3 Tales

  1. The puddle gathering outside the room wherein all our hopes and dreams and books and excellent carpets are gathered,

    It just keeps knocking, weeping, it says it just wants to sell us some biscuits, some fine biscuits for consumption with breakfast teas of any nationality, just to give us something to crust our whiskers,

    But I don’t trust it one bit, – puddles are nasty, lying, sneaky layabouts with no get up and go.

    Besides, I am not hungry right now.
    Breakfast was a monster.

  2. The marketplace of entropies always has fewer stalls than would be optimal for efficient accumulation of remuneration, public access for all deserving desires, healthy gaps, etc., etc., the variety is lacking, and always has been. Some shadowy voices clamor for a public control of the marketplace, but to place these stalls, so very empty, under the weight of the grand Center, well, it mightn’t go well. There’s a bubble, see, and if it were visible, then everyone would see it.
  3. I ate a thinking machine at the age of twelve. It gave me power over time, space, imagination, living creatures w/o recourse to holes in the ground, rooted things living or otherwise, the big rocks, innovation, tethers, straps of all kinds, the sun, safety, and any other miscellaneous organized entities not included in the previous categories.

    It pretended to dissolve itself in my bile, stomach juices, and so on, as a natural extrusive object suddenly finding itself intrusive would tend to do, but my decision making and observational processes cause it such irritation (“a job done poorly is a job done not at all”) that it has never been able to consistently and formally withdraw its coöperation with my desires for any meaningful length of time.

    I cannot say my life has been easier since that moment of consumption, however. The conduits are larger, always, yes, growing, but the frustrations grow concomitantly. Technology (theoretically, that is) should ease frustrations, should allow for an experience of broadening horizons, of doors opening, of escape from cramped boudoirs, as it were.

    But my experience since that young age has been one of exiting the door of the cramped boudoir of my childlike limitations only to discover a larger – but no less cramped! – boudoir directly outside. This phenomenon, with grueling regularity of repetition, has shown no sign of abating; I have not yet found the final door which would allow for access to some privileged realm of open privacy. I weary of ever finding it. I could eat the world, and do, but will never successfully consume its walls.

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