I Read A Book Then Said This

EVER is psychotic literature - not the literature of (or by?) the psychotic. Curious minds we have – unbraced even for simple reality. Should reality change – minds flail to adjust.

What life would be like in a world where quantum effects regularly erupt into the macro world? Where the ban on macro quantum strangeness is repealed? The quotidian, daily life, boredom, depression, the functions of the body, lovingly rendered, that is, boiled, in fourteen dimensional space.

Time corruption, contraction, decoupling, as in an acid trip. Voices garbling, as when the didactic robots contract schizophrenia and babble in Martian Time Slip. Buzzing, howling, under the influence of heat.

A palace of swords reversed - symmetry reversed – not apparent, neither the symmetry nor the reversal, but mathematically modeled and demonstrable. Certain, uncertain - does the equation balance? Do the braces tie? I think that with the right definitions and declarations, the right includes, Ever would compile.

The bubble - laughing stock of the natural world. The comic relief amongst physical configurations. The membrane expanding until pressure is balanced, or rupture occurs. A bubble sufficiently compressed, imploding rather than exploding, is the only known method of producing nuclear fusion at sub-plasmic temperatures.

Bled a thread, above would crud, striations of smaller spores – rhyme, alliteration, sound substitution - a muon becomes a gluon, a word becomes another, congruent, lexical devils dashing semantic symmetry.

In a hole, filling a hole with holes. Sylvia Plath starving in a crawlspace, stoned on anti-psychotics. Sound is vibration after all – if not a thing, a property of a thing. Inappropriate properties – strangeness, spin – doors, houses, rooms, dirt.

I was told that a book about nothing is about writing. Language, light, let loose, loudly, look out.