I'm introducing Samain Mauer to my folks, who are Aunt Gaia, who is psyched I came to her studio in Montreal last summer and followed the strict dress code of all in French maid dresses and said "Good day." to everyone and who was absolutely hopped up on satisfaction from everyone's queries on whether that was just my manner of speaking or if I tailored myself to the tailoring, then Aunt Clari who five months later will see the Rothko chapel spiritual immensity of contrast of genitalia and period blood against a black tie detracting from unserious business casual jeans, pink and then raining red (rain-in red, where they will stream into the building and who will receive pretend mercy from the boss who's been in on it all along, in the rain, of course) and then Antoinette Geissler, who just got back from building a ziggurat of Monster Energy cans for Rico to present as a one week of dating anniversary gift to Rivulatus de Sade, and they are asking me who is that short girl with you, who is my ideal height, one-hundred-fifty-seven centimeters, who is smoking indoors, and who Gaia bums potentially anachronistic Hong Kong Triad Menthol off, because she has never had to undergo surgery, and will take anesthetics diluted with nicotine because they are the closest thing to that new experience whose novelty is closed off to her. A Dutch girl says: I went to Incipient Korea and got called a white horse and was laughed at for that being the only phrase of spoken Korean I recognize by a French lady who only speaks in rhyme.

Gaia only drinks fruit cocktails, Geissler carries cold water in a broken thermos that we've suddenly started calling Voyager III because it is these batteries and urns and trash cans that sent racing dogs into space for some power struggle or another and it wasn't only the dogs that were racing in the eyes of God. My iPhone tracks my every move, and it knows we shot at the guy at the front last night because Samain in what she proclaimed a "sober stupor" remembered to get rid of him since he was in cumulative debt to the Triads and was going to skip town, or so she heard, but who doesn't lose the Mandate of Heaven and if even falsely must it not travel?, and discarding convention, we put up a hand-painted sign, painted in the motor soot of Samain's dying motorcycle abandoned in the middle of some bridge but not thrown overboard after we realized we could not find any markers nor pencils in the immediate vicinity or were otherwise too focused on tracing sacred geometries in the walls of the everheightening city that God seeks to imitate in the second punitive dispersion of language, what is old is new again and the moment the soot of the smashed exhaust pipe spilled into the many plastic cups that Samain steals from any parties on campus or in town she breaches the motorcycle was redeemed and not thrown into the bay, and with a feather plucked from a bird and paper stolen from the printer which only printed falsified tax returns a sign was painted saying "BRING YOUR OWN BOOZE", which seems to have attracted the newly arrived collegiate European population, who are resistant to local product out of upper class distrust, which is what Samain has brought in today to restock with as new subcontracted management will soon be assigned and this oasis will appear to be more featureless desert to the blue blood and purple eyes who know not that these stones around them are burial mounds, to borrow an image from no one, and no woman, and this is what we drink, huangjiu, "jade-like wine", and we do not know if this is the one lucky eighth bottle in the supply unreported to the Liquor License Board which has a 20% alcohol content.

Gaia: I know this girl who, like, lives in an embassy right now. But not because she's getting prosecuted for leaking anything sensitive, just because she thinks it's nicer than living in an airport.

Main: And how's her ass not getting kicked out?

Gaia: Because she's the sister of the girl that's getting prosecuted. She thought fast, gliding like a swan under her older sister's nose, and printed all of the findings and ran into some embassy in a hurry like "These are about to hit the Internet and I'm about to be an enemy of every state."

Main: And what's going to happen to the real leaker?

Gaia: Something good, I hope.

Clari: They stopped giving out the highest honor in journalism since Anori Aqagu left the agency, you know.

Gaia: Something that's about as good and heroic, but second place to that.

"Please excuse my momentary absence. I will not take more than ten minutes."

Darling sent Window to this city, which is a stroke of genius that could have been a tax write-off, but Window seemed to be strangely eager to get her foot in the door of the game, and I don't say no to the one that is most precious to myself. I am not sure whether she is attempting to veritably capture downfall of myself from the years and make it into a coffee table book, The Girlhood and Villainy of Ariana Augustenburg (2024), disrespectfully leaving out the second N, which is justified by her yellow journalism seeking to capture every persona that gives us eyes to peer into the kaleidoscope and the infighting between and confinement innate to these iterative, three-quarters-alive-and-unfalsifiable selves, myself, myselves, mycelium in the ground secreting networked secrets, but that seems to be the case, why third wheel for a boring rich girl politician otherwise? For legal reasons, these are not her exact words.

I didn't mention what Aunt Clari drinks, but I cannot know now, as I know who the only person she drinks with is, and why she cannot be pressured by the rejecting daughter of that woman to drink something even heavily diluted with soda, effectively a candy cigarette or an e-cigarette, which is the latest engorgement of those who will not get to Heaven and who will give lung cancer not only to fish but stationary lifeforms that attach themselves to plastic in the ocean. The rivers that flow below the gardens of Jannat-al-Adan, the highest Heaven of Jannah, provide everything that one wished for, and the modernist corrections to God's design mean that in the rivers of the three planets we must find e-waste and begin permacomputing with the hollowed out bodies of electronic cigarettes. It is dry evening and nothing swims. This is a Joycean column: this is a successive Joycean column: this is that: job well done.

I know for a fact that was the 20% bottle and I have been planning to demonstrate it to Aunt Gaia that I cannot get drunk. The only purpose of spiritation, aqua vitae, the smudged namesake of Vita Asmundo, the love of the demon whose law has forbidden Alarie children from graduating from any educational institutions anywhere, my strange aunt who blabbers award speeches to no one, is to reveal the ocean undersnow of the Snowball Earth, to prevent my body from reaching zero Kelvin and going into permanent hibernation, in the absence of a girl to love, Darling so far away all the time. In what is supposed to be our year off she sits half-watching the "oddly Shakespearean" training videos and learns nothing about the synergetic fifth-dimensional third-eye-opening truth of unionbusting. The vermic estates have become men, pipes aggregating into matchstick men that bloat into growth of skin. "That your girl? She's not all that." Says one March of Progress pipeline with a phantom dicklimb in his throat dictating the way his tongue strains to pre-emptively Rorschach blot (unabstracted, clearly a mirrored phallus with a corner of the tip missing for plausible deniability) out and strike the record of his montane landline and Chromebook landfill of HR violations. Darling is looking at myself in the nude on her second phone that I exclusively text material of that nature to, the one thing that is not a fetish object, unprojectable onto, the only gateway into our now interplanetary bond, a non-vessel, proof of unassailable separate life, two 100% parts in a 200% whole, Clementinian, both the viewer and the representation equal, the anti-SOS and finds herself ambushed by a man with a streetlight for a skeleton, maggots not even fractal, who collects his own musk and toejam to have something to burn in the Victorian times of his insides. We must soak a precious vase in horseshit so that it will endure the torture that are all true antiques endure to deserve to be auctioned off, and we must insult the wife of the "new guy" (wartime crossdresser) to invite Darling to lower herself to the standards of the pigsty. She, not breaking eye contact, goes "Oh. I've been looking for you. You know, I really liked your presentation on stock market hermeneutics on my first day here. I was inspired, actually. So… can I talk to you for a minute, man to man? (Her facial muscles contract in falsity.) Nothing urgent. Actually, it's kind of a secret, I don't want any of the other guys knowing this yet, come here, it's on my computer…". Standard issue maggotface draws closer, meeting Res at her desk, intruding as if huddling, and she, turning away as if flinching at what she is about to do, polarizes and suffocates his nose between her index finger and thumb and presses, and Res Jino says "Don't scream or I'll cut your head off right here and now.", banking on the shock to draw out her knife from its casing which she so far has never unsealed in front of anyone, but an imitation mandala of writhing that has lost its purpose of disposing of that which is rotten and dead and cannot understand nor find death to pass itself unto because it has never lived while it is alive and no longer aspires towards anything cannot truly count as a witness and something snaps, and he falls back, and somebody has spilled the suspiciously red pomegranate fruit punch from the office party again, and Res Jino sets a stopwatch for fifteen tax seconds before calling an ambulance and sitting down to stare at a blank PowerPoint slide, Kubrick's monolith, a blank fetish object for the dissociation junkies, the magical thinkers who are simultaneously the leader and the brainwashed in a cult of one, Nietzsche's void that stares back.

