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The Oldest Joke In The World
PONGO: I'm having trouble meeting my creditors! BINGO: I say, dash it! To be precise,.: who wouldn't?
The Blessed Joke In The World
Historical note: the following joke has been heavily revised from the original version, which contained a punchline so wholly unamusing that it has repelled the Island of Stability even further away from me.
Two blonde med students walk out of the biochem final. One says, "That damn final question! What was he thinking, asking us to name the single most important element for the continuation of life as we know it, and justify our choice? Such a dumb question only Philosophers of Semiotics could get wrong." The other replies, "I know, right? It's obviously Phosphorous." The first stops, and finally speaks, quavering in fear: "What are you talking about? It's clearly that one metal, I keep forgetting its name. Do you remember what's the ligand of methylcobolamine?" Ignoring her question, the dumb one blurts out: "Vitamins are important, sure, but wouldn't you agree that no energy transfers can occur without the near-equilibrium thermodynamics of driven fluctuations in those octokisdekaphosphomers?"
The Most Expensive Joke To Not Get
SATOSHI: Ya like DAGs? GAUTAMA: Ja sed also sprache posztifly towards Cat.
The Most Obscure Joke In The World
Q: What can you say about the special unitary samana squaredance? A: Don't get it sandy! (might be all we have to eat...)
The Politest Joke I'll Ever Type
... with apologies to nobody in particular!
Since I spend too much time browsing, instead of dowsing, and I dream too far away instead of of the way, exactly which metaphor was met for which set is lost among the notational abuse and what's the use if we lack a track back? As before, the eradication of uncontrolled amnesia progresses at the speed of pitch black humor, stumbling over its own aggregates as it crawls ever towards the ever-shifting space-time fixed-point, but progress it must:
- Spin and Yang
- Division by Ego
- Buffering Entropy
- Germinating Legends
- Singularity Dialogues
- Industrial Uncertainty
- General Intertextuality
Trigger Warning: This post may have been produced in a facility that also processes lucidly-written prose.
SET: My current life doesn't quite consist of "unending boredom punctuated by brief moments of sheer terror", but I'll reluctantly admit to being most afraid of succumbing to my own destructive boredom, yet also most loathe to harm my only asset - quite a powerful pact! Self-expression through words has tended to only agitate those who try understanding them, so recently I've combated boredom through reading, cycling, and the avoidance of liberal language with those who profess intent to analyze, heal, or otherwise "help" me beyond the essentials: camaraderie, companionship, and the unfettered exchange of information.
SETTING: On the day of this experience I seasoned my breakfast cooking with 0.8g vapovers, then cycled (or drug the steed) for several hours across rough terrain and rocky shoals to visit two friends whom, for lack of better pseudonyms, I will call Shura and Alice; the former I have known for several years, since our military service; I've only met Alice, who now lives with Shura, a few times before; but military conditioning runs deep, so I trust Shura's judgement in more regards than just partnership and supply.
ANANDOMIMETICS: I vape cannabis at low doses on a roughly daily basis, a habit variously termed "titration", "infusion", or "addiction", depending on the speaker's set. I cook with the leftovers - an imprecise science, but it brings back the magic of cannabis as adventure, a magic which frequent abusers erode. I do not consider my use of such natural medicine improper, yet I am aware that it places me without Law.
SEROTONERGICS: Lacking precise dosage data or other statistics, I brag with reticence, but I have developed quite a tolerance. My conscious mind enjoys a broad variety of receptor agonization, but the subconscious evidently doesn't enjoy entertaining that luxury and has gotten infuriatingly efficient at leaving me at or below a Shulgin-scale "Plus Two". This was my first time smoking changa (or any other form of DMT).
I arrived at Shura's door roughly six hours after breakfast. When greeting me, Alice lamented that she always met me in a similar physical state: awash in mud, sweat, and the good vibes that hours of highcycling catalyze. This comment brought to mind James Herriot's encounters with his fellow veterinarian's wife, Zoe, whom he'd never met sober. Although I've so long despaired of finding such an elusive mindset as to consider sobriety merely a useful social fiction, I still felt keenly what James Herriot described: the embarrasment of a somewhat insecure man finding himself disheveled to the point of clownhood in the presence of a charming woman, who also happens to be a good friend's partner. Before this reflection made more than the most fleeting impression, Shura and Alice herded me about with encouragements to feel at home and join them for pancakes.
