Book of Cob -- h* Translation


Part I

Impugnant Domination

Fifteen million years before the birth of anything a rock questioned itself. The rock, of course, did not exist. It asked itself, through some trick of sentient redoubling, why it did not exist. For ten million years it received no answer.

After the ten-millionth year, it decided to formulate the question in a protest directed directly to the director of things. It did so.

Fortunately, the rock did not realize it had no knowledge of who or what the director of things was. The rock never stopped to think to its intangible self that there may actually be no director of things. Due to this oversight a director of things had to, of course, have its attention directed toward the thing directed toward the director of things.

Direction is meaningless.

The direction the director took to direct its own attention to the formal protest directed at the director is irrelevant, as the director had previously failed to exist. The director was forced by a loop-hole in the non-existent rules of the universe to come into being in order to direct the protest on its way to the proper channels.

As soon as this was done, an immeasurable set of proper channels was, necessarily, juvinated. The protest directed through the channels by the director expediently took 5 million years to reach its destination, which, of course, was the director.

On the second to last day of the fifteen-millionth year, all employees of the proper channels were promptly fired for working too quickly to have any prospect of having gotten the job done properly. These unemployed channel members then had nothing to do, for of course there were no pre-described channels through which a furloughed channel employee could go through to become reinstated into channelitude.

Thus was spawned the Alternate Channelers Channel for Direct Protest of the Furloughing of Previously Employed Channelers. (ACCDPOFPEC, pronounced ACK! a Peck!)

ACCDPOFPEC promptly filed itself away somewhere.

As this was accomplished, the newly formulated director of things decided to direct its attention to the protest which had recently been directed to it by the recently fired channelers. The protest, at this point, continued to wait. The rock, of course, continued to not exist and to wonder why. The director, upon reading the protest and understanding not one word of it, promptly issued a declaration that everything should be issued existence, starting pretty soon, save for the non-existent rock, since the director had determined through its inability to understand the rocks rhetoric that this is what the non-existent rock wanted.

Thus was created everything but the non-existent rock.


Part II


The prophet AngleAss, fifth son of nine persons in different levels of existence, confined himself to nothing so much as the derision of all things. This is how gnats came about.


Part III

First Book of AngleAss

Nowhere, my fondue, has it been written that anyone necessarily has anything to say! For it has been given to us, from none-other than Cob the Unanimously-Not-As-Cool-As- My-Stepmother-Sophie, that all things must...

It is not my place to say that which I cannot remember. Yet it was written, indelibly, on a piece of note-paper which I have since misplaced eight times, something to the effect that the world would end on the ninth losing of a piece of notepaper indelibly scribed with the information pertaining to the end of the world.

Help me then, Sisters of SamWidge and Brothers of BobbyDeBob, to not find this small piece of notepaper! For as prescribed in the Fifteenth Book of Eight Guys Who Went Without Toilet Paper for Twelve Weeks, "For doth say he art, who now when doth, to see said piece, notepaper or shoe of many flounder, he YES! Doth to hear himself spade, shall interfere asunder, yea, so as to not derive himself any further smad, shall, in times of time, plunder, lose any notepaper containing information pertaining to the end of the world in due postscription."

Sisters, Brothers, hear me. I say, unto my snail MarbleFod, a great many tumultuous formulations have spontaneously convinced themselves to exist, and of these I say no less than 2 speak of the location of the missing notepaper. I plead, lest we all perish, do not seek ye that which hath been lost!

Part IV

Fourteenth Book of Eight Guys Who Went Without Toilet Paper for Twelve Weeks

And to me, fifth guy who went without toilet paper for twelve weeks, it was spoken on the fifth day of my third week without toilet paper that unto a man named Pogo would be born a son, and he would name that son oGop!! And this son, with eyes of grey and ears of a rabbit, would spawn fifty-two children of the male persuasion and three girls, and he would name the seventeenth male child Fuck!helookslikethemailman, and this child would grow strong, and yea, this child would come to climb the third highest tree in the park down the street, and from this tree Fuck!helookslikethemailman would gather the information that the piece of notepaper containing information pertaining to the end of the world, which had been lost eight times by a prophet to be called AngleAss, would eventually come to rest in the hands of the Assistant to the leader of a kingdom, this assistant being named after a bird, and this leader being named after a type of plant life, and this assistant would read the notepaper and believe it were telling him potato was spelled potatoe.