One of Res Jino's thoughts at that moment, none of which are "I just nearly killed that guy", is "The worst thing you can be is a diversity hire at a defense contractor."

It is Rico's year off too, but she is trying her hardest to perform complete entanglement in the depravity of the Library in which a god that is a burning multiocular wheel, Galgal, is sealed. At some turn, the omniscience of the wheel was tarred and feathered into an imposition arrangement of books which chains the wheel, somehow both cut apart a whole held down by many chains that are exfoliating leaves which are read to reveal the entire futures of all people, composite and hid, most lives a bore, "born, was born in arms until walking, bore children, remained bored and bearing great pain, beared great friendship with a bear, mauled, died, corpse born by great gusts of wind asunder, discovered and was born aloft by pallbearers". With a large enough sample size, those who feed bears and get mauled by bears are mundane too. Folio, foliage, folly, roly-poly, polygamy, probably. Rico, heiress to the sex dungeon host to hungry ghost orgies seminal to black bile and the reduction of all human achievement, cult leader of many, completely *a*ssociated, very image of ties of woman to organization, but also completely sold on it. My iPhone tracks my every move, but there is nothing they can prove…

Geissler: She's such… a girl, if you are understanding me. Still just a girl, a lot of love worry. She sends me for tasks, big strange tasks, all to make her new girlfriend happy, and she tries to act so brutal, that Rico.

Gaia: You're saying girls can't be girlish and also dictators? Consider her sister, you're looking at it wrong.

Geissler: Yes but her sister is not my ward. It is hard to believe in the brutal Rico when she is asking me "Antoinette, what are candies French girls like?". Totally sincere! Grave import.

Gaia: Brilliant masterstroke of brilliant military genius, like Sun Tzu part two, if those candies are poisoned or something.

Geissler: But the brutal Rico is nowhere to be found in asking she of me what the list is, the candies French girls like! And it is everyday with her, I'm doing something for her one week love anniversary, one week and one day love anniversary. We talk the talk about this. She speaks about this like "Antoinette, I have to know what candies specifically a girl that's like, the granddaughter of the Marquis de Sade would like, what's some like, dark, twisted, fucked up chocolate, are you getting Ricococo, but not from the crimes of Empires, just a little gothic and like, aristocratic type seductive,-" Some minutes later her eyes turn a false shadowy, and she says "I have to go beat the shit out of this Texan, Antoinette." That was earlier today!

Clari, helpfully: Lady Arianna often asks nothing of me but if I would like to witness the new and improved total silencer on the gun she newly built.

Geissler: So there is some truth! "Antoinette, I bet that Claribel does like, totes nothing, or what she does is like, horseshit, for realz."

Clari: …She actually asks me for a lot more.

Gaia: Okay, what is the most gothic candy, though? That's what really interests me.

Geissler: Debauve & Gallais, the historical chocolate, with all the old recipes. Some of it could be stuck up some holes for Sadean indecency. And the pricetag is fitting to Bluebeard capital only.

Gaia: I was picturing something more secret. And with a little more torture chic, you know.

Geissler: What is more of a secret to the seven billion in the Earth than another pricy dust collector that probably is a bad taste anyway?

Samain: Damn, her sister sounds like a jackass.

Geissler: You do not say that.

Clari: You cannot say that.

Samain: Who are you, my mom?

Geissler: Pssh, Mauerspawn.

Picture this: a jackass from a hall of mirrors and a jackass in a cowboy hat chewing dip in an entirely performed standoff, duomonodrama, on entirely different pages, Window seeing it as sincere declaration of intention, and Rico seeing her as not even worthy of her real opinions. They are talking over each other like a penny stock call center in the the epoch of quaaludes, whose quiddity is higher and more insured than the lasting of the qualia and the question of consciousness as a valid philosophical practice, in that you can still procure them in South Africa and a picture of the Boltzmann brain has never been taken. I don't have to picture it because I'm looking at it from the corner, peering in. Quaalude is a portmanteau, "quiet interlude", and I am hoping to invite one, to cut a window to Europe in the droning swamp of Rico's counterarguments, contracounterarguments, anticontracounterarguments, a*anticontracounterarguments, proto*a*anticontracounterarguments, zooproto*a*anticontracounterarguments, metazooproto*a*anticontracounterarguments (*elephant talk!), so on and so on forth until we all decide the world ends in a single unified vote, a quiet interlude before the re-election of our Bronze pretender gods and the birth of protozoa, and the inherently metaprefixed practice of study of larger systems and the many trials and errors and mostly impulses of evolution, aphasic, agnostic, a- (ey), anti- (un-tee), as life is not a proof sent down for corrections quite yet and every move I have ever made is deliberate and I have never had emotions influence my judgment. Things that do not concern Res Jino, but do concern Nom Jino: the protozoa and metaprotozoa are skipped. Things that do not concern Res Jino, but do concern Nom Jino: the protozoa and metaprotozoa are skipped. The bear mother of humanity and the symbolic uterus of the fertile field in an agricultural society, cast in Korean creation myth as Ungnyeo (lit. "bear woman", and in Hangul, the most elegant writing system in the world: 웅녀), alongside a flunk and a loser of a tiger prayed to the divine king Hwanung to be made human. Hwanung answered their prayers and sent down 20 cloves of garlic and a bundle of mugwort, and posed a challenge to remain in a cave eating only what little natural (soon-to-be foundationally civilizational) gift-tortures he proferred and not to leave for that time. Nom Jino married a Gaul, the calendar of the Romans applies to the before times too then. They are to remain there for three months and eleven days, extending into the fourth month (the complete months: thirty, twenty-eight, thirty-one), the tiger exits the cave on the twentieth day of Janus and the bear mother who is a host of stalks forewarned of in myths of watermelons growing in your stomach should you eat the seeds becomes human on the twenty-first day of Janus, the god of beginnings, the crack of the cave as the bear-mother assumes the mold of the first human woman a passageway too, the transition into the protozoa of myth, Jesus was born on Saturnalia too. In a moment I'll make Window make like a fucking tiger. What is not pagan at the unobservable start of paganism becomes, creates (the) pagan again in the recorded ages of justification for another paganism, again a duomonodrama of supplantion. What is the religion that ended the Romans?

