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Travel back to 2021-03, 2019-05, 2020-09, 2017-07, 2019-01, 2018-04, 2020-02, 2021-04, 2019-12, 2021-07, 2017-12, 2019-04, 2020-10, 2018-01, 2020-01, 2017-04, 2019-06, 2019-03, 2020-12, 2018-12, 2018-03, 2019-11, 2019-02, 2021-01, 2018-10, 2021-02, 2017-06, 2018-02, 2018-11, 2018-09, 2018-08
originally dreamt within 2021-01-25 \pm one week reconstructed at least three days later did not awake from multiple impacts, arguably due to bracing self as described at end of Angels&Demons setting: endless construction site of hotel, open at ground floor, excavations below and babylon above fell from construction floors, where state indistinguishable from artwork gallery, accidentally into billionaire voyeurist corridor surrounding executive conference chamber; absailed to lobby, walked to dining hall for meal where encountered three from TAU; interrupted their table, dragged by their race to street, where occurs unpaved sand hell nightmare awakening.
The nightmare's closing details are recalled easily, despite the weeks elapsed, both sober and otherwise, and the deliberate omission of their precise description at the time. Instead of boring you with the horrors, let's pretend that you wanted guidance in finding more pleasant and interesting reading material; provided that one of the students had a copy of a properly detailed physics textbook, I'd recommend that one chapter I can never seem to find on time, although I always know exactly where it should be: right between the ones about applied thermodynamics of compressible fluids, and spectroscopy.
Yet another item of natural language has announced the beginning of its end.
Once upon a time, not too long ago, you could actually read such programs, in words almost simplified:
Last updated 7/2/2012 In order to use the Goodreads API, you agree to: Not request any method more than once a second. Goodreads tracks all requests made by developers. Clearly display the Goodreads name or logo on any location where Goodreads data appears. For instance if you are displaying Goodreads reviews, they should either be in a section clearly titled "Goodreads Reviews", or each review should say "Goodreads review from John: 4 of 5 stars..." Link back to the page on Goodreads where the data data appears. For instance, if displaying a review, the name of the reviewer and a "more..." link at the end of the review must link back to the review detail page. You may not nofollow this link. Not use the API to harvest or index Goodreads data without our explicit written consent. You may store information obtained from the Goodreads API for up to 24 hours. Goodreads needs the ability to modify, remove, and update the order of our data, which caching would prevent. An exception to this rule is if the data is from your own account or the OAuth-authenticated users account, in which case the data may be stored permanently. Not sublicense or redistribute Goodreads data to any 3rd parties. Not modify or change Goodreads data, including reviews, in any way. Reviews may be truncated for display purposes, but must link to the full review on Goodreads. Obtain each user's explicit consent before adding, removing or otherwise changing book reviews or other data on their behalf - usually in the form of clicking a button or checking a box. A user authenticating with your application does not constitute consent. Not use the Goodreads data as part of a commercial product without our explicit written consent. If you would like to include Goodreads data in a commercial product, please contact us. Not name your application "Goodreads". Do not use "Goodreads" in your applications name. You may use the Goodreads logo to acknowledge your apps association with Goodreads, but not as the main logo for or within your app. Acknowledge that your developer account can be suspended for any infraction of these terms. Acknowledge that these terms may be updated or amended at any time without prior notice, and that your continued use of the API constitutes your acceptance of the new terms.
Why do hash functions exist, anyway?
Snipped, from a morning considered recent:
ONE: What are you seeking there? [...] ONE: Ahh, God, you are... be healthy!
At least, that's the word-for-word, uncased, deliberately uncharitable disquotation; for although no language worth ever speaking truly lacks functional grammar, the opportunities for deliberately feigning idiocy, whether in the name of politeness, or for sakes best forsaken, forever lurks in the moment when quoting elsewhere words recontextualised.