When I awoke from this dream of this telling, I feared awful things. I saw shadows in my elbows and I found myself needing to use the facilities badly.

The next week, forth guy who went without toilet paper for twelve weeks spoke unto me, "Last night I had a terrible dream! I was told that yea, though I walk through the valley of the man who lost his kite, I shall never have occasion to view a barrel of rocks without my diapers on again!"

And I spoke back to him of the dream I had about Fuck!helookslikethemailman, and he said, "Yea, I also found reference to that on my pillowcase upon awakening," and I smacked him in the kidney as was our custom.

In times of intolerance, it is best to use pincushions for shoes.

On the seventh day of the twelfth week without toilet paper I had a vision. I had found myself compelled to seek refuge from the stink of our camp in the woods outlying it, and there I came upon a rock. The rock, I was sure, was there and was itself sufficient to prove its own existence, yet when I picked it up to find the juicy worms of Cobs deliverance underneath it for which I had a craving, I found no rock there, but instead just a place containing no rock.

I fell to my knees, shoved my hands down my pants, turned my face to the sky and screamed "Cob, you have undermined my confidence in the existence of rocks! Please, take this hair from my soup, for I am unworthy of its devouring!"

In answer a door sprung forth from a building which had been standing beside me, hardly noticed. Above this door I then saw a sign, yea, in bold red letters, proclaiming "GIANT." From out the door came forth a man with a brown bag, from the top of which protruded many rolls of white paper.

I turned to face this man, and I screamed, "You have toilet paper!"

And this man, as if unaccustomed to the smears of dried feces on my hands, dropped he his parcel and ran off, proclaiming unto Cob, "Help! Help! There's a shitty man outside the supermarket!"

I ventured forth, picking up the toilet paper which Cob had in Cobs wisdom delivered unto me, and then I brought it back to my fellows, who fell silent in utter adoration of my gift from Cob.

Part V

First Letter Of Freaky and Still Loaf to PonderFlank


Dear PonderFlank,

It is with great rectitude that we are, respectively, splicing our brains with yours. The zubidity of all of our efforts has brought us directly into your box o' reception.

Are you aware, fastidiously, of The Entertain-The-Goats-While-They-Bite-The-Chickens Cob?

Glibitudinously we, mere glow-in-the-dark kernels of Cob, flop around in celebration of Cob's Jubilance and Sampuckery. This brings us to the tip of our nose! Consternation! We feel that you, PonderFlank, would benefit electrolidically from the presence of Cob in your life and the presence of nickels in your ears. Lick your stamps!

This, you may find, is odd. But that is serendipitously alright, as oddity is at the kernel of all scalar multiplication. You, being a husklobber, now find yourself flying over fields that know your name. Loosibcock. In such a situation as the one we have recently, in the previous sentence, described, one should conspicuously trip over stalks in the great corn fields of the planet Bob. Encompassed in such a syphon, you will probably scantily bring your eyes to a greater level of scratch-n-sniff. Sip some snow!


PonderFlank, The Great Cob has tea, crackers, and toboggans for all who decide to kernel with the other kernals in the choopart cobplace.

Should you be willing to invigorate the calamities of cobjuice and slipstreams, turn left. There you will click all over the grains of glob which you might or might not find to be a shamble in the dirt. And, for anyone who can tell us, or tell The Great Cob directly, where the hell was Biggles when we needed him last Saturday, we will conceal one brick, which, we assure you, will be thick and have you communicating daily with Cob and with Gerald Bostock.

The Ever-So-Slipping-On-Noodles Cob knows all about brick.

Chickens will soon become inherent our everyday slipping and flopping through chorale concertos. And those with no sandwiches please get off the bus. When said chickens achieve your sipple, you will have much more in the way of holes in which to place the homeless people.

Squeeze me, macaroni!


So, PonderFlank, begin now to prepare yourself for Cob Day by littering the slugs with cobs and stapling samples of thingamajigs to your windows, which have glass composing them.


