friend's band - 2 friends - He knows they broke up but one of them is still using the project, at least in name, still, in theory... Back in time now when he was younger and was out and about making music and going to parties and bars the timelocked memories associated with the music conjuring a cavalcade of images of people and places and their interactions like a fractal latticework of memory... His attention has returned to the text appearing on the screen as the fingers are still moving;; they stopped for a second and he looked at that blank where the semicolons rest... He's staring at the screen and only half at the words that keep appearing trying really hard to slowly produce a recipt for all the items cataloged in a linear but fractured stream of conciousness he keeps typing into this little window... pause... The bead of sweat he mentioned earlier has rolled down the side of his face and under his cheek and to his nose and down along his now tilted head and is resting on his upper lip and he can't stop thinking about it but then got distracted when he thought he heard a sound and now his eyelid is itchy, but he's not stopping to scratch it he's still staring and letting his mind take a back seat while the fingers keep dancing on the language buttions hat keep dumping digital english sigils that form words onto the screen and then he's thinking that's kinda a weird wordy way to put it but now this excercise is starting to ain a weird kind of momentum and he's thinking maybe he's starting to make a few typos or something but maybe that's just his eyes playing tricks as this wall of text keeps groing and growing and good god this keyboard is sticking he'll have to get i replaced soon... He's not sure how to account fo rall hte wandering thoughts or constant sensory polylouge that aren't accounted for as he keeps typing into this little box letting words appear and appear and appear and the song just skipped but he thinks it's probably just a problem with the MP3 itself and he thinks that the song Space Pussy by Halluciongen is a good song and though he doesn't listen to a lot of it he does enjoy psy-trance or goa sometimes though Hallucinogen is more just straight psy trance while he artist's other project Schpongle incorporates more goa elements but it's a british act, not israeli trance as so many of such projects are... He's barely moved while he's been writing this - he thinks he's probably fucking up the tenses but that doesn't really matter - and he feels his arms falling asleep a bit and a deep body buzz and tactile awareness that comes from deliberate meditation and this kinda focused flow of conciousness writing and he thinks, laughing without laughing, that the weird "spaciness" of it was probabbly part of the draw for breatniks in the 50's to do this kinda thing... Naked Lunch was the last book he read by that cluster of like minded authors... Rest in Peace William S Borroughs you crazy bastard... He's lost track of time writing this out and he's very aware of the music and sounds and the chinese food from earlier was very tasty but probably moreso than usual because he was very hungry when he ate it and they say hunger is the finest sauce but otherwise this chinese delivery place is ok but not great since it's a franchise and isn't "real" chinese food like the restaurants downtown but they don't do delivery... Jumping around in his mind he considers if there would have been many delivery services in soviet russia since stories he heard lead him to understand things were more of an open "market" with the communist rations or whatever and you just got into a line if you saw one and got whatever and then got a portion of whatever you could so you could barter it with someone else for something you wanted and it must have been a scary place to live sometimes with the KGB keeping a keen eye on people... He remembers that the KGB was actually formed from an earlier and more thuggish secret police force called the NKVD, but he doesn't know what the acronym stands of or how it's pronounced... He really likes sound and listening to the sounds in electronic music especially because they're alien and unusual because while they can exist in nature - obviously if you can hear them - they will never OCCUR in nature because they are the product of digital or analog processes that only occur in devices built by mankind... He's happy because now a Hypnoskull track came on and is playing now - Push>Eject>Return - being the song's title... Filthy minimal powernoise raw and dirty and full of energy and really made for a dancefloor but he likes listening to it by itself because he gets a vicarious kick from the overblown fuzzy intensity of the beats and this song in perticular has an interestly syncopated polyryhthmic thing going on with a whole-note-triplet snare noise that offsets this awful "CLANK" that triggers every second 2nd note and He likes the music because it's so caustic and aggressive, but so repetative and thick like a radioactive bumblebee smacking off glass again and again and again... He's realizing he's still typing again and coming back up out of the automatic trance into an acknowledgement that he's just writing his thoughts but what's he doing is there a point to this? For some reason he's enjoying the music more while he's focused on typing because for some reason he's actually listening to the music much more closely than normal while writing this text but He doesn't think it would work as well if he was trying to hammer out a more specific or coherent piece of writing that was made to actually be well written as opposed to just zoning out like a space cadet with a ggood Words-Per-Minute count speaking of which, he wonders how long he's been sitting here writing this since he's kinda lost track of time and he thinks for a second maybe he could just look at the media player playlist and add up the song times but then realize that would nessecitate breaking his gaze at the escapist post text box and possibly also this rolling trance that he's kinda enjoying... His neck keeps tilting to the side because the chair doesn't have a headrest and he thinks maybe he should get an executive style office chair for this room because that would be more comfortable for when he "plans" to space out into oblivion on a message board in response to some post that acted on him like the forum-post equivalent of some kind of black hole or quicksand thread... He's wondering now if the mods will object to such a long post and whether he should put a spoiler on it because that's probably a good idea since this is going to be a horrible goddamn wall of text whenever he decides to stop... He realizes this is the first time in a long time he's truly just LET GO, in a weird sorta way... He means that he's always very objective oriented and also