I happened to have been reviewing the national epidemiology, readable -- only by secure connections, naturally, lest anyone flip a shit over a flipped bit! -- at, in Orwellian tautotopy, the Ministry of Health's dashboard for the bored, bureaucrats, unhealthy unemployed, or possibly all three in one sanacorp, insano, y'know; and I read these quite infrequently, due to the regrettable lack of any human reply from aforementioned ministry when I wrote them, twice, requesting that they provide the information, devoid of the client-side khthonhic abomination that passes as industry best practice user experience, most likely measured as whether the user can distinguish their Web browser from an Excel document, especially in terms of responsiveness to batch scroll commands, chart readabilities, and the high contrast between dark patterns and mere lazy mediocrity.
Then passed a day, and a night, and the dark gave way to light, for its inevitable return truly is the only constant; and hazy days of pandemic malaise chased each other until the stale drafts got tepid.
``Don't hate the player; hate the game.,, -- Полиграф Полиграфович Шариков
This ain't quite an obituary, for I disqualify myself from writing those about people of whom I only first learned by reading those written by others; for, however often professional journalists may discover that, contrary to chasing dreams of shattering records in composition of the primary sources, the formal funereals are their responsibility, and I am neither paid nor well, and not much of a reporter, either. If only I could write one for that pastime!
Baseball has done a lot for me, given me an education in meeting other kinds of people... It has taught me that regardless of who you are and how much money you make, you are still a Negro. - Henry Aaron [quoted in the link]
Individual pinnacles of athleticism frequently speak louder than arbitrary rulesets, especially when doing so in the face of adversity, yet I am puzzled as to why a man no stranger to the limelight, would credit so strong a lesson to the whims of a nation; it's just a pastime, after all, and far too measured and quantified for consideration as a game like football (either kind, really!). So you may rightly ask, who did teach that lesson, if not the grassy diamond? Definitely not the upper management, and probably not the wastes of oxygen, nitrogen, and other assorted fuels of capitalism that kept Aaron's spam chute balanced; perhaps it is merely evidence of the man's humility, likely strengthened adversely by societal biases against a man who had the balls to spare the four seasons that'd let him walk to commencement, instead actually spending his every hour of youth honing the skills that payed his bills. Let's hope that future teachers, regardless of their pedigree, academic and otherwise, are less hesitant to claim a lesson as simply found, written in their own life story, that merely happened to be buried beneath the behaviors of fans and fanatics.
Vincent: I don't know how to thank you. Jerome: No, no; I got the better end of the deal: I only lent you my body; you lent me your dream.
from the movie Gattaca
Nearly two years have elapsed between the timestamp appearing in this shard,
@2019-04-17T03:12:19+02:00, and the date that appears above, and although the
mental missile keeps on keeping its
course, regarding nothing other than its lightcone, and whatever bits of divine
intervention dribble coherently across the abhorrent vacuum, there gradually
surface remnants of the mind, fragments discarded by previous processes with
concern for neither precision nor parallelism of a hyperballistic garbage
collector, and eventually their finalization must be considered.
In the most general sense, everyone dreams, since that word encompasses everything ranging from the happy hopes of an idle moment, to the murky unlanguageables that haunt the sleeping mind. One of this site's recurring undercurrents is the interpretation of the latter, for they frequently hold a mirror to both the collective unconscious, and unconscious the individual, through which the conscious recollector may one day remembrance. The pleasant ones tend to leave a wistful longing, where the waking state is dominated by a nostalgia for actual past events, frequently confused with those of the dream; nightmares, however, rarely invoke that emotion, and instead tax the simulator's abilities with mimicry of both the world's behavior, and the electromechanics of the protagonist's own motions, to the point where the lucid mind is no longer fooled, and rips through the illusion into wakefulness.
Of course, the categories aren't always so mutually exclusive, and occasionally a challenging experience entices, while a happy one is dull; most relevant to the action taken by the woken individual is the simplest of questions: would you rather remember, or forget?
Honestly, I don't remember much by now, and I avoided writing anything down during the immediate aftermath of the waking process, so... sue me? At least, that's the American way, and your default, until I finish implementing the European one; and for what exactly, you ask? How about: prioritizing animist confidentiality over vague notions about the importance of pleasant sleep to a healthy peasant.
