All the hearts that touch your cheek
How they jump they move they embarrass
They make no sense, no sense, no sense
You wake up on a Saturday that sure as hell feels like a Tuesday, every Tuesday, last Tuesday, this Tuesday. The day never changes. It still is Tuesday, and your fingers when they stand up in front of your face to wipe away the sleep webs that form from dead and dying dreams, look more spongeiform, more spindly and strained with age. They rake with this phenomena, creasing the brow and cheek, slicing into the last shred of dimple that dotted the wells below the eye. I think haggard is the word [concavity]. Ten books make up your entire consciousness, thankfully not one is that biblioformaic of olden day traditional storytelling, ten books that tell you what morality isn't in its existence, and strength brews acridly, sniping at the very convention of consciousness, its appaling taste and smell, the skin drenching cold from open window rushing up and back. Like a split lip spitting blood tacky to the tongue tip, it bounces like a trampoline, a water fed-inflated bulb of a swllen finger tip waiting to rupture cos as long as its open it stays.
Ten books, and a few words elaborate the extent of ennui [ennui] of the yawn. Curious fact. The universe is pi, that is π [pie]. Random, irrational, and most likely really big, really really really really big. Huge. Underlying that pi is purported to have a pattern, and it would seem so does the universe.
Think of it as a magic eightball. A big black piece of plastic that tells you the future, or something along that line. The eightball would seem completely random for the most part, but in fact it is completely ordered and merely built to appear random. The little triangles are only random in that their lighter densities are all comparable but not exact, they're more numerous in some situations and not in others. Mere probability that a prediction will come up.
That seems to be a bit reverse-engineered, backwards [yar] from π.
Bobbert is a seemingly nice fellow, like us in make up, at least in a comparable way. Below the atomic level the quorks are nearly impossible to describe and predict, etc. Step back, refocus and suddenly there's order to some extent, neutrons and protons in a formed nucleus, with electrons flying around in a way oddly like the ultimate question and its answer. As one pans back, molecules are formed, then organelles, cells, tissues, organs, organ systems, complex beings, families, neighborhoods, societies, worlds, and on and on. In fact, that is exactly what bobbert is made of, but to the nth degree, where as we are kinda microscopic to him, because Bobbert is really just the universe. He's π, he's a fucking magic eightball. From randomness everything forms a singularity that then expands as it acts into randomness. The dual nature of all that was.
Silly thought. Simple cannot describe the universe, tho the principle itself is at the tip of the iceberg. The trouble seems to lie in the fact that at such a level, the idea of simplicity becomes so complex, both to swallow and to explain, it becomes baffling, when in fact it should be the exact opposite. It should be a null spot, a sort of great big sigh [ah]. The kind of hum that I hum when I see that Θ is π. The word simple itself would seem to defeat the point of simplicity to the point that maybe, just maybe, we need a new word, something that reminds of the warm pi on the window sill cooling in the evening, the bobbling black 8 getting tipsy with flipping, the slow shuffling of Bobbert munching on crisps spilling the crumbs into fractals. Maybe its time for no words at all. [just *sigh*]