DAILYSOMETHING

Metrograd hums

A common compositing misconception: that a user style elements is a somber link to religion (i.e. banana breakfast) a claim rapidly refuted by common cluster logic, the point being that the soul, given user understanding that this represents only a software approach, that is, nothing in the realm of graspable, the point being that the soul is not neccesarily a root charge of a given process, or, reasonably speaking, a calculation (i.e. banana breakfast) that regardless of visual, already hardware, environment proceeds to obfuscate a terminal setting: to sit on a chair, that is, to press buttocks through cloth onto modeled wood, or styrofoam - regardless of process, a thought examining the possible variation is not given, that is, neither a hardware or a software representation of an anguished user - sweat that is, say on fingers, on to keys, is neither software nor hardware, for the keys are only what a chair is to the “model of chair”, “structure of chair”, “ideal of chair”, while the sweat of the butt only a durable environment catastrophe unengageable by common algorythm - the point being that the soul (i.e. banana breakfast), considerably a stable terminal belief and the somber link - wait, Quentin said, there is a bit missing here, say the figure is on the table, white sheet, spot lights, etc., but the cameraman, the subject in question is beyond recording capacity - it’s okay Quentin, just finish it - will you have something to say then - yes, just shoot it - to be Quentin then and there, well, to be Foreman too, all the same, that is, they would tell each other the same story in a different way, Quentin with the camera (the religion) and Foreman with the interpretation (the kernel), the point being that system resources are unambiguous to the viewer regardless of system pressure. “Looking at her again,” Quentin said, when Foreman asked him where he has been, knowing already that he had gone to the edge again to look at that tree, but quite conscious of his own desire to know what Quentin’s mad knowledge may be this time, the hours he took to walk out of the city and to the abandoned tracks, to see a tree that, well, we know who, planted a hundred years ago, wondering, did he keep his coat on, did he look thoughtful and interesting, and, well, how did he cope with the freedom, to just, you know, pick up and go like that, Foreman thought when I saw him stalk off past the coffee shop in the morning, when Foreman thought, don’t forget to ask him where he went, even though he already knew he was going out to that tree again, the point being, “looking at her again,” was completely expected, as well as the rest of the day that has presently passed, so wondering then, at the dusty screen of the window, Foreman had already looped to the answer, the question being so interesting, that is, “I had gone in the cold and I took the jacket too” along with “she still curves right along the sun if you stand in the right spot” and “I fell asleep along the tracks” no longer a perpetual nagging for a reversal of time but a humble reproach for the non-algorythmic inconvinience of movement by the second now, and by century every day before yesterday. “In his childhood poems, remember, every tree was train” was the institutional analysis, yet Quentin manages still to cope with the incogruities of reality given his condition. And Foreman? More like a cat that waits for him by the window, unsure of his own gender. Was he a female that was spayed or a male sterilized. When all you do is poop and eat and do want you want to do and sex hasn’t been a drive for a century, what gender are you? The inconvinience of pasttimes is that they pass. A day of wondering for Foreman and a day of wandering for Quentin and sometimes together on the night: “You are so corny, Foreman.” Quentin, with a light fibre flick to a dying cigarette. Turning, an exaggerated sound. Swirve up the stairs, drunk, fall back. “The moon’s light Foreman, and this is not me saying it, some norwegian got it right one hundred years ago, the moon’s light is a counterfeit, a stolen praise of sun. It is by this virtue that it is cold.” A forced left in the dark. Trees get in the way. “Turn on that GPS Foreman, where you taking me man. Where you taking me?” Light from another street. Three horses pass. “Wery nice saddles, yes?” A crowd, talking soberly, girl laughs from the forests. “You are NLO yes? UFS? Not identifiable large biomass, motherfucker Foreman, it’s so purple here man. Let me just stay here I will fall asleep at the table.” The churning of Motorgrad underneath and electricity close overhead.