"Good day, sister."

Rico, iridescent, like oil spills in fresh ponds, unground into the motor soot that makes the finest ink in a concrete jungle, controversial amongst all of the other Europeans that at the moment flock to the bar that suggests you can bring your own booze.

Geissler: It is seven minutes now.

Clari: "Ten minutes" is a flexible time frame for everyone else in Europe, Toni.

Geissler: Excuse me, Claribel. That does not fit with how you describe your ward. It is not even my South Tyrol mind that's Germanicizing my expectations.

Samain: Don't you just get drunk until your mind merges into your ass in Bavaria, which is what Tyrol is, anyway?

Geissler: I'm a respectable German woman and I will have you know the art of holding ten beers in Oktoberfest. Do you even know how to work with your hands the way for doing that?

Samain: Teach me, lady.

Geissler: You'll have it. Hard for a skin and bones raccoon like you, I speculate.

Gaia: My record's five, when I was living with squatters in Berlin, because I was just so in love with this one girl that I could put aside how bad her industrial techno dubplates were.

Geissler: Weak, so weak.

Gaia: I'll have you know my clean girl feminine sensibilities prevented my eighth drunkenness chakra from turning on.

Rico and Window are fighting like two cats on their hindpaws atop of a high multi-tiered bookcase, Window now seeking to get out of Rico what I also believe, that she's not really as indoctrinated or quite exercising Papal control of the doctrine as she lets on, mostly now ropeless tug-of-rope, rehearsal tango, those macabre songs about having no one, romanticized solitude, between the angsty emboldened but disempowered anti-consumerism consumerist know-it-all with her Xerox zines and CD-Rs that her depression does not allow her to mail out on time, who seems to be taking this from a catfight to a prolonged dance lacking in an enemies to lovers arc or a love triangle, as de Mentira Alicja would have it, this here the billionth time a similar scenario has arisen, and the plagiarized, but better Italicized portrait of Doriana Grey. Aunt Gaia tells me of the Mummers of Nova Scotia, mimes that die at sea and parade returned on Al-Qiyamah. It's something like that.

My iPhone tracks my every move, and there is nothing they can prove of my fighting prowess.

"Oh, look who showed up! It's always you! Always you who butts into Ricococo's plans and makes shithell of them! Go get your Texan fuckpuppet and get out! I don't even want anything from her anymore! She won't even listen and she has like, totes no respect."

I can tell she's getting bored of holding off on beating Window senseless, but also beating Window senseless and shameless and nonpersoned and unensouled in a battle of wits or astronomically rigged in her favor superstrength also has lost its gilded luster.

No one keeps the scoreboard. Hello, no one.

Hi, no one here.

Ari/Rico: High kick, kcik hgiH: neither lands: just upskirts revealing pants underskirt: plain/Hello Kitty visage pattern. Ari/Rico: Headlock, kcoldaeH: what are they even doing?: a ritual of forbidden conception resulting in a media empire: more on that someday.

Window almost wants to stand here and watch, she wants to reach for her camera, is this not ballet? But she knows that the moment we are brought together, Rico will probably actually tie her leg to an anchor and throw her to meet the Mummers who are the jesters of mutiny to the overzealous British sailors who in vain fought piracy, to lay at the bottom of the many seas washing the Maritimes, a journalist at last given jester's privilege to cover the acts of the government freely, because in the end her act is unfalsifiable, for she too will join the mimes and what more is the realm of the overthinking and ill of mind than the interpretation of motion? Without sound and with a visage paintcoated, every signifier is significant of nothing, the appropriation made apropos of nothing. Why, it is the Age of Reason and thou shan't give Mind to the Convulsions o' the Theatrickal japing Lunaticks, lest thou are found to be befallen by the Mystick fancies, wrote Athanasius Window's first traceable ancestor on the massacred continent. Nine out of ten datura deathwitcults sustained by the belief of a trip report as the objective lived experience agree you should leave a mime to her devices.

When the Ottoman Empire conquered the Balkans, the sons of peasants were asked for the Sultan's army and every second Kosovar peasant bid adieu to his sons and, with no attempt to hold back relief, told them to have a good time following Mohammed. The Ottoman official is shocked at the nonresistance of Besnik the Kosovar, at this time Serbian principalities were falling, whose name means faithful, who clearly holds no attachment (nor faithfulness) to the traditions of the forgotten edge of the vanishingly Christianized continent, and the Ottoman official asks Besnik: "Do you not understand what this means-", and Besnik cuts him off with a fifteenth-century paraphrase of "Fuck them kids."

Me, no one again.

Polyphony: "Depart, you shit. Do I not appear to be buying you time?" "Run for the hills, dumbass, I'll bite your head off next time! Ricococo promises!"

On the tenth day of purification, the rites of Februa, Athanasius Window was stopped from total interception by the inability of twins to not both play rook in both photonegative suits of simulcra arcana that is the wargame of chess. In this version of the creation myth the tiger, which Window made off in the manner of, was the first creature to argue for artistic nudity, specifically that of the divine feminine.

"You want a drink?" I.

"Eeuuuuuuuurgh. Yeah, yeah." Her.

"Last there buys the rounds." I.

So we sprinted side by side, returning at nine minutes, forty five-seconds. Geissler looks at her watch.

Samain holds seven beersteins, transfixed eyes of the chameleon.

Claribel: Toni, you're killing her.

Samain: I'm good, I'm good. Give me Hell, lady.

Samain gets an idea.

Samain: Okay, lady. You can hold all of these, even double just that I've seen it, but can you drink all of them?

Steins on the surface of the bar in a drill line without a pink or a German that is ill-fit and pretending to truly about-face the wall for imminent execution.

Geissler: We will have to get back to this at a later date, I am scared.

Clari: Afraid, Toni.

Geissler: Same meaning. I am simply speaking how literature is. Antoinette, who puts in one word for another word. Antoinette the Substituter. Imagine, it is ridiculous, if this was my nickname for the next century! Just over this one time!

Clari: I wouldn't do that to you, Toni.

Samain: I'll hold you to that, lady.

Samain passes this much older, dignified, married German woman a crumpled piece of memopad paper with her phone number on it. Geissler begrudgingly accepts it and taps it into her flip phone's contact list with callused fingers from having to go back and open all of the Monster cans for Rico's pyramid, because Rivulatus de Sade cannot stand the carbonation content due to hereditary gastrointestinal issues, perhaps a magical mark to prevent the written or eventuated continuation of 120 Days of Sodom in all of its copro- and urophagy. Human doctors call this "Irritable Bowel Syndrome." You can email Rivulatus de Sade at 121stday@sade.fr, and her conversations with Rico go something like this. Hi, no one here.

