My internet connection is slow. Almost not there. I know saying that is like saying "I've lost contact with god" but still. It's everything. It's nothing. It's fucking freezing in here. Saying I've lost the internet is like saying you've lost the fiction of words the friction of language the nothing of everything, like saying you've fallen out of the Post-Modern No-Structure Structure. I could freeze to death, I could be caught up in ice, frozen forever in a block of chill. It's nothing, it's meaningless it's nothingness it's scribbles and code and endless looping gifs if it goes gone forever it will leave no trace of itself on the world except for the miles and miles and miles of useless tools we've created to interplay. Dead laptops yawning like tombstones and our great great great great grand children's children will stare at them, confused perplexed, then shrug off our ghost and make out in the crematorium to the sound of post-goth music. The vast vast vast vats of death plague poison pollution that's been pumped into the everything of everything of everything that is our everything everything everything Earth will still linger as time goes by and the future of us will find a cure or abandon the unabandoned. I havent left my room. Yet, it is everything. It is all that is and was and will and wont and knowledge power art scheme death sex money, it's everything. It's the forever pipe that feeds up the goulash of being-alive in the ultimate non-life simulacra. We exist in the machine, we are the machine, we are the matrices of the machine, the cogs the bolts the construction the power. I've left my room, but not my house. The story was slow to day -- Literally. It's called "Slow". It's premovement, the wind up to but none of the pitch. All foreplay. I havent left the house today, I keep wanting to keeping too, there's so much to be done. A woman stares down from a window, watching as he pulls up and has an epiphany as she goes to him; that's the plot. I cant hold a thought as well as I use to. Outside there is something to be done but in here I've gotten so much work done. She sees him crying thru the window and knows knows, that's the story, not even a page, knows knows she knows. It's written like a sentence -- I've written, this that and other, I've completed so much. I've succeeded but still not gone outside -- it's one long paragraph sentence that unfolds the entire existence of the Antemoment, of the Antemovement, of the Anteplot-point. I think of Molly, of Erza, and The-3rd-One-Who-Hasn't-Been-Named-But-Will-Be-Beautiful-&-Who-Suffers-from-the-Same-Fate. I think of the I shouldnt be telling you this, this ruins the story, telling the tale defiles the tale, Im thinking of the I shouldnt be talking about things that I shouldnt be talking about that would defeat their naem purpose being. They're all symbols they're all people things thoughts characters. I've been told all my life that this isnt real, that the things I simulacra arent real the things i feel as I read watch listen consume media isnt real that isnt real what you feel isnt real. No it's there is no real, you create all of this every person is a perception. So nothing is real nothing is nothing is nothing nothing nothing. All of nothing is real. All of real is nothing. and everything spins spins spins around round round the ideas the concepts the words the pictures the expressions of expression experience of real which is nothing. I still havent left my house today. I still havent been outside. I watch whatever through my window, I watch the movements the sky. I watch watch watch and I toil endlessly at the Unending Toil. Spiraling. Toiling. This is the way to start things off, this story should have been first, it would have been much much much more interesting to start with the Ante moment the Ante movement the Ante plot-point the Antechoice. It would have been so much more interesting. Or would it?
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