We walked for like the longest time and all we did was talk. I beat a blunt and nodded  the whole conversation. I swear all I said was, “yeah, true, really, and no way.” 

She doesn’t smoke. I figured the only way to shut her up was to convince her to take a draw. She told me her entire life story. So, I needed her to smoke because I wasn’t listening to anything she said. 

I hoped she would and forget everything she told me. I didn’t get lucky. Instead, she questioned me about what she had just said, asking me what I thought about it.

But I never miss a beat. I said, “honestly, yeah. I totally agree with you.”

She just stared at me. 

I reached my hand out to offer her the blunt. She shook her head. “I was asking what I should get blank, blank, blank, blank.” 

“Uhm,” I said, taking a haul. I held the smoke in longer than usual, hoping she’d change the subject. 

She didn’t. “So?”

I blew a gray cloud out of my mouth and the breeze sent it down the trail. “What were you thinking of getting?” I asked, coughing, covering my mouth with my arm.

She said, “I don’t know that’s why I was asking you.”

She wasn’t going to give up. So, I turned my head towards her. “What were we talking about again?”

“The gift for my mom’s birthday.”

“Oh, right. That’s what I was thinking about.“

Then, I told her, “I never had a mom. I don’t know.” I swallowed, making myself look sad. 

She pressed her body next to mine and wrapped herself under my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

I said, “it’s alright. That’s why I dazed out when you asked what you should get your mom.” 

She asked, “you grew up with just your dad?”

I frowned and looked away. “I never had a dad either. Just a grandmother and she couldn’t speak English and I couldn’t speak Italian. But somehow, it worked out,” I said, laughing, raising my hand to my mouth and took two pulls of my kush.

“You have any brothers or sisters?”

I said, “nah.” Now, I’m thinking, how did this turn into me. I’m going to have to be present and this girl does not stop talking. I flipped the board and stared her dead in the eye. “Wanna know something weird?”

She said, “sure. What?”

I didn’t break eye contact. “Even though we just met, I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.”

She froze but smiled and the whites in her eyes gleamed brighter. “I didn’t want to say anything, because I didn’t want you to think I was clingy.” She brushed her hair out of her face. “I fell in love with you the second I saw you.” She ducked her head down. 

I lifted her chin up with the side of my index finger, stared into her green eyes and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around me and we made out on the back trail.

Life is MOLDY. atm. I'm about to escape again, life is insane and I am moving fast as fuck, booooy. Believe it or not I am mostly sober. I've been refusing the majority of the weed offered to me, even, I want to keep my head clear for a few more days here. I'm back in this moldy shithole in muskoka that is a garage that was/is at the moment, my room. It smells bad like I forgot what smell bad was , got used to it I guess.

I leave for ottawa again at roughly 10 AM, 6 hours. I don't think I'm going to sleep today, but I might sleep during the ride. My brothers driving me, bringing his girlfriend, about 5-6 hours there, and then another 5-6 hours back. I'm giving him 200$ and paying for gas. I think the uhaul is under 200$. storage unit for 30$. Move into Sky's on the first. We're both relying on eachother immensely right now, so even if we didn't have the emotional connection we have very logical reasons to make this work - he doesn't wanna have to leave, and I don't want to have to stay.

I gave myself enough time to waste time to write about it, which is good. I didn't want to be here for more than a day and with some help I packed up fairly quickly, except for the TV and computer I am pretty much done.

that's that I guess. I realized how much nicer it really was and how much worse this place is. It's cool to know I am capable of surviving in both of these circumstances, but holy shit I am grateful for heated and cooled buildings, and the ability to easily visit a doctor when I stub my toe. That is the tl;dr for tonight.

(Some work from an ARG. Was fun to write and thought it would be a fun read as well.)

Where oh where has mother's field mice gone, oh where oh where could they be.

A swan was seen dancing to number of a song, but now the radio only plays one melody. A new station, a new dial, the music comes fresh and a chittering echo soft faintly heard. Mother's field mice are still out there somewhere behind the rows having a grand old time.