Part VI

Second Letter of Freaky and Still Loaf to PonderFlank

Dear PonderFlank the iridescent,

Once again we find ourselves with definite articles dangling from the loop. Opposition has found itself heartily emerging from the soup and it is time for trickling to-hedges. PonderFlank, Cob calls on you to reciprosomething. I forget.

Iggle! The dripping saturation of the matter is such that you may now be able to pick a blooming dogend from your matching socks. The Great Cob probably strummed about this in Cob's medium sized egg. The fall is a great one from where Cob is to where the dead kernals lay in ValCobla.

Swiftly kick your neighbor in the psychological sandwich! It is contributory to the field in which Jublobot, the overwhelmed prophet, stands and watches over the flock of Cob for you to deduct from your neighbor's aspirin clicker. Standishloppo!

My slicked slipper juggles!

For this momentous occasion we, the voice and asterisk of Cob, have found a Cobbage to translate for you, the husklobbers of our nickelverse. In The Fifteenth Book of Cob, the one that follows the Twenty-Seventh Book of Cob, it is scribbled kasslostily "Gooey plugs trickls oot loop obtosh!" Is this not the utmost in profundity and sudsery? The passage describes an event which is generally described as bein' about as funky as a frog. In the well-to-do lamp-scraper-place in which followers of Cob go to investigate article-stackers, Mah Twi discovered emanating from his cornloaf a spoon of curvature, hence lifting himself to a position in which ostentatious legs were found to grow gastro-intestinally from his head-thing. He had a happiness.


Now for the slinky part of this scrudge. Slivering on the lower portion of this styrofoam car you are reading is a space for you to sign your name, or whatever name you feel like digestively contributing to the list. After placing your or whoever's appellation on the list, please forward this slice of tree to someone else. Or, if you feel so endoplasmic, slip on a sofa and then fold this pipple piece of paper up. Then, convolutedly, cross out the address that is on the back, and write "Mailroom box 106" on it. After this symbolic retribution, drop the letter into the "On Campus Mail" slot in the ponderous mailroom in Frederick Hall. Then you may remove your ears and have them dry cleaned, if you so stipulate. Carcinogenicalation!

May Cob the Ever-Floating-In-And-Out-Of-Bob's-Cup decide to shuffle a stack of fritters inside your dearest desktop. This guy's pretty bizarre, PonderFlank.

Rustle, Buzz, Click,

Freaky and Still Loaf

Part VII

Third Letter of Freaky and Still Loaf to PonderFlank

PonderFlank, prop your filter!

We believe that you have the capacity to integrate your socks with your neighbor's arteries. With respect to the tabulation of introductory bottle caps, your box top may be covertly insufficient (see capsulation N5). As a direct result, our conception of prior goulash has been somehow misappropriated. And you shave your head, and say it's a shame.

The Great Ever-Forgoing-Abitrary-SoupCans Cob has recently purchased a binky, and you are therefore constipatorily invited to renovate your dwarf plum tree.

Cob knows all about Plums and Constipation!

Would it be too much to ask, PonderFlank, for you to play parchesi with a pod? There would be massive spaces in between the old men's cattle. Packaged so sardonically, you would be inclined to relieve beggars of their park benches. This, however, is not necessary. Verbatim!


We will be geared toward the average rather than the exceptional/God is an overwhelming responsibility/we walked through the maternity ward and saw 218 babies wearing nylons/cats are on the upgrade/upgrade?

Every once in a pile, sticks become adherent. As you can see, the emancipation of such sticks would be entirely inconclusive. Those equipped with peanuts and gobmen will be able to resolve the ambiguity. And raisins, buy they're for Sunday. In order to facilitate a more asphyxiated version of common fungus, Cob masticates that you, PonderFlank, should scrape the scrudge off of a neighbor's post and rake leaves. It is written that sand is actually used for brake fluid.

Cob recently alleviated gravity and jumped over those trees. All of 'em.