While discussing with Shura how morals shift during and since service, Alice asks for clarification about one point I'd made using obscure language, and Shura explains with one word, "Bandit", to convey the immortality of action limited only by fear of capture. Though I appreciated the efficiency of information transfer between Shura and Alice, mediated by the connotations around that one word, amplified by the pronounced accent, I felt a twinge of excitement: for me, the word evokes Barnoch, Vodalus, Severian, and the cardinality of ethical continua. The philosophical discussion was cut short by relocation to the living room once we finished our meal, where we returned to psychedelia - that is, subconscious manifestation of the conscious, and vice versa; for lack of a better slang, "Mindbending".
After several reminiscences and comparisons of unshared experiences, Shura seemed to surprise Alice by offering me to try DMT for the first time, in the form of smoked changa. I gladly accepted his invitation, and he prepared me a mattress and pillow just indoors from a balcony: at my disposal were generous airflow, roughly pi steradians' view of the nighttime city at my right and the art-adorned living room to my left, and my two hosts making last preparations such as turning off the TV, adjusting music, and fetching that snuff that makes us dream.
Shura lit a stub of incense representing the Home archetype, and marked my "third eye" with the charred end after it finished smouldering. Next, he offered me plant ash snuff containing nicotine as nootropic, or at the very least, mental laxative. A pair of assisted insufflations, one per nostril, sufficed to send me powerwalking to the bathroom to practice the eyewash drill, but I returned after a couple of minutes to blow my nose and excuse myself for having not snorted anything in years. Shura suggested I smoke the hit while sitting, and lie down if needed; I propped my back against the pillow, accepted the pipe and lighter, and took in the hit which seemed to my eyes to be quite small, but Shura insisted was an appropriate dose for a first time.
I was able to return the pipe before noticing any effects; but by the moment the lighter linked our hands, I was struck by a wave of situational analysis, closely followed by visual effects. Before my attention turned to the visuals, I found myself analyzing the Promethean symbolism as my fovea refocused from the dime-a-dozen plastic lighter to the human guide sitting cross-legged by my mattress, his expression as inscrutable as the firsthand view of secondhand smoke.
Least interesting of all the visual effects were the baroque decorations leaking from an oblong lattice; predecessors have far surpassed my ability to describe polychrome fractalizations using mere language, and readers unable to visualize these or experience for themselves may still observe any of the countless offerings of complex analysis carried to its unending whorls (such as the sets of Mandelbrot and Julia). Additionally, I fear that my training and expertise with absurd doses of phenethylamines and tryptamines both natural and synthetic has desensetized me to such beauty. Far more interesting to me - and I'd been piecing together this decision during the minutes leading up to inhalation - would be searching for the neurological or optical elements of the entity contact phenomenon.
The visual field consists of both a broad two-dimensional display of the surroundings, and the mind's interpretation of them. By leaving my eyes neither solely closed nor open, but alternating at several low fractions of Hertz, I observed the interplay between how the latter broke free of the external world's impositions upon the former, which I shall now endeavor to describe as best I may, given the impaired lenses through which recall I must.
Concurrent with the effects' plateauing arose a memory of an old friend's account of her first DMT experience: though her exact words have faded, they left an impression of disdain; that she had experienced no effects beyond the visual. While I did not notice alterations to my thought process beyond those of a large bong hit, closing my eyes unleashed visual distortions of a hitherto unseen nature: each of several times, the neural leftovers of Shura and Alice rose from their seated poses to approach eachother and unite.
Reflexively yet without apprehension, I wondered whether I was about to watch them fuck; yet no amount of reading - Hegel, Huxley, or others - can prepare for, nor quite capture, the experience of witnessing Adam and Eve yield Shiva, within the bony personal cell of skull island. The entire process took minutes, if not mere seconds; while I lost count of both blinks and breaths, there was no subjective distortion of Time.
Speechless, I opened my eyes for a final time; that is to say, I relinquished conscious control of my blinking reflex, and grinned at Shura like a village idiot greeting his mayor. Meeting my eyes and hearing my silence, Shura raised a fist, which I met with mine. I do not recall our precise words, and I suspect they were preceded by laughter, but it was clear that the "Businessman's Lunch Trip" was over.