has a noisy mind overcrowded with ideas and impulses and plans, but right now as these words keep appearing in front of him he's actually feeling more singularly focused than he does even on things that are more 'important' and feels a sense of irony about that, but realizes that anyone reading this won't get the same feeling because they're struggling to follow along with someone else's train of thought, whereas he is just dictating his own, after a fashion... He feels distantly sad at that thought and considers, once more, that everyone basically lives and dies alone in their own mind and that anything beyond subjective and interpretive understanding of another person's thoughts and feelings is essentially impossible to the current standard of the human condition and he thinks that he wants to change that... He thinks that it would be interesting to integrate all minds on earth into a single screaming collective conciousness and upload everyone's mind into a single gestalt being... He likes thinking of science fiction ideas like that and taking in entertainment that plays with those kinds of ideas... He observes that affinity is probably a part of why he romanticizes the notion and mechanics behind electronic music, since it seems like a font of inspiration for mad scientists to rip apart and rebuild the very fabric of sound and derederederedereconstruct music ad infinity... He can see why a lot of people who don't spend their time thinking about these kinds of things probably think this kind of thinking is very wanky unless you work your way up (or down) to it from the ground floor... He's now looking back over the wall of text above what he's immediately writing and spacing out, looking at the entire image, ather than specific words and everything is getting so weird in this recursive metawank excercise in conciousness and writing and he's starting to think it's probably a lot like filming yourself jerking off in a hall of mirrors and then uploading the video to youtube... He thinks for a second "did I just say that" but then he realizes he just thought it and typed it... He wonders about the theortical benefits one could glean from a meditative free-conciousness bio-feedback musical internet writing and then feels silly for considering it, but thinks that anything that allows a person to affect their own conciousness through direct and voluntary action should not be dismissed, no matter how silly it is... He thinks different people would say about it... The people he thinks matter would probably say, "Why not" or "if it feels good to you, do it"... He's startled when all of a sudden a predominantly electronic mp3 playlist suddenly switches thinks up and starts playing some Strapping Young Lad. He'd call it metal, but he's not up on rock subgenre names like he is familiar with different electronic subgenre handles... Genres are a really stupid thing to get angry over, he thinks and types - they don't define music, rather, music defines them and really they should only exist to categorically assist the search for a perticular type of sound... He's feeling adrift like he's lost in sounds and words... He thinks he's going to take a digression from making any kind of sense and just start leveraging the state he's in to say some weird nonsense....................... Lets begin, he says, and begins to describe the closed eyelids of a goat, round and supple like pink balloons floating on a dead island with a new screensaver being written every five minutes by a factory team of silent workers toling in hte bottom-most pit of undulating armpit hair ever seen in the well chronicled journeys of count dungus. The count was a fastitidous man who believed everything he heard, but nothing his own sensory organs could describe to him, including the language used by those around him to inform him of the former. This lead to a shattered and irreparably damaged shell of a man wandering the earth in tattered rags, holding desperately to his arbitrary monarchic designation as the one kernel of truth in his uncertain and dangerous world. Around him spikes of contempt and bile rose and receeded like jagged lines and regular beep of an electro-cardiograph machine at the side of a hospital bed confirming that their affixed patient is alive and breathing or not until they are discharged from the observation of the rosey cheeked little minx of medical technology. The frequency and concentration of cosmetic eyelid surgery in east asia is staggering. Staggering. ST AG GG G ER ING." sputtered the old drunk, trying to describe the gated cadance one needs to employ when using the god voice to open the magic stone doors that bar the way to the temple of indiana jones. Beep Beep Beep and Rosey the robot will have dinner ready for 9, so be home on time or face the whip, young jedi. Cabbalistic caramel corruption cocks up concurrent concerted efforts to creep the crap out of capricious, cosmopolitan, corrosive, caustic, cannibalistic capitalists. For Great Justice! Deep inside the filling robes you'll find a whole thwack of maramoles, Jimmy; take that from me if you remember nothing else on your descent into your shameful world of lies that live as creatures embedded in your skin like ticks. NO SCUBA POOL. Zerorez is the hero of our story, but I regret to inform that he will not be available tonight on account of an equipment malfunction in his trousers... Yes, yes, the poor gentleman's genitals exploded like an uncut hotdog in a microwave and he had to be rushed to the hospital, tearfully clutching the bloody, wadded mess in his trousers that once existed as his sole claim to fame during his days as a star of 'teh pron'. We still have no breaking leads of information on why the poor bastards johnson went off like a meaty fireworks display while he was in the changing room, but we can assure viewers that compelling evidence suggests that this may be divine retribution wrought on him for his blasphemous and - indeed, very cheeky - pass at the Pope on Friday the 13th, number 17. Why why why why? "Y" in deed and thought. Uncle Allen and Uncle Sam both want to issue you notice that you are invited to their exclusive tuxedo barbeques in the sky, on Timothy drive, Cloud 9...................... He's going to stop talking complete, if hopefully somewhat amusing, bullshit now and return to the self referencing stream of consciousness. The reason for this is that he noticed that talking the funny nonsense actually broke up his trance and 'snapped him out' of the pleasantly "zen" state that he fell into typing this post. He wonders if that's because he started having to use a different part of his brain to imagine and make up a story - however sloppily - rather than simply narrate subjectively from a buffer of short term memory and sensory reflection. Interesting that, he thinks.