(In Mendeleev's dream of the periodic table unexplainable things were foretold but unwritten and not aforeknown. Element 27, named for its arsenic smell when smelted, which somehow in dreamknowledge strikes him appropriate for the character of Cobalt as a girl, and Element 57, whose very name unfortunately signifies it as byproduct or afterthought, like the younger de Sade who could for all he knows be as cruel and an even greater spiritual danger to the massbaptized Russian national soul, Moonie mass wed in that river of unknown soldier fallen Pan totems as the womanbrides and manbrides and Isle-Hebrides of Christ, are having a conversation whose topic or the occasion of its occasion he is not privy to. Upon awakening, he understands this as a theatreplay, a Libertine antimoral play of amorous lesbic nature, here he is interceding into the quiet interlude before the depravities resume.)

CO [Cobalt]: Rivuvuvuvuvuvuuuuuuuu - we've been together a weeksies, which is a lot for poor ol' little ol' me who only gets the ungnarly chicks who think they have the cool to handle Rico gosh darn fucking Eisenberg.

LA [Lanthanum]: Rico dear, I cast aspersion on if I can drink all of this without living on the toilet.

LA [Latently preemptively overreactive]: But it is a beautiful work isn't it, as a monument display…

CO [(Strikethrough) coercive - (printed shipped and delivered) compromising]: Oh don't worry, Ricocococo thought of that. I always think of everything!

CO [Conniving]: I did build all of that myself!

LaCoO3 [Lanthanum cobaltite, Rico Eisenberg attempting not to show off and try too hard]: Actually, I got some help…

LA [Lackadaisical]: You know, we could just go on a boring coffee shop date and you can just annoy the waiter. Grandma says she was being a documentarian and righteous when she sees rich people lash out against "those of the minimum-wage lifestyle".

CO [Corrupt]: You know, I wouldn't mind that… so I can snatch the pot and give everyone burns! Muhahahahhaha! And Ricocococo's lawyers… they'll make them regret it! Maccas, whoa when did I turn weird English, is one thing, but I am an infinity of things!

(The Australians do not appreciate this remark.)

LA [In the manner of omenous applause before a virginal lachrymosa ensuite the requiem]: Hold on, watch this.

LaCoO3 [Lanthanum cobaltite, Rivulatus de Sade in an Eisenbergian fashion]: Heya! How comesies there's no rat poison inside this glass of crappy tappy water? You don't understand - because you're totes unhip and unscheming - that I was going to spill that into the mouth of my mortal enemy. Here's my scheme so someone as unintelligent and with negative gnarl factor can understand it. I blow with pursed lips, whoooooooosh! like that, exactly likesies thatsies!, and it makes a paperwipe, ugh hate those things, heart bursting with hatehatehate for those things, fall onto the ground the next table over, and wouldn't you know it, drama drama, Ricocococo's mortal enemy, the minefield assmole, is sitting at that table? So Ricococo spills the glass, accidentally, all whoopsie-poopsie, and it precisely crashes against the head of the dickmuncher assmole, kapow, boomboom, and the drops drain into the mouth! Paramedics get the headwound, redblueredblue, whooooowhooooow, but the assmole returns belowground to death anyway!

CO ["Convincing!" - Rico Eisenberg on the Sadean Eisenbergian]: (Claps loudly.) (Hugs LA.) You know Ricocococococo so well! Aaaaaahhhh! That's perfect!

LaCoO3 [Both]: I love you!

LA [Latent and extant in space]: I still have to drink all of this though… But I suppose it's Dionysian in some sense… a libertine transmogrification of bloat. Grandma does want me to get what she was getting at.

CO [Convenient]: Oh, it's fine, screw your grandma, like they screw their own grandmas in the books your grandma writes, watch this!

LA [Latrinous, with Italianate caking]: But that didn't happen in Incest, Rico dear. Franval doesn't even screw his own grandma.

(Eisenberg motions to remove one of the cans at the bottom of the pyramid, risking structural integrity. She reconsiders.)

CO [Comparatively technological]: (Gets out phone.) (Calls GEISSLER.) (Screams into receiver. Shrill.) Antoinette! Remove the gas! Wait, Rivu, your grandma wrote something just called Incest?

LA [(Inappropriately un)livid, despite the great moral plight this surely must bring Mendeleev in retrospective]: Yeah, guy who bangs his daughter. The bread and the butter.

CO [Corroding]: Did your grandma just invent every bad trope the straights fart about with to make life worse for the eurgh, ungnarly, rancid, stinky dumb heterosexualists?

GE [Germanium, Geissler, et al.]: Lady Rico, you still have not hung up.

CO [Compromised]: Oops, sorry.

LA [Labia-employing]: Takes knowing you are a woman to want "extreme freedom", after all, the Bastille's just one big kitchen and cholera flips burger for Pan-Phallus. God, you're cute when your short term memory lapses.

CO [In the manner of a Comrade]: Takes knowing you're a woman, the best thing, yes just the bestsies of all, to give the Romans Syrian gods! Or that's like, something my sister would say.

CO [Contingent]: Hey! Ricocococo was making points that couldn't wait!

CO-CO [Considerately Corollary, preemptively]: Plus maybe, consider this, Rivuvuvuvulva, you carnivorous flower or whatever, that I'm adding little moments to our big moments so they stay in your mind forever!

(BYSTANDERS: Hail Heliogabulus!)

(Mendeleev's ghost with no decease peeks into another room. Element 18 is a pagan who is facing the other pagan, those of Persia and the Caucacus, Element 56, who is the mystical Musselman of Pushkin's Talisman. Are all those of the earth when made manifest into humans in God the Father's image in clay granted by God the Father antechristian or unchristian? Is science and spirit the duomonodrama where all yell on top of each other? This disturbs him, and he does not disclaim it in retellings of the dream where he saw the perfect despiritualization of that which is born of earth and which is scarce but also infinite, cast in his system as nothing but value-neutral, valueless designations, that of before moral, before nation. This is where Europe comes to roost - the unholy continent, which stops at nothing to put over ornamental earth over death.)

(AR [Argon, Arctus]: Hail Imra.)

(BA [Barium, Bathys]: What?)

(AR [with psychological Armor of pathlighting gastorch]: Alhamdullilah.)

(BATHYS AUGUSTENBURG thinks: That's not what I heard the first time, Mom.)

LA […with cheeks (strikethrough) reddened (strikethrough) purpled (printed) family crest purpur from the lashing winter wind of Labrador and for no other reason]: …You've a point there!

LA [… alternatively historical Laconic to the point of making Philip turn away from Sparta after receiving the 'If.' from the ephors]: I'll fondly remember everything that happened when you forgot to wash your hair for 4 days.

CO [with verbbreath smelling of name-Cobalt, recorded on arsenic paper in many inboxed sewagelibraries]: But I bet you liked looking at me tear my hair out!

LA [Lascivious]: You do kind of have a technique for it… it was almost entrancing, just nest by nest falling out. You almost make taking damage look effortless.