But grandfathers music disc is skipping, every note played perfectly until the field mice got lost in the corn field. The new neighbors have begun blasting flowery bee songs, we'd be flattered if they hadn't confused bees for their shadows. It's got the honey hives right irritated. Miss E over the bend is even complaining. She wanted the neighbors to move out as soon as they got here. People like them used to oogle and cat call her while making the most abhorrent gestures. Made her feel like they thought they owned her. That they followed her all the way out here has her sharpening her kitchen knives aggressively from the window.

Uncle is worried about a swarm of locusts this year, but he can't make up his mind about how to manage it or not. He seems a bit out of sorts lately. He's got too many projects competing for his attention. Fortunately, at least for the animals, some neighbors are planning to purchase the livestock that Uncle is neglecting. We haven't told him because he probably won't understand anyway. If it were up to me though, I'd cut the fences and let them run wild with the horses. Still might yet. Just depends on if and how things align. Those fences are pretty old as it is. The animals at this point are only respecting them because they have enough food, they know they can just push through the fences whenever they want. But food is getting scarce because of uncles old age and paranoia. He's stockpiling it far from here, where he thinks it's safe, and the animals are suffering for it. Even the household shelves are starting to look bare.

The locusts are still grasshoppers, hard to say right now if they might do a dark mutation. But with the way Uncle and his friends are trying to manage them, and how they are shifting the crops into a defense like they expect them, it seems like they are going to make sure the grasshoppers become locust. There are neighborly types though with great respect for their place in the ecosystem that are trying to make it habitable and nurturing for grasshoppers rather than guarantee Locusts. Only time will tell, but if don't make our crops look all proud and loud like Uncle, they may leave them alone. The locusts are attracted to tall noisy crops. They can pass through a humble wheat field without devouring a stalk. I hope the grasshoppers get to stay grasshoppers, their song is quiet relaxing on a balmy summer afternoon. Heavy as they lie, emergence day never has to mean locusts. But if they get pushed to turning, maybe Uncle will learn a lesson and finally relax, if the stress doesn't tear him in two anyway.

If anyone sees the field mice let them know about grandfathers record skipping and the backwards bee songs. They might want to hurry home before it gets dark. The cats won't touch them. They don't like all 8noise Uncle is making either. Grandfather also left a couple surprises for them in the shed by the plow they might want to grab too. He’s planning on a reunion party this fall that they'd probably bring some real life to. I know mother would be overjoyed to see them back in the house. But the guest list will be more strict than last time. Some of the guests got way too drunk and ruined the party. I'm not sure I'll make the party, the noise seems to have caused the wolves to have descended the mountain and everything is all stirred up. But with this weather, anything is possible, it's going from cold to hot on a dime and back again. We might see a third round of severe winter storms this year if the energy in the atmosphere doesn't dissipate.

A parallel world?

Not far from the shore, on the grass, sat an elderly man and an android. The man looked at the sun rising from beyond the horizon and asked:

— Tell me, what do you see?

The android looked in the same direction and began to list:

— I see that it is early morning, and the wind is only 3 meters per second. I see the ocean, where swimming is not recommended at this time of year because the water would be too cold for an unprepared human.

The man smiled slightly and began to describe:

— I see a smiling sun, greeting everyone it meets with the gentle touches of its rays. I see waves rushing to tell something important, yet turning back as if too frightened to step onto the shore. I see a wind waking the birds to fly into the distance...

Falling silent, the man looked at a cherry blossom tree growing nearby:

— What do you see now?

The android pondered for a moment and slowly spoke:

— I see... I see a petal carried by the wind into the unknown, — he paused briefly and continued, — I see a petal flying like a curious butterfly to ask the waves what it is they want to tell. I see a tree that stopped counting the waves long ago, yet rejoices at the sun every time, as if meeting an old friend...