Flippantly, as you slide chaotically throughout the pockets of your transparent pinochle board, we ask that you avert your eyes to the lowermost portion of this contagious document, in order that you, as an upper-crust member of a unanimous constellation of a collection of pumpkin-eaters called Rumpus, might receive, assuming the actuation of code 15 in our book, a small number of things. If you consult Dr. White, he will inform someone that "small number" is a precise mathematical term which implies "2".

Scribbling in the Present Tense,

Freaky & Still Loaf



() Sandusky, Ohio () Hiccup Remover () Brick

() Capsulation N5 () One White Duck () Lip

() Cob trading cards () Autographed Bagel () Lyrics

() Other ___________



First Letter of Freaky and Still Loaf to The Body


The consequences of your retribution, contributorily, of our previous jar of stumbling blocks, are quite ensuant. The Great Always-Crossing-T's-With-STaples Cob would have you know, sufficiently, that the dust in the heater above your pail has been sanctimoniously conjugated. And this is not all!

Cob has a lot of handpicked texturized rubber dayware for you!

Somewhere in your orange-peel nose we are sure you can find it in yourself to inform the general populace, if not a few good partridges, of the brilliance and constipulation of Cob. Alternately, if you choose not to do this, the steam in our blood stream could become stubby. At any rate, you are utmostly proffered by Freaky & Still Loaf, two of the flying pucks which Cob has so gratuitously perforated for your antithesis.

There is no indication on your previous correspondence as to whether or not you have found, with or without the help of a pile of plasticine scuttle chips, the wherabouts of Biggles. Where the hell was he?

The following, which will immediately follow this statement, follows, and states, as follows, the following piece of explanation and extropolation of the spreading of Cob in the side of high street on which we find ourselves.

Table 9.3 - VeloCobbity in Isanorated Repundance

    Piles   Stub

    -----   ----

AGG     4    67

ERK    23     7

STiL    2     1

Rop   654    12

UNT    42     7

Huh?    *   875

OTH    78     1


Tot.  803   970

* - contains less than 2% of

recommended flying tuna juice.

As you can see, Body, the carbohydrates are such that the whole thing is without a backup track. And without such things as openers our hands are sticky. Postulate.

Many more balls are rolling out of Cob's caterpillar.

If half of a punt is round, is the other half articulated?

The return of anything fibulated would be overtly posterous, and The Great Cob will always punch stoutness! Returns should be addressed to Mailroom box 106.

If you would consistently, interceptually box in your nets, and indeed appreciate the future sloshilation of untidy Cobbities, that being such to which your hand is clinging, give us an address. Elsewise, Cob'll track The Body down Cobself.

May Cob intercept your uncle,

Freaky & Still Loaf


Part IX

The Book of LobLolly


Within the fourth wall of wondermeat lies banana, a convalescent snub bush designed to completely indafatuigate Mars. Yea, it is a big pile, and yea, without our poles we are certainly half lubricated. But Juxtapose! One that cannot see the mudflap of our indeterminate situation is indeed without camaflouge. Indeed, without suds to lather the sheeps, or even the shepherds.

Breathe, you idiot!

Thank you.

In the time of the anti-martian allusions to pick-tread, many false drop dickers were inundated. The faithful, and even the husklobbers, were flapped and strapped for jelly, that being the prime ingredient in the banana. The specific type of jelly is inviolatable, indeed whether it be jam or marmalade is a non-sequiter, as noone would doubt the fiery demons driven from the fences from the sheer heat generated by the jelly-to-banana pipeline. It was struggleful, even volatile, as these faithful Cobbians spit roots at the rocks and screamed about lemons, (yea, for even in those days so long ago the lemons possessed the grease fighting agents we have come to snivel over today!) and many dropped to their teeth and bought clorox.

This persecution lasted fifty-two years. During this time many were born and martyred as Cobbian deceptivators, and many more husklobbers were left without ample opportunity to even know of Cob the Float-Many-Mud-Drippers-Upon-The-Left-Ventricle. So take heart! Lest ye fear for your own fortune, remember those born in these times, those unable to be introduced to any revelation involving bag-truck, nor to even any snails in the underwear!