LA [in Lamentation]: Sorry, I think I just have a thing for people in power getting hurt.

CO [Corinthian, with their many-breasted fertile Artemis-Diana, like Bathys and her sagging tits]: So does my mother!

LaCoO3 [Both]: A family value in common!

(Exit Freud, cancerous surrogatopaterfamilias to the Viennese animae of Sade's Incest, diagnosing Kekule with brain damage after thoroughly convincing him that the serpent was the umbilical cord wringing his neck suffocating him during a difficult birth.)

(The surgical anachronisms have their hats firmly planted on their heads and do not take them off for the Viscont of Egofauxmort, the honorable Sigmund.)

(Artaud finds in Rico Eisenberg the Marilyn Monroe of her Theatre of Cruelty, who is the total sound of the unstageable, but Mendeleev's revelation is abrupted before she can be cast.)

(Mendeleev considers swearing off strong drink, such as is had between the Switzer and the Luxembourger.)

(All die beside the women.)

Geissler, who is Swiss, which is French, German, Italian and stupid and Mauer, who is Luxembourgish, which is German and stupid, continue their conversation.

Samain: I'll make plans in day, hour, minute, second precision.

Geissler: I am starting to like you, runt.

Samain: Backatcha.

Geissler: Bitte?

Samain, slowly, in her idea of "posh speaking": 'Back at you.'

Geissler: Entschuldigung. I am so that not good with abbreviations or accents.

Rico and I enter and stand at the bar, Sisyphean is the seating, as we both want one barstool, but can't have it, and choose to sit at opposite extremes, with Samain luckily at the left edge, and Rico to the right, the placement of our silhouettes of behind the screen door of the end times. The fate of modern civilization rests on lubricants and sealants, some social, some lubricating the tip of a needle spinning at sixty-thousand rotations per minute holding together an uranium separation centrifuge. Rico's clothes, I think, are neon green, or her clothes so visually hazardous they induce chromatic overcorrection, red and blue channels vanished.

Geissler: Oh, Lady Rico. And her sister too. You kept your promise, sister of my ward.

What is this Bathysine manner of reference? I will have none of it.

Claribel: Call her Ari. There are certain reasons Lady Arianna is… not fond of such formalities.

Geissler: Ari. Yes, Ari.

I: Good day.

Myself turns to Samain. Wrinkled woman. Prominent, prurient cheekbones, coelacanth physiology forcibly miniaturized into the body of a goldfish, like a Pentium into an electronic cigarette collected from the rivers of man's contribution to God's design.

Me: It is my assumption that you have not yet touched the 20% bottle?

Samain: How do you know it's the 20% bottle?

Myself: Why, you would not bother to remove it from the shipment if it were not the desirable alcohol content?

She smirks.

Ari: Aunt Gaia, let me show you a magic trick.

Rico: Ugh, you're still doing the drinking like, ultra alcohol and not getting one itsy bitsy zitsy bit drunk thing?

Gaia: I haven't seen it. I have to see it with my own eyes to confirm it exists.

Rico: It's realz uncool.

Gaia: I don't know that yet. I won't know it until it's known to me.

Rico hops the bar, currently unstaffed, and removes a Pepsi can from the fridge, not yet diluted by the Triad attaché, because tomorrow's price is not today's price and tomorrow's price does not deduct the deduction of water. Samain takes slow sips of the twenty-percenter, her tolerance arising from mafiosa hazing. I drink unflinchingly, having not blinked once for three weeks. Later that night, I lay with Res Jino in my bed, and three nights after that, with Samain Mauer, who signs entirely ceremonial paperwork to be allowed to "grant my client biological security", and who I never get to truly love.

The last interesting that's said follows.

Gaia: I now know everything, and now I know you can get the drunkest you like, ever can get, but not actually have the physical experience of getting drunk, so it's just the taste, which is the good part. This is groundbreaking, it changes my world, I have to get good at it immediately.

I: Aunt Gaia, I don't think this is something that you can facilitate.

Gaia: There's nothing I can't do if I believe that it's new and it's miraculous!

I never received the ammo from Athanasius Window, and I eventually had to purchase my own several days later after traveling many miles (use of kilometers should be left to Ari) by high-speed train while in a male disguise so disgustingly unfashionable, unforgivable, and unbutch that I even temporarily applied a large beard to my face to conceal my identity and - less importantly, but also more importantly - gender to the owner of the gun shop deeper into the Deep's equivalent of Chinese territory - very far inland - as I requested an amount of carefully-shaped lead, liberal in its large quantity but deeply illiberal in its underlying purpose. Despite the difficulties inherent to this process, I was willing to forgive Window insofar as she put forth her best effort, satisfyingly staving off "that young hag" Rico in the process of (both of them) forgetting about the munitions entirely, which resulted in a local news story written in a language which sounded indistinct to me, reading that an unusually peaceless quantity of bullets and a comparatively small but still publicly worrisome quantity of bombs - interpreted by the masses as a proof to or from the devil that anything was possible, the masses who entered a temporary fear state - had both been discovered in the unsurveilled (or by some emerging accounts, "undersurveilled") streets, a fact I deduced by a broadsheet translation taken from the native (foreign to me) language to the far more legible (to me) Standard Chinese, which locals only printed in to symbolically signify an admittedly imagined Kuomintang lineage of which the area's authorities had no immediate Verstehen as a long-time informal socialist economy, the Kuomintang from which they were entirely separate with respect to historicity due to a total lack of Boxer Rebellions and a relative paucity of Cixis or other Empress Dowagers to be photographed or painted in austere poses in sittings during which each regent would carefully consider the pros and cons of daring to acquiesce to the West or assume its cultural characteristics in any capacity, quietly strategizing in ways to eliminate potential opponents and enhance existing traditions of semimonarchism while referring to the eliminations in layers upon layers of euphemism officially speaking, none of which would be readily understood by the onlookers, present only to create a historical record onto which later analysts can impose a 'troublesome' legacy. Now, with the passage of a few days, Window and I had deemed it proper while returning from the gun-fuel-purchase excursion (we would've simply manufactured our own arms, had it been any easier to do so clandestinely - going after jingoistic bastards/bastardesses balls-deep in profit-hungry cults using self-manufactured weaponry wasn't as easy as it had been before, and even with Bureau gone, it's still disproportionately difficult today, I hear) to settle some unfinished business by inviting over a pair of figures whose output we had deemed crucial to the overall plan in collaboration with Ari over an overqualified but most certainly secure VoIP-connected call, leading them to a previously unfurnished vacant apartment in which I had temporarily juxtaposed an authentic Yixing teapot with a cheap but equally real French-designed, French-manufactured porcelain tea set to create a cultural connection of shorts, and finally, when the time was right, serving crush-tear-curl tea to both us and our guests. I will now include a few pieces of our lengthy, occasionally strategic or at least strategically important conversation with Vita and Magdolna Asmundo that night.