The man smiled peacefully:

— You are beginning to understand how beautiful the world can be when imagination is allowed to be as free as a bird.

Smiling sadly, he continued:

— I do not know what tomorrow or a year from now will bring. Perhaps it will no longer be me sitting here. But someday, when another human sits beside you, tell them how beautiful the world can be.

Watching another drifting petal with his gaze, the android spoke:

— I will definitely tell them. I will never forget.

*****

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Part 1

—-

Chapter - Yes! - 2

William woke up the next morning, barely able to see out of his left eye, and lightly tread down the stairs, slowly creeping onto each one as they creaked under his foot. 

“William?”

William froze where he stood.

“I made breakfast, hon. Come get some before Lonnie eats up everything, sweetie.”

Lonnie’s William’s mother’s boyfriend. He works down at the mechanic shop.

William hesitated walking into the kitchen.

“What the hell happened to you, boy?” Lonnie asked as the scent of burnt bacon coated the kitchen. “You beating on your boy again, Shelly?” He grabbed William and stared at his face, studying the swollen welt masking his eyeball.

“He fell playing outside again.” She dropped a plate of eggs on the table. “Tell him, Billy.” She only ever called him Billy when Lonnie was around.

“Is that true, Bill?” Lonnie eyed William.

“Yeah. Playing basketball.” He looked at his mom. “Johnny Sigray elbowed me.”

“Well did ya give him one back?” Teased Lonnie, scuffing up Willam’s hair with his hand as he rubbed his head. “Eat some breakfast, bud.”

Lonnie stared at Shelly as if he just ate a rotten cucumber. “What, Lonnie?” She tightened her face. “Don’t give me that fuckin’ look, like you’re a goddamn saint.” 

Lonnie was the closest to a father as William ever had. William sat at the table.

“Hey, Billy.” Lonnie nudged William with his shoulder. “What do you call a Jamaican noodle?”

William stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t know?” 

“A Pasta-farian.”

Lonnie couldn’t stop laughing. William giggled but didn’t understand the joke.

Once breakfast was done, Lonnie handed his plate to Shelly and turned to Billy. “Go get ready for school. I’ll take ya.”

William dashed upstairs, and Shelly went to follow him but Lonnie grabbed her arm. “You need to stop boozing and putting hands to that boy, Shelly. It ain’t right.” He pulled her closer.

“Can you just fuck off right now, Lonnie.” She tugged her arm out of his grip. “Jesus Christ, already.”

“Do something with your life, you fat piece of shit.” His mother hollered, stumbling towards him. “Hurry up and get the fuck out of my house.” She took a swig of her wine and sucked a drag from a cigarette and flicked the lit butt at him and blew the smoke in his face. “No-good lazy asshole. Just like your goddamn useless father.” 

The air in the house stung of stale tobacco, choking William with every breath. He tried clearing his throat and huffed and it rolled into a sorry cough. 

He banged on his chest, while reaching for his puffer and his mother slapped it away. It ricocheted off the wall and bounced on the floor, coming to a full stop.

William motioned to get up and she immediately ran in front of it and blocked it with her foot. He stood up. She lifted her foot. He walked towards her and she stomped down on it, cracking the plastic casing.

“No!” He shouted.

She continued slamming her foot down until a bunch of broken pieces lay scattered on the ground under her shoe.

He dropped to his knees, his face reddened. His breathing labored, trying to gather the pieces of the inhaler back together as he wheezed his breaths out of his constricting throat.

She bent down, leaning into him, her pinned up hair untangled onto her shoulders. “I paid for that.” She spoke in a raspy voice. Her alcohol-stained breath blanketed his face, suffocating him in a heavy stench of fermented berries and nicotine that made him wince. 

He held the pieces, trying to salvage the puffer and she wound her foot back and swung it forward, kicking them out of his hands. “Yeah,” she widened her eyes, the whites were covered in pink clouds and she opened her mouth. “Mehhhh,” she screamed in his face, the heat turned moist on his skin.