Trigger Warning: This post may have been produced in a facility that also processes lucidly-written prose.
Disinformation hampers natural philosophy, naturally branding disinformants sinners; yet once we seekers have carved apart idea-space, each to chase a distinct stink in a distant subset, we may find the first-person plural quite the falsest of friends: however good-faith some noisehole's truth-hunt may be, if it's noise that spills from the hole, then some subbrand of garbage must apply. I'd coarsely split between aimless noise (eg: body heat, sunshine, certain pulsars) and aimed (eg: scorns, advertisements, other pulsars), but then I'd run afoul of useful yet unaimed noise, such as the rusty rumble of an approaching bike or the apian hum of our cowardly overlords; all serve a coordinating function in the sufficiently smart swarm. Since the landscape has already defied monochromatic linearization, such a harsh brand as "sinner" is near-useless for describing an agent that aments SNR; a full taxonomy of noise and its duction is left as an exercise for the sufficiently bored taxonomist.
Forgetfulness hampers freedom production, naturally branding amnesia disinformation; yet further cuts by the conceptual Ouroboros (may our Autarch's infinitesimal life and eternal death measure His mortuary's working hours as smoothly as the Continuum Itself) hit the nerve: garbage must be collected, and the least dispensable municipal service is the applied taxonomy of waste. If any public service must be handed off to the mishandling of petty bureaucrats, let it be the promise of eternal remembrance at absurd caloric absence, or the messy minding of DNRs; a full interferometry of pseudoscience and legallego is left as an exercise for the sufficiently calibrated turfometer.
SENSE IS SCARCE ARBEIT MACHT HEISZ LOSING IS FUN
So you wanna learn this game, even though your heart is heavy, sled-dogs lame, and your tongue too dumb to spell my name? The rules are fewer still than the schools that teach them, and the enemies myrious; should you find one of the few guiding texts, whether ones for closest enemies or spun for freeest fliers, how are you to even navigate? As the Library's shelves spill out of its fabulous fictions into the physical continuum of your mind, so the references cross fields, gulfs, and streams, ultimately returning you to the simple embarrasment of ignorance.
Rest easy, child: ignorance is not a sin.
When in doubt, just leap about, and eat the flow'rs and grass beneath our feet; don't forget the mushroom's hue, which blossoms up from sand-tank-poo; and see those spiky puffer-fish? Them porpoi can't refuse that dish, no matter what their clickers say. Heed not the words of proper gander apes, who tell us neurons bat for the same team; they drank the kool-aid only once per life, and from my ship will someday walk the beam.
Vodalus caught my attention shortly after forsaking the cemetery wall scaling quest due to energy minimization locating the unlocked gate, ajar in the windless fog; while not quite jet, fur so black doesn't easily blend with trash and pavement. No need for mewling at such hours, either: all sentient life worth its weight in traction notices itself at such times. Feline slinks, feeble leaps, and a single gentle bite at the meat of my petting hand trigger her laughing whisper, imagined clear as she reads to herself the simplest rejection textable before touching the glass to fire it off: "I recommend cats"
Vodalus remained silent - for all I know, muted in the ongoing struggle against would-be Autarch agents (may His tears rain joy upon our deserts!) - yet the Master of Apprentices at the Library of Rambleon couldn't resist whipping out the best prop, an inertia-fed [BRAND NAME REDACTED], and whispering back: "Gavar'it-pa dee TSEIT?"
Since I spend too much time thinking, instead of ACTSing, and I act too much against the page instead of with the rage, the real risk runs further than I even could imagine when I last tried to leave myself some crumbs; naturally, crumbs are for future children to follow, and when my inner child is marooned on Censure Island while the superegic callosum deludes itself into reincarnating the old fuck (since living out a century of "old manhood" is quite the cruel and unusual punishment), the proper response is to cast out another fistful of crumbs:
Is it still plagiarism if we Consider the Source?
If this is America, with a cabinet of terrorized toadies genuflecting to the Great Leader, a vice president offering a compliment every 12 seconds to Mussolini's understudy, and a White House that believes in alt-fax, then it is time to keep your head when all about you are losing theirs.
No, that's not "America". If my memory serves me right, and they didn't teach us alt-fax in 5th grade terrology, "America" doesn't even exist - it's a whole mess of unwashed plates, heaped so high with dirt and insects that the whole lot oughtta be flipped upside down (consider the mountain trails you'd get from THAT terrestrosault!)
