This blog covers fremdsprache, changa, music, crumbs, meta, time, lies, drink, war, sports, prose, robots, spielwort, verse, charity, space, school, quotes, geography, people, shards, friends, truth, her, family, history, plagiarism, medicine, le sed, venom, theology, oneirotics, rant
Travel back to 2020-09, 2018-02, 2018-09, 2019-05, 2018-04, 2017-12, 2018-08, 2018-11, 2019-06, 2017-04, 2019-03, 2019-11, 2018-10, 2019-01, 2019-02, 2020-10, 2018-01, 2020-02, 2019-12, 2018-12, 2017-07, 2017-06, 2018-03, 2020-01, 2019-04
tense that I rote but then wished I hadn't, wished I hadn't - Jacopo Belbo - Umberto's Echo
There! I've gone and done it now: intentionally misquoted a master at his art, and at the coward's time, too: well, after the man is dead, anyone can say he said something that he didn't say and all you'll get is an estate tax attack.
Umberto claimed, from the recorded words attributed to a fictional antehero, that there's no discipline of forgetting, for the sort of information that oft chills our minds at quite the nonlocal mesoform, although metastable upon fine inquiry. Let me only mention that there are forgetful folk, and forgettable peoples, and before I've even extrapolated that individuals pervade the entire basis, you've gone and read too far: you may become unforgetten, if you'd like it ior not, and the only hope left is that the... oh, megabytes of variance - heritable, discernable, once twice thrice differentiable yet no further! Cease, fair Pandora, for I stocked that box so scantly that you'll wonder whither why.
TERROR WARNING: The weak of spirit would call this a waking nightmare; they who have so diligently abraded all traces of spirit against the lathe of heaven must recognize it by now as merely the latest page in a choose-your-own horrorshow.
In chilling duality to that recurrent sensation wherein the final peace found at the end of freefall is merely sudden resumption of consciously sensing the equilibrated support of one's own somata, one of the worst states of mind into which to awaken is the panic of an uncontrolled dive from full comprehension of plexure hypervalent than the waking state: final grips at an idea's full graph alternate with sense data, and soon enough the tendency of entertaining the illusion of control compels the counting compulsion to reveal that the two sequences tend in opposite directions. Punt that observation of how the Zeroth Impersonal is less lonely than the person into whom I now awake, in favor of hinting the local nabla, that it may guide tomorrow's turn...
Imagine an amphiphilic fluid near criticality, foaming as it struggles to contain the nucleated vapor phase within at least two surfaces of liquid. The liquid itself churns, oligomers forming and vanishing while enthalpy dances between the phases. Consider only those oligomers lasting longer than the relaxation time of the pressure imbalance across a punctured membrane; and consider only those regions of the liquid sufficiently thin to contain no more than a single layer of so-called bulk separating the surfaces. The arrangement of such units is enumerable, whether the fluid is water or words.