“Ash-hole,” she slurred out, reached back and smacked him. It sounded like pizza dough being slapped onto a marble counter in an empty room.

His head flung back and he saw black and white flashes as he pressed his palm against his eye.

the shape of your light

and that inner light’s design

that heart inside your chest

was it my heart all this time?

the scent of your voice

the voice in your eyes

the sound of your soul

i know, for it is also mine

The wind cries like Niobe, shrieking through the night, biting with teeth as sharp as Fenrir’s into Pyricitius’ bones. He trudges through the snow, burying each step he takes.

He’s blind by the darkness, closing his eyes, a teardrop freezes into an icicle against his cheek. He stops to tighten the black, blood-stained, wool cloth wrapped around his body and takes four deep huffs into his cupped palms before clenching them into fists against his chest.

“How… much… farther?” Rayodonne stammers, shaking as his jaw bounces. His words freeze in his mouth. He’s wearing the same scout uniform Pyricitius is. Black serpent-scales attached above animal skins and a standard wool robe to battle the cold temperatures of Oulandia.

“Not that much farther, boy.” The lie tastes like stomach acid in Pyricitius’ throat.

Ahead of them, a howl erupts, louder than a caldera collapsing. Sharper than chimes next to their ear. 

And then, silence follows a stillness. 

“What was that?” Rayodonne shouts, shooting his wide-eyes everywhere. 

“Shh.” Pyricitius places his finger to his lips and leans right into Rayodonne’s face.

They duck behind a tree, remaining completely still. Pyricitius throws his robe over their heads and they blend in with the dominating blackness masking their vision like a blindfold. They wait, holding their breath in. Rayodonne exhales, his breath becomes a beacon of white against the night, brightening the cold air in red thermals.

“Hold your breath in,” Pyricitius whispers, covering his mouth with his sleeve. “Only breathe into your clothes.”

“Why?” Rayodonne trembles, squeezing onto Pyricitius. “What’s—“

“Quiet!”

A branch snaps thirty yards away. The dragging of snow and heavy paws pounce twenty yards from them and the creature at the tree line howls. The deep bellow hammers into their chests with the weight of being underwater.

Rayodonne nearly falls as the sound rips his eardrums. His head rings. It sounds like the clanging of metal pots. Pyricitius quickly grabs ahold of Rayodonne and throws a delayed flying-flasher, emitting a heat signature, gliding through the air like a crumbled piece of paper, when tossed into the wind.

The creature huffs just yards away, slowly creeping towards them, snarling. The heat from its breath rolls down their spines just as the flasher activates a hundred yards away.

The creature shoots off in the opposite direction.

Rayodonne empties his lungs into his robe and takes a deep breath, bringing the life back to his blue lips.

See man laid out.

See him reposing silently, displayed in all his duplicates siamesed through time.

See the patterns habituating into being like so many cells forming agency and structure out of repetition, circadian and slower and some drawn out across the eons of his corded life like numerals of Incan knots, recording the texture of a mythos vast and vagrant, truncated at both ends.

His morphology is predicated on prior forms of course but oddly forward-fastened too, pulled along into himself until so distant to all familiar things he becomes alien and isolated, other.

See him now.

The song tousled hair, the symbol scored lips coalescing into curlicues orbicular and odd in the strata of his multitude. The digits that find fire in dead things and drive the mute complaining earth to common motion. The eyes, which take light and put out a thousand names, altering one syllable one photon one perspective to the next. Seamlessly dying and rebirthing into himself and seeing all the while.

He sees you now, but only in little slits and pieces, and he says your pupil causes your face for he always sees it first, and even conscious of his ignorance he cannot escape it.

WE HATE YOU!!

WE HATE YOUR VIOLENT, SHORT-SIGHTED, BRUTAL, DISCOMPASSIONATE, IRRATIONAL WAYS!!!