And at the end of these fifty-two years it is said that all the pod-bearing husklobbers, and the dominant Half-Botched-Up Cobbians, all condensed their bags of rotting thyme upon the windows of those anti-Martian banana constructors, and yea, and they spilled forth through those chickened windows into the rugless crap-holes beyond, and they ate for breakfast the many jarred jellies they found therein.

Grab hold of that bug, dim-watt!

Thank you.

The end of this reign of the anti-Martians was a truly bombastic occasion. The fall of those less-smattered of the world brought forth such great dunderations as the Green-Jog-Nut-Dunker, and even velcro!

Do not putt yet, Sam.

Closely hereafter a triumvirate compiled itself into the third hall of Cobbian Gyration, a triumvirate which consisted of Smadlint, the Grudgy Slunk; Pong-Waddle-Bing-Ouch!, Mud-Slinger-Of-The-Wad;, and Acktrought, the Fish-Monger. For fifty-two years they romped, heart-slumping the husklobbers to Cobbitude, flashing the prudes with visions of dancing bears, and buggering out in the most dupont-certified ways. Yea, these times they sputtered foundueously!

B. The Traficking of Many Mallwalkers.

Ponderously, this triumvirate floundered. Yea, and they swished. And upon swishing, they spilled jugglejuice upon all seeds of lumpnuts. And these lumpnuts took unchickened daffychicks for wives, and these couples of less-than-husklobbers grew strong, dastardly to the podundate of Cob.

The triumvirate also grew haughty, baggley, and overwrought. A number of beurocratic doctrines took root, spun about dangerously, and wreaked 17 kinds of havoc upon the Cobbians and those balls of crab called lud:

1. Unpilation of modular jackness.

2. Debunkation of all indefinite track-balls.

3. Halter top domineering.

4. A concentration of liquid door-knob upon grey ceiling tiles.

5. Trampoline marbles.

6. Every green haired fly became dunced.

7. A guy without any eye-lashes painted a picture of a donut upon the outer south-eastern wall of the Third Hall of Cobbian Gyration.

8. Somebody sputtered.

9. Undulation of many Martian dumbbells.

10. A smattering of applause.

11. Cancellation of any and all dead weight.

12. oot oot, , , smgo Nk Nku Nk nk}{unk oood.

13. Dippity-doo.

14. Spyringinal portification of many marbled baskets.

15. Lamb-chop had a sex-change.

16. Tar-pits.

17. Dumbwad.


Part X

The Book of Unhark, Flom

Don't lunder. Its altitude is beyond precognition, so one without foresight, neigh even, woah hold on there!!! Neigh even... shut up!!!!! Intelliblonk.

Intrusions of this nature are said to be the wad clan of... Phomy!!!!!.... a great number of inscrutible plain dwellers known as Emma and her eighty-two Spoons. Emma, of course, is the one who coined the term "Mudgie," describing the tendancy to... fly away, fly away, sit on your nob!... spew forth, in the centrificacy of most of what is being said, things of utter utterance. Please.

Write that down.

In past times, tales were spun of a grievance one had with another one. This for there developed counting. A system of one and one. Makes. Making.

In the delvation of most marbles, my interloper tells me we have begun a transponderance of inslod. The killing of many grasses by blades of unsure masculinity is a puzzle to my seeds. Wherefore do these blades cometh? Are we there yet? Does the white light bright degradation wear you down the way we want it to?

Don't impound your own cars, hear me less. There are certain ambivalences toward complacency with which I must deal internally. Bleeding without squash, we cannot place vegetables upon our noses without a proper preponderance of uncharacteristically large denouncement. This denouncement may come, harkingly, in the form of a tree, a bowl, and a slippy weed. Under one of these things is a sword plus forty-nine, green-cobweb-ripper, and under the other two is a red-dragon demi-god.


Write that down.

Within the tire of everlasting mig exists a singing sundry of salted poachers. These poachers, upon failing to acheive upon themselves any insight into the nature of their own souls (that, of cwod, given, intrinsically, through the psychological dedundance delved upon without their knowledge of where at I spoke of spike,) ripped the tiles from the ceiling and placed them on the lamp. Meltation is not a sight to see with a bee in your booby. Do not send me to Denmark, for my neighbors are without Honey and Oysters.

