What's on your Brain.

Objectivity affects what force, before Subjectivity is manifest?


Conscious Effort: save this file; the text herein. this represents a “sleep attack“, (huh? whoa! fell down, deeply again… okay: save before Losing all narrative potential!)

[aside:] such nodding-out today! not completely “nodded-out”, as per usual, however, the blanket of dooming confusion, the veritable fun-house of horrible images, nonsensical reminiscing, it seems, over things which never were, as i seem to converse with myself, but myself is, in these fantasymal thoughts, always seems to be some sort of “other” being. typically, it is from the “other” that I receive a barrage of command and inquiry, neither which i might necessarily repeat now– not for this to be perceived, as conceived a farce, for as much as I try to make sense of things, I become aware, i regret, that too ill-equipped in the tools of my recollection, and too obscured by the belaboring disparity of any element which, at any time, might become the object of focus. Whether that object shall remain in focus, or whether it shall not be allowed to reveal itself, and any possible joined meaning to the (what’s selected is only what’s active, remember, dopey), what shall i call it, but a narcoleptic cognitive-octopus. a cognarctopus, a giant squid, under my lid, who rises when i fall, so much like a doppelganger of a mindmap!

Important to save: perhaps more voices / transpositions / modulation (such that one thing may not be visibly affected, but for closer inspection) than other texts ive written note, now some __________ minutes later, i am confident when i say “Ahh.. I feel better now!”, like waking from a nap– only, also like taking a jog, coming home, and that first cool liquid (avoiding the brain-freeze!), as it quenches the deeper thirsts– a satisfaction known to linger near ends of jogs, runs, or even such short walks as this, which has been so short, i’ve never lifted my pile of flesh– this squishinglly less tight ass– indeed, what femme fetalle should gaze upon paste! Pastey, and Gaze: opposites so distant, their affecting qualities nullifying each other, it must be grammatical fact, logged somewhere, i’m sure! Ah, don him in that commencement: Meistro Payste, given to suffering for any return to resemble his former his former self, immortalized , moreover, so thirty-sixish, watchoutfor a grey hair there, you lazy ass,ass! (and what contrast: as a Perfmer, formerlly titled, “Sexpot’s Ass”, I believe I might safely allude detection by that troupe!) from this chair


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