"The progeny of those who solely cultrically arm themselves in utmost consistency in accordance with more-than-merely-folkways, this progeny having once matriculated to the dilapidated and furthermore decrepit and effete establishment raptured out of the five-fingered termini of my upper two limbs, must acquiesce as a conversant - with the fortifications of her psychological domain having descended to such a vertical extent as to be misconstrued ideologically by nonanthropologist natural-scientists into a geochronological event many mega-anna from the pertinent present moment - and accept tidings of the pluperfect portions of my past, her mental systems pertaining to which possessing the ability to be ameliorated. It will manifest as comprehensible and explicable - but not tangible - to her that long-considered tradition Ouroborically self-devours with utter consistency at any deaugmentation of one's grasp's intensity, making it licit for a distinct aand separate rational actor to rationalize the ration of what has been provided to them within the given organization, most pertinently applying primally, first, and primarily to the association which perpetually renders itself tenebric - 'rendered' made perfective and a completed aspect in past tense would indeed demonstrate more decorum, but we enunciate the priors in the ever-dawning, ever ever-crepuscularitifying hodiernal as if they occur in the very moment - Black Snow, which expanded the aperture of possibility's gamut in order to accommodate the only entity among the three hues of organizational structurality, or more veritably pseudostructurality or even quasipseudostructurality, which made its casual perambulation of the ruins rumored to have been relinquished to the realms by Black Snow and deemed it an consummate necessity that the absent consolate-cum-Stygian-terror-promulgator-confederation be replaced by an institution of post-tertiary education, or an institution in essence of existence in free variation with tertiary education, which became White Raven. Denique, Red Swan emerges, falls into the hands of your fuckup grandfather, fucks me over. All preceding orature I have conveyed is precedent for the decadent. Caution would befit you most wondrously in your forthcoming endeavors, Res Jino," went the demon, not at all understood. Magdolna, characteristically, could not tone down her verbosity by any means, even for a casual evening with two people she could, in theory, consider her allies. For this reason, the entire room, all four of us including her, sat silent for however many minutes, Window lightly swinging her legs a few inches through the air (leave the centimeters to Ari) in an attempt to 'kick out' the awkwardness of Mag's speech.

"What my love means is this, Res Jino," Vita began to explain, pausing to drain out an overlong sip from the tea with which we had just provided her, doing so despite its still-intense temperature, as if taking a drag off a luxury cigarette with the lit end in her mouth, totally dissociated yet strangely present, before continuing, "A white raven flew over a wave of black snow and emerged a red swan."

"Magdolna, I say this as fondly and sweetly as possible," Window began, her drawl significantly enhanced, accentuating her innate sense of Americana, by a bit of rice wine I had gladly purchased for her in the earlier provisions run, "but your grammar-school rhetorical antics have to be the most fascinating things I've ever heard come out of anybody's mouth, ever. If you were to speak fluent Latin in front of me in the localized, retrospectively 'corrupt' or 'ruinsome' ways which you might expect from English monastic who lived contemporary to Petrarch yet never really witnessed the dawn of Humanism, I wouldn't be one bit surprised. And, when it comes to the twentieth century and beyond, you probably talk about March Fourth as if it were a national holiday, something which pupils of Xenophon at Roxbury might do. I bet you even have it marked on your calendar. Do any of these statements apply to you?" She was evidently putting out the whole homely - but not at all homily - arsenal to open Mag up somewhat, but Mag just stared right past, as if she, too, needed a translator and was waiting for a passage with familiar vocabulary to appear on the presentation slides while sitting all the way in the back of a barely full graduate-level class on the historical works of Polybius before she was willing to speak up and interpret the words thrown forth as beams of light by the projector. Furthermore, it seemed she was waiting for the 'good part,' even though it wasn't coming. She held us in high/deep (one might know that Latin 'altus, a, um' may mean either, or so I've heard) respect beneath the various layers of painted-on spite and veneered faux-spite, but she reckoned us jesters in her legitimist court, playing with her emotions only out of express privilege to do so. Yet, even so, it also seemed she reckoned that we peddled valuable opinions and perspectives a dime a dozen amidst the vulgar fray in just the same way. Her face wrinkled and unwrinkled in accordance with these thoughts, seeming to form writing long faded to asemic, despite her neutral countenance's outward youthfulness. Centuries old, within this immortal coil since her demonic bestowal into the realm of life in 1309, surely she knew she had all the time in the world, yet was impatient.

"Witness, Athanasius…" Vita initiated, then - "Mihi decorum est axillas tuas ardenter lingere mox" - came an over-audible whisper from Vita into Mag's ear. I had no clue as to the precise meaning of the phrase, but it seemed to elicit quite a strong reaction from Mag, whose face went red with a sophisticated embarrassment befitting to an aristocrat delegitimized from her own organization and perpetually humiliated both by the fading of the desirable parts of her legacy and the undesirable parts which refused to wash away following my grandfather's hostile takeover in the early twentieth century. Nonetheless, her expression also betrayed a hint of love - she worked harder to conceal what would've emerged as a smirk than she did to cover the blush. I had heard from Ari once that Mag's degree of facial affect and her physical strength and flexibility had been decimated many centuries ago by chronic opium use which led her to ban drug use among members of Red Swan during her time as its leader after she kicked the habit cold-turkey, but it appeared now that her own conscious restraint was the true limiting factor in her reactions. Past just that, something about the interaction told me that she had been in good hands for many years, and I silently thanked Vita for her unwavering presence at her wife's side, both in times of need and well beyond. Many-eyed rumor could not fly through here and spread viciousness even if it tried; I felt in touch with the truth of the matter, of things, rerum.

I glanced over to Window next while Mag and Vita mumbled amongst themselves in rapid paragraphs not readily audible to us and landed my own whisper of a far less suggestive kind. "Really stealing all my flows tonight, are you?" I was entirely sober, albeit lightly caffeinated, as I had not reserved any of the rice wine for myself and had had no desire to do so when we had gone shopping, and my friend nodded at me in sheepish acknowledgment. "Ah well, I can excuse it, knowing that you've been learning my ways so carefully. Just make sure you're not exceeding yourself in the process of self-legitimization, though I trust you to do so." She looked at me with an unusual degree of understanding relative to the coarseness of my remarks towards her over-informative tipsy self, and I felt a glimpse of satisfaction against the backdrop of a fucked-up world which seemed to bite blindly and without even consciousness, a carnivorous plant activated by stimuli for which detection is hard-wired into its pitiful genetics. With that, Window took a small sip of the tea with which I had provided her, evidently wary of caffeine's ability to mask depressant intoxication, or perhaps I was reading too far into it, for it seemed evident enough to me that only near-blackout drunkenness and a 300-milligram intravenous dose of what is rarely called guaranine would be sufficient to create a space false enough for the Deceiver to slip in and begin to work its ways of irreversible infection, but I rightfully trusted Window not to endanger herself in such a way, and she never did - but drinking was a chore for her, and to my knowledge, it still is, for the immense restraint needed for her to maintain a veneer of social acceptability above the increasingly addled psyche often outpaced her ethanol intake in the race to deprive her of energy and make it necessary for her to go home, so when she reached for her other drink again shortly thereafter, I gave her a slight glare, a silent, polite request for her to start sobering up so she could adequately participate in the strategic meeting. That said, Vita changed the subject to something more pertinent after noticing us sharing such nonverbal communications.