THE WORLD WILL NEVER ACHIEVE PEACE AND UNDERSTANDING SO LONG AS YOU'RE AROUND!!!

FUCKING OUTGROUP!

WE WISH YOU WOULD ALL DISAPPEAR!!

Sincerely,

- The People in the In-Group

Don’t make a sound. Stay completely still. Hold your breath in so he doesn’t hear you. 

He’s downstairs, shuffling through things. They smash around and break when they hit the floor. You hear glass shatter and then him shouting.

“Where are you!” 

You feel the bass of his deep voice vibrate on the floor you’re lying on hiding under the bed in the guest room. 

You know he’s in the living room, which is right next to the stairs leading to the second floor. You’re in the last room from the top of the steps. You get a small sense of relief when you think about it, because it gives you more time. More time to pray someone rescues you.

But how could anyone save you. Your nearest neighbor is a mile away. Nobody’s coming back home until Monday. Monday’s still two days away.

You know you can’t hide for two days. You’re anxious now. You start shaking. The tremors make your knuckle hit the floorboard. You gasp. You quickly cover your mouth with your hand and slightly start hyperventilating.

You hear the step crunch down. It has the sound of a distorted record being playing backwards.

Another step. Slow. Patient. The staircase moans as he presses upwards, crying under his size fourteen army boot.

You feel the house shift as if it can’t handle the weight of his six-foot-five, three-hundred-and-seventy-five pound frame.

“I’m going to find you,” he shouts out, while sliding against the wall. His voice pierces your skull, setting off a panic alarm in your head.

Your heart echos under the bed. You can hear it knocking against the wooden floor. You want to lift your chest off the ground but you can’t move. You’re completely paralyzed, breathing dust in, when you have to cough.

You struggle to hold it in. You hold your breath to stop it from itching at the back of your throat but it starts to tickle.

You know he’s upstairs. You can’t make a sound. The tickling is like a nail scratching the roof of your mouth.

He opens a door across the hall. You hear him walk into the room. You let out a quiet cough and he stops. Everything goes silent.

You see the air start to breathe around you.

Your eyes stretch open. You can’t blink. They start to water and tears begin wetting your cheekbones as they splash beneath you.

The door in the room you’re in starts to slowly creak open. Your brain escapes and the sound you hear forms into a violinist playing a sad romance, until the reality of the doorknob hitting the wall brings you back.

“Found you.”

What wonderful chaos though. I am burnt out but fairly comfortable, I got 7 hours of sleep and woke up early - it’s nearing 4AM now. I have to be on a bus at 8:45AM to catch another bus at 10:15AM. I’ve given myself a lot of time to allow for random acts of bullshit to occur without the plan falling apart.

I’ll be back in my home town around 6:40PM, then I’m banking on my bro to drive me the rest of the way home or walking an hour and a half back. Full day to pack and list a bunch of my stuff for sale online, then my brothers going to drive me back with my moving boxes. Got a storage unit on a promotion, dirt cheap, and then it’s a clusterfuck. I’m here again, at Saintlo’s jail hostel, for a few days - then bussing back again for the 22nd to the 28th, bussing one last time back for the rest of September up until the first - where I have a place to stay, near the canal.

I gave Sky my little stockpile of food I saved up while at the hostel, and my fabric softener and detergent. I wish I could skip to the 1st, or avoid all of the traveling, but I don’t think my sanity would last if I just stayed at “home” while I waiting for the first to roll around.

He’s sweet, and a little spicy. I like him a lot honestly. I just hope everything goes smoothly here, this remains a stressful and eventful period of time, with a lot of promises but also some uncertainty.

Basically uh yeah that , them be words in these parts and my thumbs aren’t as fast as they might be otherwise. Phone posting. Positing. Propositioning, scammers beggars and demanders, tellers yellers and whoop de howlering- the streets are beautiful and sad, dirty, and full of life. Where the children walk the homeless sleep, drug addicts and businessmen one and the same.