If this is America, where the Great Leader threatens allies who do not fall in line, retweets the anti-Muslim racism of British fascists, insults the Muslim mayor of London, dreams up a terror attack in Sweden, invents a call from the Mexican president, claims the Russia story is "totally frabjuous", then you will have to bear to hear the truth you've spoken twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools.
If this is the Internet, where British fascists (and I use the word in the most praisal of sincerecisms) gets millions of views but a Kim Jong Mashmo lookalike airfucking extras who failed camho tryouts gets billions, then you will have to bear to hear the words you've spoken misinterpreted by the most entitled doublespeakers.
If this is America, less than a year into the Trump presidency; yes, if this is still America, where Representative Diane Black, Republican of Tennessee, thanks the Great Leader for "allowing us to have you as our president", and Senator Orrin Hatch, Republican of Utah, says Trump's will be the greatest presidency "maybe ever", and the Great Leader celebrates a tax cut that saves his family millions but he allows CHIP (the Children's Health Insurance Program, covering nearly nine million kids) to expire, then you must force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they are gone.
If this is the best up William Widner for The New York Times can cook, then like Yoda must we write! But I gotta admit, it's almost funny that Senator Hatch-Me-A-Mormon can't even hack an original vernacular, and has to resort to that terrific one that we have from, the amazing word choice, greatest word choice of any president, maybe ever.
If this is not Turkmenistan, nor yet the land of Newspeak, but our America after all, where the curiously coiffed Great Leader of childish petulance accuses all media dissenters of distributing FAKE NEWS, and attacks the judiciary, and adores an autocrat, and labors night and day for his wealthiest cronies in the name of some phony middle-class miracle, then you must hold on when there is nothing in you except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
What's wrong with nations fantasizing about being the continuity of some long-dead empire? It works just fine for more nations than I can list on one hand (hint: how many eyes does Uncle Sam want the Fake Jews to claim he has? and where do they gaze?), I'm sure it's just a healthy side-effect of the supranational apoptosis.
If, beyond every abuse, this is yet America, where the Great Leader's administration recommends that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention not use the words 'fetus', 'transgender', 'science-based' or 'diversity' (but it may still, according to a New Yorker cartoon, be able to use the word 'moron'), and climate change is no longer a strategic threat (or even an admissible term in government circles), then it is time to heed the poet's admonition: "Being lied about, don't deal in lies."
- Climate change is natural. Diamonds are organic. Ketchup is strength.
- "Moron" is an excellent statistical term which should be amputated away from Galton's folly, and bandied about in all cases where Gauss reigns just.
- If the CCCP has to designate certain cereals as '100% fetus-free', we are in deep shit.
If this is America, our America of government for the people, by the people, and you cannot believe how low the Great Leader will stoop, how much lower he will go than seemed possible, and sometimes you feel the need to wash the ambient crassness and vulgarity from your skin, for they seep into you whatever protection you may wear, and you are aghast at how the G.O.P. has morphed into palace courtiers outdoing each other in praise of their plutocratic reality-show prince, then it is time to ponder the poet's words: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster and treat those two impostors just the same.
Amen Rudy! ANOTHER!!!!11!1!!!!!
If this is America, where the Great Leader wants you to believe that 2+2=5, and would usher you down his rabbit hole, and struggles to find in himself unequivocal condemnation of neo-Nazis, and you recall perhaps the words of Hannah Arendt, "The ideal subject of totalitarian rule is not the convinced Nazi or the dedicated Communist, but people for whom the distinction between fact and fiction (i.e. the reality of experience) and the distinction between true and false (i.e. the standards of thought) no longer exist" - if all this you have lived and felt and thought across this beautiful and spacious land, then you must be prepared to watch the things you gave your life to, broken, and stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools.
Can we drop the "Great Leader" riff already? It's getting repetitive.
If this is America, and you know where militarism and nationalism and disdain for intellectuals and artists, and the cultivation of enemies and scapegoats, and contempt for a free press can lead, and it pains you to see the world voting against the United States at the United Nations with the exception of Micronesia and Nauru and Palau (and a few others), then you will see that this, Trump's American travesty, is in fact a lie and an affront and a betrayal.