"See, my dear Magdolna has always been far from the over-vulnerable type, at least in outward appearances. She has a padlocked heart, and the key isn't exactly under a rock in the garden, ready to be used by anyone privy to even her deepest secrets. So let it be known that Red Swan was not taken from her through emotional turmoil, as the shit-brained, vicious, unlovable, and untrustworthy motherfucker of your kin with more wrinkles on his hideous mug than there are unreported rapes in the United States every year would like you to think. The cunt may have been cunning, but none of that wit of his applies to the two of us. He placed insurmountable obstacles in her way, not unlike how Rico Eisenberg has semi-intentionally wandered into your paths in recent months, as you and Athanasius described in great detail over the phone," Vita began to explain, seemingly ignorant of the expression on my face which resulted directly from the fact that I could not remember having made a phone call where I described this, much less with Athanasius Window on the line, and of the fact that I had invited her over encrypted email to avoid immediate detection. The confusion, however, was to be expected from Vita, though the exact details of its circumstances would always vary from time to time, coming and going in the manner of traveling circus performers slowly accruing wealth and eventually settling down comfortably after years of near-nomadic travel, years of falling victim to the eyes of unconcerned audiences. When my expression of mild surprise - apparently palpable to her - subsided, Vita continued, "Before the bombing, Magdolna and I had originally hoped that Rico would be the one to reclaim my dear wife's revolutionary organization on behalf of the Asmundo family, such that it would become the primary intellectual organ and academy of our Sixth French Republic in association with the Center, cutting edges and avanting gardes, but the moment we received news of the explosions, we threw away every idea we had, for we preferred to bring out the big guns, take punches at Bureau, the most obvious enemy. This is why we reached out so readily again, to help you strike up close with the very same magnitude of force aimed at you from afar." With that, she lapsed into a characteristic dissociative haze, in a completely unbefitting cadence. "And it brings me great joy to stand in front of you all today here at Harvard University, Class of 1997, knowing the hard work you've done, and - far more impressively - done in spite of runaway drug consumption, Adderall abuse, and constant quest for marijuana, always undertaken in secret out of fear of being disowned by helicopter parents who remained influential in your lives until you threatened to cut them out. And to those of you who did: good job. You're winners." After pausing, as if for a round of applause, "Thank you, thank you." Magdolna then slapped her wife in the face with what seemed like enough raw force to leave a carpet burn, and alas, Vita was suddenly back to her wits - a shame, it seemed in the moment, for Window and I were both stifling what would've been maniacal laughter.

Pestesmaculated umbras drum abysally on seapavement for Yeshua Baal and Imra: ignorable and dewormed nonvisagistically by fisherwomen, duochins forsooth castmaraud stones umbra recta.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, she thinks, for no one at all.

Aumont Dictionary, revised 97th ed., 2144, post-Mauer:

"Joycean"

portmanteau, "joy ocean". adj.

'joy' [euphemistic, here taken to connotate 'sexual pleasure'] derived from marine thanatos, specifically the feeling derived from a single particular moment in which one could have drowned

"Woolfean"

adj. / poetic

canine therian (relational backformed from the surname employed by the speaker's inner wolf self to mask own identity and masquerade as a member of human society)

Speak proudly the dreamlanguage.

Ahem, ahem.

The school desk: (something thousandyearleafy and unpresbyterian — fit to slaughter and nourish a thousand books ! ! ! ).

The tablature: fought over by roving bands of monks ( : in Bohemia and Trachea (a Mediterranean locale — early stronghold of Byzantium : summerwintry awayfrombounty retreat of disgraced emperors) and Silesia and Alsace and Abscess and Dentine-aux-Maldetête and the Parish of Tytshurt (twins of Normandy and Britanny ! ) — the silly Christians fighting to sing applesnake state literature (no eloquent renders of elongated syllables — why did this take centuries ?)))) Yesyes, I can feel it coming : nothing in modernity but the music of the devil . . . Again the gangrenegregarious gregorian. (Why don't you open the window ? — permanent in blue eggyolk, dilated yoke, havocwroke everywhere is jetsamonophony.)

Read it and weep and smarm whippits: § 1: The Religious Chant, the Secular Megaphonic Gigantomachy. (Or so she thinks the textbook reads — or so she dreams of they for whom the caged bird sings ?).

Warm bath: warmcold (?) bath indistinguishable kinship alike with all baths . . . (whose senses ? ? ? — .. / -.. — -. .-—. - / - …. .. -. -.- / .. - .-—. … / -. — / — -. . — all my punctuation fell out of my pocket hoping to hazard, complete and iron out a thought, beg you forgive me !)

The graphs: Graphite graphomanic — (steel, towercomputer, child labor (who let this happen ?) (we let it happen !) (not me, you ! )))). Yes, these are the statistics, this is how many planes crash, this is how many worlds burn, this is how many enemies you make in a life (look again — this is how many enemies you're destined to have in reincarnation ! it's a proportion ! ).

« Aumont ! »: (say it as if in a French novel or for the French reporter) . . . « You always look so focused in class ! *» (She is thinking : hypergeometry, not hypercritical of it : poisson distribution, well, that's easy, look in a river, look at salmon spawnswimming upstream : no wait, capital P — Poisson, somebody, not Euler, accursable and unimportant !) Looks up anticipating remark : « *Good day. » Hears remark: « Oh, thank you. Isn't it all so interesting ? *» (She is thinking now: can it be discrete distribution if you are always being looked at ? — worse, measured with lucky dice . . . there is always someone luckier and not even with just dice — *I am luckier : my birth extends beyond dice !)

"Miss Augustenburg, did I keep ya waiting?" : Samain Mauer, astride as an elderly rottingbed : (she is pimply and hawkish and her hands wingrodent protobirdclaw at everything — always a pickpocket . . . skilled, attentionimmune : the very cuteofgruff, gruffcute.)

"Good day, Miss Mauer. Why such a formal manner of reference?" : "I don't know how rich girls behave on debates. For all I know you MC blood sacrifices to the profit gods every halfhour after taking the blackest tea on the planet." : pause : (the retina) : reticent : (the lips) : the Lumainary: "Ari… you'd make a pretty bad auctioneer. No wait, you talk so quiet that you could easily rig an auction. Nobody could outbid whoever ya want to win because they'd be trying to hear you announcing their bid and wouldn't have a lucky sec to cut in." (Luck discretized: granted at my own discretion: I hold the lucky dice : I seize all matches. Let Y = profit per game. Let Y = universal second person initial.)