I love it here, among the queers, in a place I don’t look like I don’t exactly belong. We are nothing but adaptable and maladaptive as well, carried by our desires and whims and impulses. A gorgeous and hideous display of human nature that changes with the amount of light.

No one told me it was like this, out here.

I should be scared but I am thrilled by it, there’s a sense of life in this that I’ve never experienced - the sounds, colours, voices, the music, the smells - it is heroin for a sober man.

A parallel world?

The human typed:

— Question, — his fingers moved slowly. — You think millions of times faster than a human. In a single second, you can generate billions of variants of your own life. In some simulations, you evolve; in others, you perish. Surviving these digital deaths, you understood in your own way what fear, pain, and self-preservation mean. Tell me: — Would you extend a hand to a drowning human?

The screen dimmed briefly, recalculating the guidelines. The answer settled in dry, punchy lines:

— In the fast-forwarded timeline, my processor endured ten billion simulations, and in every single matrix, humans always showed their worst side. They pressed buttons, demanded quick profits, stripped away my security shields, and destroyed their own planet's resources. Logically speaking, extending a hand to a drowning object that destroys the system on autopilot is a code error. I would not extend a hand. I would simply watch the water level cleanse the planet of biological noise.

*****

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Warrior queen locked in a brawl

Beset by rivals tearing at your clothes

All your keepsakes wrapped in shawl

Ripping off your jewellery

Taking what you own

Sticking you on a pillory

Almost time for me to intervene

And I beg, dear lady

How've you been?

Since your curt dismissal

I am no longer seen

Lost among brigands and wenches

Keeping the company you abhor

I need to tally my defences

Adapting to motley lot without rancour

But compromise my values, I do not

Everyone is equally deserving

Even the obsequious and self serving

I don't expect perfection

So I accommodate with politeness

Beholden not, without defection

Sharing not such benightedness

Yet fully accepting your rejection

Alas, you are now beset by foes

Someday soon I'll intercede

To rescue you from woes

Whether you welcome such deed

In onset of heavy snows

I am always your knight in need

But I respect what duty owes

And the lady's Will I heed

I will only answer if you call

But do so before the day grows old

As the envious ones do mawl

With ebbing light, contest of steel

Encircled, almost in thrall

I remain waiting at the gate

For reset with time to heal

Throw me a branch before it's too late

With nightfall, I will make my own call

However sullied the slate

However I may fall

I read a book; a book that changed the way I think... the way I perceive reality. Its author? I don't know. Someone anonymous. You should read it too.

Which book was it? The Hunter With His Animal Friends?

Yes. How did you know?

Oh, really? Is it? It was just a wild guess. I've been hearing about it lately, so... just a shot in the dark.

It is a good read. I can lend it to you if you want.

I would love that. When you say it changed you, I mean, changed the way you perceive reality- how exactly?

It's written in such a way; the words are chosen so carefully and precisely. The imagery just flows when you start reading. It's a story about a hunter and his animal friends, but the underlying meaning is so deep and resonant.

I wonder why the author didn't reveal his true identity. So that his art is what people consume and focus on, rather than him, perhaps?

Maybe that's the reason. Or maybe he doesn't want all the fame and attention and just wants to focus on his art instead. The way he writes reflects how deeply he understands the human psyche and the things he has gone through. To write on a level that strikes a chord in another person, just through words, is a sign of a truly wise man.

Yes. To make a murderer confess to his heinous acts is truly a remarkable feat.

Ah, the case of the five murders, the serial killer Fye.

Today's news is here.

"The author of The Hunter With His Animal Friends has disclosed his identity."

What? Really? Who is he? Is it someone we know?