On the contrary, I believe that Northern Oceania has merely tired of all those bullshit artists, in favor of One Bullshit Artist to lead them all. Fewer celebrities to keep track of when they're all on one side or another of the Kardashian/Trump boundary.
America cannot be "first," as Trump insists. It can be a thug and a bully only in the betrayal of itself. It must be itself, a certain idea of liberty and democracy and openness, or it is nothing, just a squalid, oversized, greedy place past the zenith of its greatness.
But it IS first, in both defense spending and the dot product of its incarceration and melanation vectors as compared across tax agencies.
Throughout this column, I have been quoting Kipling's poem, "If," an evocation, addressed to his son, of the qualities that make a man. It incudes these lines:
No shit, nitwit. Try reciting the entire thing at some college commencement, wrong stop on a book tour, or however it is that you supplement the toilet paper rations that roll hot off your appley press, and see how much of a man you are when the real butch ones in the audience start chucking Romanian Candles at your getaway rig.
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss.
Here we go! No rant is complete without a lament for the death of the sporting spirit. The loss is exactly what should be worn with pride, whereas the winnings... save them for the defusing of drunken barfights with the oldest competition of all - cockfighting.
As a new year approaches, stoicism will prevail, decency will prevail, contestation will prevail, over the Great Leader's plundering of truth and thought. This is not America. It must be fought for and won back.
Where do I enlist, and will they boot me if I refuse to turnkey before asking whether the CEO of the Trump&Co Media Extravaganza is insane?
Each Friday, Farhad Manjoo and Mike Isaac, technology reporters at The New York Times, review the weekas snews, offering analisis and maybe a joke or two about the most important develupments in the tech industry. Want this newsletter in your inbox? Sign up there. Mike: Ahoy, Farhad! How was your week? Mine was great. I forgot I had an old Bitcoin wallet sitting in a closet somewhere, and as it turns out, I am now a millionaire. I wonder if I should keep my job? Farhad: Did you really? Many years ago I spent $1,000 to buy seven Bitcoins. Then the price went up slightly and I stupidly sold them ? netting me a cool $150 in profit. I felt like a genius. Today, I'm the dumbest man ever. Mike: Yes, well, don't come crawling to me for Bitcoins any time soon. I'm not made of money. (Yet.)
adlai: Mike: way to go and ruin the rest of your life. never tell anyone you are richer than they thought you were before. welcome to the new elite, Isaac! by the way in jew that means "will cry"
BITCOIN MANIA Mike: Seriously though, this week in Bitcoin news was truly insane. The digital currency shot to more than $17,000 per BTC, up from $12,000 literally just a few days ago. It's totally nuts. Nathaniel Popper, our trusty colleague, has done a fantastic job chronicling the saga for The Times, if you haven't read his work this week. It kind of feels like those stories I heard years ago about hyperinflation in Zimbabwe, where people would cart around wheelbarrows of cash that wouldn't be worth the paper they were printed on. But, uh, I guess the opposite of that. All of this seems completely unsustainable to me. And by the time our readers read this newsletter, I can't even fathom what the price is going to be. Farhad: I don't think it's unsustainable. I'm not a fortune teller, but even though the market is very volatile, Bitcoin has achieved a level of stickiness in the culture that will keep its price fairly high. Like all network technologies (as well as currencies), Bitcoin gets its utility from the number of people who are committed to it. There are lots of people and technologies around the world now hooked into it, and they are slowly coming up with uses for it, giving it a kind of built-in momentum. In other words, even though it may crash in the short run, I don't think it's near its ultimate price. Mike: O.K. ? well, basically what I'm asking is, should I start asking The Times to pay me in Bitcoin? Farhad: Wait, you get paid? That sounds like an error of some kind. Mike: I'll ask H.R. about it next week. I do wonder, though, what it will take to bring Bitcoin truly mainstream. I'm a tech-savvy person, and even I need to read an entire Wikipedia article just to figure out what I'm buying with a Bitcoin and how to spend it. Makes me think there's not a lot wrong with cash (though many finance wonks would probably disagree with that assessment).
adlai: would M feel bad about not being able to build TMSR in his own garage? would F feel dumb watching the bitpin pop the fiubble?