It was a wonderful dream, though; the kind that, honestly, makes me glad I didn't sleep with the knife, this time around, for the collapse into the waking nightmare is frequently far worse than the shadows conjured up during paralysis. All I remember, hours after shedding the drowsy coils and drowning my receptors in phytogenous sleep suppressants, are... the faintest glimpses of a shadowy female profile, who ever danced aside to remain at the most distant edge of my vision; the strangely familiar flow state of incessant dialogue; and, of course, the sheer terror that rises as the confrontation with the Dire Wolf approaches, compounded by the Shadow's subtle guidance, and melts away as the millenia of mutual domestication emerge from the machine.
Precise declension of the lexeme
/compounded/, in the context of immediately
preceeding paragraph, regrettably available upon request.
Preamble; for, in the course of culinary events...
Although I'd originally entertained, for approximately half the blink of both eyes, together, a notion of addressing an audience by name -- failing that, at least by shape of worldline, lest someone who may matter more than she thinks feel left out of the finest frequencies of blinks -- I must trust my instinct, metaphysical, that although she ain't quite yet in the Echo File, it'll rhyme its way around her, no matter what reason may say... some sunny day.
Yes, it's a recipe, dedicated to nobody in particular, with the hope that the shocking revelations of "How The Other Half Lives" will be eclipsed by the... far from juicy, for their consistency is closer to unbaked cookie dough than instant soup prepared according to the blessed recipes -- tidbits herein; and if you're wondering, that's "GOatmeal" with a capital O and a capital G and that stands for "GOD-AWFUL GOOP" and it tastes real cool, despite being served significantly above the ambient thermal isoflux!
Ingredients [at least, what mine were]
1 cup, water, boiled 1 bag, breadcrumbs, expired 1 bag, instant lentil soup mix 1 box, health nut cookies, empty 1 kilo oats, rolled, within reason 1 pile eggshells, rinsed and dried
Naturally, there is much hidden flexibility in the ingredients; for example, if your supermarket shelves only contain instant pea soup, instead of lentil, that is a permissible substitution; however, one should not be so foolish as to make the coarse error of substituting dried chicken soup, nor even the various vegan replacements, for these will invariably contain far more lipids than fibres.
Nor is the specific brand of health nut cookies important, although they should ideally have been of the dry and crumbly variety, forbidden as snacks to small children not for fear of allergens, but because they are frequent weapons for involuntary men's laughter and women's panic about whether the Heimlich grip is above or below the diaphragm's midpoint, and how do you locate that muscle under pressure anyway, without exerting enough pressure to puncture a lung, break a rib, and get charged with involuntary manslaughter? Fear not! At the very worst, you'll be the Best Samaritan in the penitentiary. I hear they get as popular as middle-school math teachers, occasionally more, once the kids are a bit older.
The breadcrumbs do not have to be expired, although mine were; fortunately, from long enough before Anno Coronaviridae to absolve that from any blame by my gut.
Naturally, the dimensionless constant 'kilo', in the amount of oats, refers to the approximate number of the rolled units, although if you feel like making a kilogram of porridge and seasoning it with a spot of instant soup: don't be my guest, and never invite me into your kitchen, either! Who eats that crap? Yuck!
The water must be boiled only after all ingredients but the shells are mixed, thoroughly, in the empty cookie box, so as to simultaneously absorb any cookie crumbs into the goop, thus cleaning the cookie box, and absorb all remaining undigested gasses from the crumbs into the intangible essence of the goop. In case you are unaware, the calories of any cookies, regardless of health label, are contained solely within the small-whole-number fractions of the serving size, and thus no calories are added to your dish in this key mixing stage; however, any and all allergens are readily and entirely perfused into the festive kitchen atmosphere, where they may have maximal effect. If you disbelieve in the power of allergens, consult a homeopathic doctor; ... and if cookies don't give you gas: are you even human, Friend?