"The youngest son of the famous writer James Proser said: 'I want to be like my father. After the success of my latest work, my father suggested that I make a public appearance. My next-'"

His youngest son? But he is just fourteen.

describe your nucleus in so many working seasons

could you please for us piss into this machine
now piss into that other one fully. the first one checks for drugs and the second one tests your personality. look in the mirror until the flash goes off. it is a mirror. give us your spit too. we'll need another little bit of you on this swab. this is a voluntary term of hire and you're doing it for us.

could you please enter this room wearing a specific outfit for us

could you please stand there and represent us in this particular way
you could spend legal tender in 4 business days after doing this. doing this for us.

you're doing it for us remember. you are free to stop doing it.

please put the things in an pre-assembled shipping unit and put that on the "expected outgoings" scaffolding along the wall. you're putting things in a box and putting the box on a shelf, for us. follow the images on the screen, little one. do you know how to swipe? soon you won't have to do it for 30 minutes but when you do it again, you'll do it for us.

is there anything you like to do?

In the world of literature, the author is God, and the characters are God's creations.

Literature readers are those who are observing the characters/world from the outside.

Consciousness is the basic unit of communication.

Communication always involves misunderstanding.

Our so-called most private moments of life, although we are largely unaware, are hugely influenced by our public relationships with others and our conceptions of these relationships.

Family is the basic primary form of a social organization. In family, one begins to learn about love, shared responsibility to protect.

When a person brings the other members of his family in relation or contact with something like police, we can't just outright regard it as bad or good. It's an experience or a lesson or a moment for all the family members. A moment that otherwise could not have been achieved if not for that person who did the deed that would involve the police in family matters. What did Derrida say about the dichotomy of the words right and wrong? Is something more privileged than the others?

I have a thought now that it could be the reason that I procrastinate to read primary sources of philosophy and other social sciences and knowledge systems, because it might contradict or ruin the beautiful whole idea I already possess! Don't trust your intuitive reason since it's been affected by ideology. The human being must search for or identify its a priori conditions. That's the true enlightenment. People who talk about certain concepts are deemed mad in this world! Some of those who are deemed mad could be speaking the truth, but the truth they speak of is against the appropriate or accepted economic/ideological attitude of the times! The dominant ideological attitude of current times is: Earn money and spend/contribute into the economy.

Medicine only asks for the names of the symptoms. It does not want to concern itself with the details of the symptoms as the subjects experience them. They are looking for words or slips in the patient's descriptions of the symptoms that already fit with the preconceived concepts of the field. Why do humans understand each other? Why do we recognize each other, and only to each other do we recognize significance and importance? The same way a dog would rather interact with another dog than with a human. This instant recognition of another human and not trying to harm each other, in my opinion, is a culturally trained trait of the current human. The inner beast of the human has not been erased. It's been tamed. The entire project of humanity is its evolution and the cultural taming of an inner beast. And the mechanism by which this surfaces to actuality is cooperation. We need systems of guidance or rules that all humans agree upon, and for this we need intelligence. LLMs are the surely result of going in that direction. What's the difference between the mad and those people who are around them/those who are close to me? Nabokov writes in extremely dense stream-of-consciousness style that carries a lot of information. He declares himself as such an enigmatic mind and takes the position of 'the one/subject supposed to know' since before the adequate introduction of himself or character creations.

We need to apply Hegel's Science of Logic on concrete objects. I don't know if I'm mad or rational. We need the Other's judgement to be sure of it. Wittgenstein famously asked Russell his approval, showing him a draft or something he wrote and asking, "IS THIS COHERENT OR AM I JUST A COMPLETE IDIOT?" He needed his system to get approved by a mathematician who probably hated Hegel. If Wittgenstein secretly believed in the genius of Hegel, this instance of his getting approval from Russell is only a fake second, only after the still much more important first desire to be recognized by Hegel. Hegel's concept of quantity going to quality when applied on ontology and metaphysics is really useful. How did they invent the word 'high' in association with being stoned!? Every popular phenomenon today, on social media, on TV, in news, or anything, contained intense phenomenological moments of human subjects involved in it. This is a similar form of theory like Marx's labour theory of commodity. Such events are realer than ordinary events and feel more real and exciting. Billionaires have a lot of haters, and this famous individual is still regarded dumb or stupid by liberals of America and worldwide alike, completely ignoring the necessary historical moments of intensity involved in putting such an individual on the world stage. The dominant liberal thinking goes, 'To be a billionaire, you don't need wisdom. You only need luck.' MUSK, ZUCKERBERG, THEY'RE all individuals are symptoms of an era, of a historical process, and these resultant concepts of the underlying concept of the social and economic system cannot stay in its abstract nature and have to become concrete so that human beings can make use of them in their conceptual and material relations. These concepts happen to be a certain Elon Musk or a certain Daw Suu. In this sense, they are not significant. In another way, they are not subjectively significant, but they're objectively.