HARASSMENT FALLOUT Mike: Meanwhile, the reckoning against misbehaving men continues. Right now, we're in the middle of watching a Silicon Valley battle play out against Shervin Pishevar, an early investor in Uber who has been accused of sexual harassment by several women. Bloomberg did a piece detailing how he brought a pony to an Uber party ? yes, really ? and later harassed an Uber executive the same evening. Farhad: You skipped the best part of that piece ? a defender who argues that Shervin couldn't possibly have harassed anyone because he was holding the pony's leash. Mike: Ah, yes. The old "holding the pony leash" defense. I believe Matlock pioneered this approach. Regardless, the claims were furthered on Thursday when Laura Fitton, an entrepreneur, became the first woman to go on the record saying Pishevar crossed the line with her in an encounter years ago. No ponies this time, though Fitton said Pishevar referred to himself repeatedly in the third person as "Shervy," which is pretty awful even without adding claims of harassment. Anyway, my biggest takeaway from our Harvey Weinstein coverage is that he wasn't just one guy harassing women. Weinstein exercised amazing power and control over an enormous network to keep his activities secret from the public for years. That required the complicity of hundreds of people to keep him doing what he was doing. I imagine that type of power is hardly confined to the entertainment industry, and we're seeing the cracks in that facade play out in other areas ? including tech. Farhad: Yup. Like in entertainment, much of what happens in the tech world happens through networks of power and proximity. The only way to have long-lasting change in this industry is to replace those old networks with new, more inclusive ones. We may be at the start of that transition now, but there's going to be a lot of fallout before we get there.
- adlai will hold off on commenting until his great-granddaughter wins her IgNobel prize for explaining what that was all about
AMAZON ADS Mike: Before we go, I found this report fascinating: Apparently some of the biggest firms in advertising plan to increase their ad buying budget on Amazon between 40 and 100 percent next year, an attempt to move away from the digital advertising duopoly that is Facebook and Google. I'm all for shifting the balance of power away from those two companies, who have managed to decimate the publishing industry in record time. But do we really think Amazon is the place to do it? You probably know better than I, since you just wrote a good piece on Amazon. Farhad: Yeah, it's a good question. More and more I feel like our future is going to be dominated by battles between these huge corporations. And none of us really has a lot of power in this ? advertisers, consumers, we've all got these complex decisions to make about which of the giants to go with. We saw another big battle this week: Google once again blocked YouTube on Amazon's devices, in retaliation, its says, for Amazon refusing to sell Google's hardware in its store. Pick your side, consumer! Mike: Well, that's enough chitchat for me today. See you next week! I'll be over on Reddit, conspiring with my fellow Bitcoin millionaires. Farhad: I'll be in another part of Reddit, plotting to hack you. See you! Farhad Manjoo writes a weekly technology column called State of the Art. Mike Isaac covers Facebook, Uber and Twitter. You can follow them on Twitter here: @fmanjoo and @MikeIsaac
and neither of them is busy arbing the ad oligarchy to death.
Here I pause, having harried you, Reader, from post to post - from a leaky, clouded link to this cloudy portal to my mind, to this post with its cruelly twisted words, this post which is perhaps the lamest in existence, perhaps the lamest ever to exist. It was by linking that first post that I set your mind upon the path that brought you to this post, and surely as you circle this post, you seek your next path; from this site outwards, far far away, it will lead beyond the Cloud Uncensorable and among the forests and grasslands, mountains and jungles of the earth.
Here I pause. If you wish to talk with or near me, Reader, I cannot help you. There is a road, but no simple way.
... ...awake or just a guest at my own wake to spite the cold I play for playing's sake from bottles cut a river flows of sake ...lest we drink our silly way to taki touch more than just black and white they said you play all day from fear you'll wake up dead here now I stay at last that day is past when loved ones see a final smile aghast let's wager there's another way to say ol' Woland dallies when collecting pay smiling like a Cheshire, B cries: "words!? my tongue's curved forkature beats nurbs!" who could even dare to claim to write a fitting battle tribute song tonight
Sing to me, O Muse, not of her that slipped past, down the streetside path to God-knows-where yet here, always, forever, like the track star: gone yet never left (or from another frame, nothing but!)
Sing to me, O Muse, not of future's solvent, buffering that unmeasured measurable, mind's undustable mirror image, introducable yet never reproducable;
Sing to me, O Muse, not of idiots forgettable in days so-ber as to make mules mate...
Sing with me, for I'm losing my only voice.