Similar to how the most important stage of cooking pasta is that consisting of the few seconds when the individual pastons splash into the roiling boil, this recipe's key stage is the one where the water is poured into the dry goop. Note that I have left unspecified whether to reuse the cookie box as the final dish, or prepare it in the cup of boiling water, although if your water is chilling, boiled, in a mug, and you're wondering where to put the boiled water while first placing the dry goops in the dessicated mug... Lascere ogni speranza, kid! Go, read about XOR Swaps, start your bright career in software development. Cooking is simply too tedious and menial a task for brilliant minds such as yours!
If you are more preoccupied with the importance of the ordering, and wonder whether this mad scientist wants you to pour water into acid because the acid's always in the last place you expect, worry not: the considerations here are much less explosive, being merely those required for producing a smooth homogenous goop out of the woefully unpredictable process wherein boiling water meets and gives new life to those exciting ingredients known as instant soup and oats... Isn't chemistry fun!? Furthermore, it is of paramount importance that the boiled water is poured rapidly into the goop, while performing the process that starts as gentle agitation yet inevitably turns to frustrated mashing, for both the previous purpose, and the most important one: this recipe conserves heat, and you must consume the mixed tepid filth before it has reached ambient temperature, lest your palate feel its raw tastelessness unshielded.
Postscript... now, how about them eggshells?
The eggshells are of crucial importance, and must be kept within sight of your third eye throughout the entire process, where they serve as a reservoir for your third kidney to recharge your depleted supplies of calcium and other nice ions. If you are vegan, don't care about the environment, or both, and thus do not have a heap of cleaned, dried, and preferably uncrushed eggshells within spitting distance of your kitchen... ask your heathen friends how their calcium footprints are looking, after so many years; they might just shit you an ingot!
This file was a draft, of a comment, for an article, for a site, that still exists! Although, it doesn't do much these days, because there's really not much news to report, these days, is there?
<i><b>squelch</b> diss ting awhn?</i> For readers whose education, as did my own, included insufficient emphasis on numerical literacy in general, and specifically, the roles of different averages: <a href="">Hello, Sorry; I'm Dead.</a> Most importantly, I must emphasize that the image does not include the origin; the practical consequence of this conscious choice is that viewers are able to perceive subtle differences in a process that, during the time examined, displayed rather small variation: one so small as to be almost insignificant in the grand scheme of things. In order to draw conclusions from statistics that include both numeric and arithmetic mean, one must first consider exactly of what the sampled population consisted: in this case, blocks, bucketed in <a href="#How_often_does_the_network_difficulty_change.3F"> consecutive sets of 2016</a>; and the numerical aspect of each population member that was treated as datum: in this case,
As you can probably tell by now, I have learned too much, studied too much, done too much, drunk too much, said too much, and rationally plan to kill myself within a decade.
A Preamble [for those who enjoy reading my garbage]
Over half a decade ago, I got higher than giraffe pussy and began implementing the terrible ideas gnawing their way out of the collective unconscious through my own brain, pattern by metacircular pattern; although the work is further from completion than it was before I began, I have been far from fearful in its publication, and I have probably wasted more keystrokes in futile promotion of my work than I ever spent on essays during my secondary education. If you wish to see what I have done, and possibly even to risk your own funds, time, and worst of all, estimations of technical competence at the fringes of mad science, there are only a few options before you:
The easy, modern, world-wide wonderful way, where you click here and find yourself rejected, redirected, encrypted, suspected, and acquitted, all while drowning in prose;
The less-shiny thread that you may pull to your heart's content, should usually deliver you an archive of the project's state at an arbitrary past point in time, although you are almost certain to find that it may contain secrets indispensible to futures forgetful;
The best one, left as an exercise to the intrepid, is to ask the author for a fresh copy of the originals;
The worst one, arguably trivial, is to roll your own!
In case you have chosen the second option, and do not rely blindly upon the benevolence of the rotten onion's various layers, you should compare checks of that archive, and its contents, with ones provided insecurely below; if you have any level of technical competence whatsoever, in the field of physical security, please consider considering, at your leisure, the various published algorithms for doing so, in particularly the ones designed, published, and recommended under public scrutiny, deadlines, and committee wisdom.
