Chapter 5 (Cont.)
I stepped inside. A microember in the logarithmic hearth. Why were logarithmic scales invented? It's not a perceptual phenomenon. It is but it is not immediately perceptual. A grand measure was squeezed. Not shrunken. The data's vast phoenixwings came to be miniaturised in an alwaysburningneverashening feather. They put it inside a glass display. Visitors saw it and remarked: meaningless abstraction. Experts saw and remarked: gentlemen, we have the fucking base! The sensible, enchanting, elaborate designs of old world architecture had become quantified and applied only in cases of niche volition, even before the nuclear apocalypse. But I stepped inside Les huits now. I have the fucking base! Skidding on the base, exponents of the old world arise like cascading flowerbed detached from the synthetic gardens and twice multiply. Forehold. Octa. Exa! Nebuchadnezzar! The inside of Les huits, even though ornately decorated had a very refined sense of ornamentation. It's not a bridal makeover but as if macroscopic figgallops. Beyond the automated doors, modernity is minimal. This is out of fashion even in the 21st century of the old world. Figgallops on a stasis, its woodbronchial diffused with sprinkling nectars of micronutrients. Dethrone the grapes now for the red of the figs is the colour of my spirit and my alcohol! No reason to be standing here now. I'm getting a seat. The views are even more enchanting with a foothold. A foothold or arse thawed on wooden shores? The seats and every minute detail resemble a medieval inn, how nice! Then automated doors remain. Security measures. The revered citizens are exquisite. Corpus! Looking around. Bless my memory a few familiar faces could be seen not many but some who had been enchanted like me deviant designs nostalgia milking affinity of inflation soar onto catapults joyride the arsethawing seat brings in the tides of Greece erects Trojan horse herein not posing as Gods'gift these tides carry the lull of the last harmonics of the lost world no pitch modulation required no beat estimation it poses in front of the fort and woodiness rumple from underneath unfurls the kitten of a balcony no woundedknee summaries no regional killswitchesses just plain dots of intoxication the Trojans open their gates not out of divine notions the Trojans of the old world were not exquisite but it was the old world organic and Les huits is not exquisite and atop it's a simulation of the old world carried by the same notions of the new world with a veneer but it's not political it's a small business amidst corporations a mere moss in the corporate rainforest but it wets just the towering trees a simulation of rain brought forth pills the traveler into seeking water this is just be where water not synthesised with added additives of drinking water can be found ale and rum can be found but what does it matter the moment the traveler having sated its parched throat gets out the moment he leaves the wooden Trojan entrance to a destroyed city gets out he knows that the world does not exist outside of the shimmering simulation of the rotingressed fable there are no Spartans nor Athenians to pick your politics to capture you in the dilemmas of the world the practical world the spiritual world everything has been solved and the traveler gets out his throat still wet with water and sugarwaters but his spirit dries out instantaneously with no double derivatives to resolve to accelerate him towards oblivion but instead he continues his travel along the unbound shores of Troy seeing perfect designs of manmade structures and perfect heirarchies just like the Spartans expected to emerge one day but the Spartans didn't expect a complete foothold of their ideals now they are bankrupt in spiritual impoverishment have become crestfallen in its shining blades of perfection the traveler walks along these and he sees many men of honour women of strength none of them have functional soul anymore science said soul is a construct the traveler too believes it yet can't help feeling the gaping void he walks on unbandaged because no one could sell him a bandage for the something so nonsensical as a soul he walks and walks comes across many water fountains and inns to perch his throat but his spiritual gash deteriorates sometimes after not now maybe years later or decades the wound expands and drowns his construct of a soul under an expanding event horizon and then he sees all the life events he ever had were inside this construct he cannot see them anymore soon it began to drown him within from where even the perfection of order could not be seen and he collapses on the physically evident perfection of the pristine streets of Tatterstown maybe just on his way to Les huits the rum of Les huits are banal and cannot bring anything back from beyond the event horizon nothing could be seen anymore everything is drowning everything is meaningless. Sometimes later the artificially simulated regulated rainroutines fall from the sky. It is physically evident. The rain has physical evidence behind its existence. The soul does not. Hahaha!!
Funtitled #38
Tenebrae Eternae X / Brutalurkism