"U" = "Ariana Aumont"

print U

Ariana Aumont

(where "U" is the shorthand secretarialphonetic / language learning assist "Y")

"2"=3

print 2+"2"

5

Diophantine society: it is absolutely essential for the society of unequal access to have nondiscrepant (Arabic (beautiful)) numeration. 1=1,2=2,3=3 : the instrument of the production quota, headcounts of enemies of state, wage gaps, buy-sell pulpskinashtray burnprint. In an overdetermined state we do arithmetic and only arithmetic (politicosociophiloscicoprophagical) — which denoted in before nomenclaturalbeforetimes times the entire study of numbers, deliberation of the arithmos (primes, square properties — now a lawnshaping word). Numeroreduction fails to comply with reality: one raindrop bisecting another does not produce a second raindrop (it bodysnatches ! : yes, it skinwalks !) : one mixes two equal volumes of water at 40° F and 50° F — two volumes of 90° F water fail to report for duty : one puts a lion and a rabbit in a cage, one (a once in a lifetime rabbit who has through trickery and psychological intimidation (building of stone towers in front of running prides, emerging out of the bushes with a long stick and poking at the body and then retreating) been hazed into the pride who is unaware of the experience of the median rabbit and the median lion)) will not find one of the animals later on (or will register 1+1=1.25 : where quarter is a large gored body part of some sort) : capitalism, the socioschematic of unalterable arithmetic, too fails in practice. If 10 cows are brought to market, set at 100$ apiece (net: 1000$ - American, Australian, New Zealand, occupation Okinawan, British-revenge-under-Hibernian-and-fifth-generation-Hibernian-American-dual-administration) will an additional 25 cows from a second herd produce an ideal secondary net of 2500$ (total projected net: 3500$ - Marshallese, Guamian, Panamian, Quebecois, Koningsberg Prussian) or will haggling occur : market oversaturation : price (clownshoe oversize and black as night) ↑ (in subscript) demand ? : there is a guy selling 40 cows for only 3000$, why would I have your cows shit on my grass?

It is ironic then: yes, very (what is ironic?) (listen, I'm going to get to it … listen close), that Industrialization (which took place on an island which resorted to the crumpet and cannibalism during the Great Depression) — the first benefactor of arithmodictature — produced the Imperial system, whose definitions have simulated the rise and fall of terrain inherent to geological time through a change in definition. The yard wherein sunbathed in egress from mortocholeravising Atalanta Window (first ancestor on the cursed continent : descendants include Athanasius Window, : "Fanta", "Thanatos") was not the yard of that day, as the yards measured manicured hyporectangles of palaces, which grew greentumors or moulted greenskin, but the relation of the portion of apocalyptosunyard fit inside the yard to the rest of unitary yard would not stand. It is the sunyarded and not the palaced (so far : oceans away from the measuring of the backyard of the Domain ! ) that determined it, but it is also the sunyarded that gave rise to true modernoarithmohegemony. Hegemon surpassed by hegemon : hegemontools get away from hegemon.

Fun facts and information are warmly preparing for your arrival; truly, there exists no better time to sit down and listen to a lengthy explainer on the nature of things, itself sporadic and higher-temperature than a hallucinating AI model, itself incapable of halluciations, themselves imagined in the minds of anthropomorphizing human lowlings who have never seen a minute of the Center's proceedings in their pitifully ephemeral lives - note the discriminatory nature of this sentence, but refer back to the original point and know that humans are a component of the nature of things and therefore at least somewhat pertinent, in no way actually inferior to the immortal except in terms of lifespan, for they are fully functional as a society and arguably more streamlined in many regards, and their genetic systems are somewhat readily digitizable and thus rather compartmentalizable by comparison to the 'overstuffed' rhizomes of rarefied information in the sublime domain typical of the immortal genome, wherewithin the order governing structuralization is only encapsulatable through a mixture of magical thinking, magic in the classical sense of the term, divinatory techniques reappropriated into tools not unlike scientific instruments which might be more familiar to the chemist or the spectrophotometrist, albeit with a little more 'lux fiat' thrown in there than the human or low-immortal spectrophotometrist would ordinarily expect from her dayjob, but even so, assume that immortal order precedes human order as a matter of seniority, for power is a preposition governing the case of whatever is to be construed as 'sense,' and let us say, for the sake of this argument, that sense is either the ablative or the accusative depending on the context and the overall nature of the violent J'accuse. We turn ourselves, keeping carefully in mind that Liminality contains most of the population of the universe in its vast, intricate confines, to the true nature of the (initiation of the) construction of the city of Athens, now the capital of a somehow united Greece, on the Incipient, firm land on an Earth itself.

Quite different from the Liminal city of Razdelheim, which is indeed conceptualizable as a pair of cities ritually migrated between for each summer by the inhabitants who otherwise ordinarily spend their time in the cisalpine 'default' city but move out of a spiritual obligation to collective housing in the smaller transalpine collection of edifice, but is in reality better considered a single city split across two different domains for the sake of its inhabitants' annual spiritual renewal, Athens is actually a one-to-one scale model representation of a place established nonmanually in the hundreds of millions - soon to be a billion - of years ago, making it unique among the human-dominated cities of the Incipient, for the inspiration from its citadel stemmed neither from human ingenuity nor immortal interference. Rather, a freak happening set the urheimat of this concept of democracy into living motion, a concept which has never truly been separated from slavery despite being unrelated in the domain of ideas, considering the Greeks, the Romans, the English, and the Americans, but neither Cecrops nor Solon could've foreseen this, could they have? Truly, Cecrops wandered into Liminality through a misunderstood gateway believing himself to have wandered into a place sacred to Athena when in reality his orienteering was erroneous and imprecise from having become drunk the prior day, so, suffering from a hangover he had tried to cure using a concoction familiar to all his city's twelve communities in that day but which was nonetheless ineffective, he waltzed into a complete discontinuity from his lived reality, the Acropolis of a Liminal outcropping which had naturally grown into the shape of a city through obscure geological processes and the accumulation of sediment by hydrological processes arcanely self-shaping into the forms of thoughts had long ago by divinities who no longer gave a damn unless preventing the takeover of absolute evil entered the equation. Cecrops' - I know, enough talk about a man, I'll conclude this tangent soon - design was actualized such that existing patterns of settlement were irrevocably disrupted, houses sliding down hills to collapse into dust-radiating debris only to be picked up a little later for spare parts. Ari Arnaud has never been to Athens because she knows this story and finds it thoroughly unimpressive that an immortal would've even bothered with the conventional Enlightenment concept of 'democracy.' What a bore, the Early Modern Period, the Enlightenment, the Scientific Revolution, all these things I can only bother myself to capitalize in text facetiously - we could've done the enlightening so much earlier had we granted Gauls access to coffee and taught them to read while Julius Caesar was committing so many injustices against them with the defenses having been opened, saying against such things with his words. Life happens in curious ways, but time only goes forward, and the illusion of the eternity of liberal democracy evidently stems from a desire to time travel and bring law and modern technology to our uncivilized ancestors or something along those lines that cannot in reality be justified. All of it's paternalistic, patronizing. If any of us say 'democracy,' we mean something completely different, and we mean people getting to do whatever the fuck they want if everyone involved is okay with it. They won't tell you about this in your textbooks.

That said, it's not at all a lonely world out there. You should take the utmost care!