/tmp/airdrop/# sum leaflet/* leaflet.tar.gz 12345 7 leaflet/scalpl.asd 67890 F leaflet.tar.gz
A Brief History Of The Above
By now, you may wonder why I quite so aggressively refuse to charge any payment whatsoever for copies, licenses, or even the mere privilege of having your own property slung around the sketchy backwaters of the fintolkolypse by the very author of the above junk; perhaps, you wonder, while weeping silently and clenching jaws in anger, why I spend so much of my purgatory working on such a hopelessly dull programming challenge, when I can quite easily obtain its mainstream competitors for the nominal and worthleast fee of expressing interest in their online presence, and even obtain dirt-cheap professional tools for less than I lost on an exchange during days of questionable decisions; and if you're still reading these chunks of gunk, unk, you'll also want slightly more information than you can dig from the version control metadata found in a few of the above.
It all began a bit over seven years ago, when I realized how much Bitcoin could be earned by cautiously reducing noise in financial markets, with no more than the wise idiot's glance at the risks that must be held in return; having never played hot granaydoh with anything other than numbers, I rapidly prototyped tactics: first driving public interfaces of Web sites better left to their own neverending stories with my own limbs; subsequently, with the very same code that you can find in the archives. Foolishly blazing through cash otherwise destined to fund the education of my friendly dealers' unborn children, I soon found myself facing the terrible risk of drowning under investments in a startup that did not, nor should ever, exist, so I tossed a bridge on the dumpster fire, and began treating work as a game.
That covers the first three years.
How about a recess, Your Honor?
If you want the rest of the story, greater detail about the previous part, or even just have comments, dump them into this web server's logs by appending ?anything to the address that appears above.
It's not much; definitely not enough for an effort at reconstructing the truth, however alleged you may allege mine be, nor should I give details sufficient to place the geography, leaving instead only cues for those who recognize, and voynichal salad for those who don't.
;;;;; title: Greenshifted Spake From The Head, or: How I Learned To Worry STOP tags: school, people, truth, geography, prose date: 2020-11-02 ;;;;; This one's dedicated to the school-girl-city who reminded me, during an expected interdiction of my restless pacing through the both sleepy and ambullomutationally hollow suburb, at the north of its tidal sewage, open to the freshest swills of the Ostajhian Puddle, where the innocent and guilty frolick alike through desert dunes, paved and tarred lanes, and under rooftop weather vanes, that although dogs go, and cats me-ouch, too, and snails die under John's Old Brown Shoe, one must never forget that goats can eat, bleat, climb, rhyme, and have an all-around jolly good time. Although I must acknowledge honorable mention to those who have encouraged me, through ridicule, anger, incredulous faith, and most importantly, dance-free safe, that although the most important techologies are those that no sane green man, while he patrols the Corridors of Time, should expect to find absent when falling through a one-way floor, there are a few that work no more. Instead of pretending to understand the broken symmetries of the vector guage, as normalized relative to few-dozen-component Johnson noise across a hand's span of mostly empty printed circuit boards, I will tell a story that never happened, about a soldier that my brother quite possibly personally instructed in every important skill of the variety that keeps certain cases alive, certain cases dead, and avoids shooting uncertain dire wolves in the head; and for the unavoidably pervasive imposition that words describe actions, instead of merely patterning the shape of the world across flat space, and mapping the projections sattallittic onto oblate spheroids without ever considering whether the Integral Trees could consider the unidirectionality of time's arrow as mathematical certainty, I will continue my avoidance of scalable vector graphics, bitmaps both compressed and chromatically reduced, and include a small amount of paragraph justification for purposes of allowing the prosecutors a sideband, through which they invariably accuse me of wasting fuel for music school; and I reserve in the hearts and minds of the architects untimed one special place for the invariable case, computationally equivalent to the Axiom of Choice, wherein the world's shape is described in softly spoken direction cosines and aggressively murdered men.