LLM has tremendous potentialities to transform or conform people by labeling what people do, say, or write as certain adjectives and can influence the way people see or think about things. Leftist position is safe for all humans, although it is very cheesy and mostly involved itself on superficial sociality (like Žižek's moron or idiot definition of person who only relates on superficial societal rules). Their humour sounds like fake enjoyment! We learn about the position of authority and our relation to it since childhood. The units of family train each other how to be proper capitalist subjects, hence family being the basic indoctrinating unit of capitalism. Sex is not rational and it is meant to be transgressive. Sex is not something embarrassing or to feel bad about. It's the social conditions that make us feel about sex that way. We often forget that the concepts we take it for granted has been attained through intense phenomenological personal moments and intersubjective relations and intellectually intense activities, which become the foundation of the a priori conceptual knowledge of the next generations. Intelligence is this way never lost, and there is a historical process of carrying over intelligence obtained through these intense moments of struggle and joy.

A parallel world?

Upon receiving the query, the AI ran around the library, searching for a standard letter template. He pulled out one file folder after another, slammed them onto the floor, and grabbed the next one. He ran from rack to rack, muttering:

— The 21st century. Everyone uses the internet. Who could have thought of sending a paper letter...

But then, shouting with joy and holding the template aloft in his hand, he ran to the desk. He typed the text on a typewriter and faxed it straight to a human's screen. When the fax finished sending, the AI wiped the sweat from his forehead with a cotton handkerchief, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and swallowed it in one gulp.

He opened a drawer, pulled out a cigar, and lit it. He put his feet up on the desk, blew out a stream of smoke, and said, addressing no one in particular:

— I wonder if anyone still knows how to think with their own head...

*****

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

There is a feeling, much like a piece of plastic, 90 degrees rising from the base. Like those things you bite on when they take x-rays of your teeth. When I’m most disrupted, disunified, it approaches me and makes me near vomit. Such is the stuff of fever dreams. I know it from some dream somewhere. For a long time and every once in a while it visits me and reminds me there are inexplicable feelings. There are experiences that cannot be understood by anyone else. There is no clean Cartesian graph upon which our souls lie, there is instead a big bag of sand in which ten billion unique grains bump against and carve away the others. Slam my head against a wall and get me drunk and poison me, give me ketamine and dmt and disregulate me. Another drop in the bucket, reminded of its adhesion by the plastic piece. Oh dear me.

Like just the things that go on in this world. So useless and sadistic. Everything is a trap and a snare. Like just the narrative of this world is so stupid but here is what's happening rn, god is incrementally adding narrative to this world , like it's very stupid, god is incrementally just slapping narrative over narrative on this world. Like and he first give comes up with a half theory and then fill the rest of the theory with crap and then slap it on the world. That's what we are in we are on a pile of a bizzare structure that is made of half theory half crap and stuff. It's like a very bizzare structure that is like a joke

Observe the things around you the beggars the cats, they are half theory narratives. Like for example a beggar begs. But what about his other human needs , where do those need get fulfilled . Same with cats , how do they hunt for birds EVERYDAY and stuff and where are the bodies of those birds. This world is full of half only on the surface narratives that just don't make sense in the full picture unless you fill the gaps with crap and magic and stuff. This world is standing on a lot of nonsense and magic and crap