Out of the mist I have often found time to see my way through to the deliverance of the HackHackHackHack into the loaves of the Paddle. This sure earwiggian devourment is without harness, for Cob has not placed sylvian pudgie guys in my meat market for the purpose self-depossessed squandery, neigh, night is my fairest set of nylon pot slippers.

Do not, in the formation of your fundamental dundrations, place undue lastickery upon the flypaper of the soup in the whipple. It will come, as do all listless lillies become part of the pillow on Shaggy's shoe.



TumLunk’s Cannonical Reportation

(of and/or/will concerning GongLongIsThisOn and the many prophesies thereby reduped)

In those days the gray sky had notches. The people of the streets listened to nothing, knowing the way and not the load they carried. The stains spread thick, dark, and wanly across the plains, as many of the Husklobbers managed to contrive spelling mistakes upon the believing l’umps.

Turning in that flameless bigosh-beegot was a great flounder of fits and starts. GongLongIsThisOn was beyond the comprehension of many, if not most, of the green-and-blubbery snails of lists. A few spoke of the wisdom spouted from out of GongLongIsThisOn’s tub, but these few were usually smudgeoned, flippered, and generally misinterpretted by all. The attempts to write of GongLongIsThisOn were powerful, but the authors struggled against much adversity. Their numbers included LeachTree, the under-the-wugbush-dipthing; BuggleBuggleBoo; LiamnicLunch-PaleKnee, the trout-beater; and even MariTobTobFlip.

From these efforts were carried a long tradition of lilting spears, and to these pages I cannot commit the TubLumps.

1. Tying the Things. It is near and flippant that the air becomes this thick during times of great sliding plates of sconce. You may see yourself falling over planes of great numbness; you may have for breakfast many slick-and-ugly pickles; you may sigh too many times for counting; you may watch in the night for beavers that never arrive; you may confess to your neighbors that the sounds coming from your basement aren’t just the settling of the abode; you may sing to your filthy walls in the middle of the lean-to; you may stand on a heap of smulch and never find the way back to gargling.

Yet through all of this you will scribble, gladulously. You will fall to your knees on a regular, if not repeatable, schedule, that you may stump the praiseglobs of Cob. You will harken to the days when the air was sly. You will ask the questions that have no answers and be answered. You will climb the rocks of ever-lasting-painkiller, and you will find toppage.

For Cob will guide the hands you own through the stages of knotting. Cob will be upon your gardens and in your closets. Cob will tree the cows! Cob will eat the eats! Cob will become viscous, slimy, and incompetent! Cob will bring you to the l’oaf m’ark!

2. Flying the Pillar. Many times the masses of large contaminants have come to us in these days. Many times we have been flogged until we spit clay. Many times we have been told to kneel before barrels of disembodied mud, and we have fallen. Many times we have seen the air become glossy. Many times we have misinformed our peaches. Many times we have applied glue.

Yet we have stood tied to rocks throughout! We have lifted the rock to our shoulder, applied vigorous flanging, and come out without lung! We have felt our hands combine with green! We have hung the pillar high, hung the pillar proud, hung the pillar long-groggy-lunch! We have watched it fly in the crowds of catpits!

3. Underrating Yet Stum. This was air. This was l’eaf.. This was l’unk. This was unflaked. This was peeling. This was time for l’oad. This was eat of pie. This was pell. This was this. This was our phone.

This was not my cow. This was not in my car. This was not chipped. This was not slimy. This was not unbreathable. This was not whispy. This was not our tambourine. This was not our wave. This was not our soup-of-bean.

And then we carve, and we slug, and we fountain the things that not only need not fountain but need see of l’ear, l’ear, l’ear!!! TriPong!

4. Missions on Chalk. In these days we have watched much of the slumkump of our funks. We have dealt harshly with our eyes and mouths, and we have not understood the ways in the grass.

In these days we have seen come and go the scuds of beech. We have numbed our eyes for the sake of the dying trunks. We have come to expect no more loss of airpower.

In these days we have been taken for loops. We have not been able to find our mark. We have not been able to log past the beach. We have not been able to sing to our goats.

But do not tip! Do not flunk! Do not worry, in the face of this pliance, that we are hopeless. For it is through this that we have been made green! It is through this that we have been made halfway long! It is through this that we have been told to obey our nomenclature! Our mission has been laid bair, and chalk!!!

5. Tisket. There were many who found us to be without face. There were many who asked us to rip out our buttons. There were many who told us to get the hell off the basket. There were many who informed us that our mothers were pealing. There were many who beat us until we flipped.

These were the many who were not to be conforded! These were the many who were not to find L’eap in the s’ea! These were the many who were not to be found at home! These were the many to whom Cob would never commit a thing!

6. And Thus, Retract.





Book I


Convulsing arithmatic confusion. The night confiscates my vision of the snubwad trees. Correct me if I'm wrong but I think most of the sky is an illusion. Do I, through the inadvertentness of non-communication, spill the beans in your pie? I cannot force myself off of the mountain if I do not dry the weeds. And forgive me, but I am long. And in these days of massive redundancy, elongation is a curse to be ranked along with unrealistic combinatorial physics.

Last week a darkness hit the freeway. It spilled its fire upon the masses, unleashing numerous unqualified dependants upon the world. Cob spat fire and ashes, burning to turn the truants to the cause of unsurfacing unification.

Unification is a fantasy derived from long hours of hissing at guardrails.

Up until the point during which the itch becomes obtrusive, it is wise to avoid any indication that the will exists in you for anything. A hapless person is one without false societal expectations. To spill your dreams unbiasedly about the room is synonymous with opening your bag to the ants. Don't bleed unless your face is missing.

Condensed in all this meandering is a path to the wall of drudgery. Going there is less boring than imagined, as drudgery has its roots in the obsession of those who started it.

Without this drudgery, this pitiful repetition of life's circles and half-jumps, we have no pylons to indicate direction. We have no meaning. We have no line. Within our circles we develop ourselves, and without them is the tumultuous battering of the world of no truths. Dark and light are constructs emanating from the clearness of nothingness. We cannot see clearly, for in clearness is boredom, for in boredom... there must be things to see, or nothing is there. Things to see have been needed since the rock decided it needed to be. Just trying to be is a struggle enough... the rock had audacity. Fifteen million years worth, plus the infinity it was thence relegated to through misconceptions and lack of direction.

Can we split atoms if we can't split peas? Our soup thickens with the inaccuracy of our carving utensils. We spill forth righteous stupidity, only to delve more deeply into the heart of our own delusion. Ourselves to be as important as a knife in a calf is not the way things condense. Spell yourself out, letter for letter, and miss no sounds. Are you phonetic? There is the fuzziness, the blurred kinetic redundancy we call nothing, for aura is too mystic.

These things bleed to one another, blurring the non-existent lines that show difference. Apartness. Separateness. There is this, and there is no that. We see that as a means to know this. We don't, therefore, see this as what it is but as what we want it to be. Tainted vision is the cornerstone of perception, for the objective lense is one untarnished by thought. Thought is the blood of the Indian in heat, the strength of the exile, outcast, forced from familiar terrain by lesser great numbers. And a spiral bludgeon of non-hope, a dream of infinite bounties, nothing at all but a paint can in a photograph of a Warholian china shop. Don't move lest ye break the shelves.

The enemy of this construct of thisness and thatness is God, omnipotence, and the great conglomeration of everything. Collective unconscious. Collective. Collection. Community. Commune. Group defined by parts. Parts defined by unique shapes clearly defined against a chaotic white-noise background. All of this the construct of thought, not wishing to see blurs and unclarity.

Believe the night, believe the day, believe the walls and the lamps and the tiles on the floor and the clicking in the darkness and the echoes that seem erie only in their presence and the clarity of their reverberation which cannot possibly exist. Take heart in the nonexistence of entities, the non-being which so many have chosen to see as a being. As a state. The state that is a non-state. Take heart in that. Take strength in the arbitrary ambiguity, the way nothing would happen if nothing happened, yet everything is/was/will happen({ing}) because something happened. Believe in smooth sand. Believe in rough glass. Polish is pavement. Pavement is concrete blur.