Exegesis, p. 28-33

It must be clear. A certain type of sensation, un-paralleled during your ordinary & tiresome days that make up the continuity of life cuz it ain't like those days, oh no, it's as far from those days as you could possibly imagine your boring old self yessiree and that's the greatest quality of this thing - it is fleeting and ungraspable there is no definite entry point to understanding it nor is there an exit for that matter it's all one in the same to you and you know it when it happens, but you can never smell it coming suddenly it is your world it's is all there was is and will be but you can't think about it you can't interact with it you can't even write about it cuz it's already writing about you and maybe there's no proof of the thing, of course, how could there be? it's just speculation, pipe dreams, fragmented oral histories passed in hush whispers amongst art students aboard trains teachers vagabonds construction workers yuppies clerks hairstylists they've all seen it in some form or another they've all experienced it they've all got pieces of the biggest biodegradable puzzle ever dreamed up in layers caked on like silt, shale, limestone... definite qualities? o no. o no no no not here bub. this thing doesn't keep the same zip code for more n' a day, even if it did it wouldn't even matter cuz it's unlisted, a no mans land of thought forms, a black hole, a singularity, an anomaly, a glitch in the matrix, you can talk about it in slow paced & even tones, or quick and rapid fire fibre optic bursts, but it won't help you express a truer form of the thing, photographs are not allowed, cuz it won't sign the release papers you can only erase the grey around it and hope people interpret the negative space correctly and see it for what it is - they won't, though, they never do, if they say they do they're shitting you, they're just pretending, oh ya they'll nod and laugh and agree but that only means they missed the point completely sorry but they didn't hear you because no one ever nods or laughs or agrees when they talk about this thing that's why it is only spoken of through phantasms or maybe in some far flung corner of the internet, perhaps a rarely traversed message board or blog if you're lucky (you lucky, man?) 'cept it covers its tracks cuz every time the information is transmitted through interception or eavesdropping or espionage the truth becomes a little more warped, like a game of telephone, you ever play telephone? you think i'm making this up? seriously man, this is exactly the problem: each time the message gets a little more warped through every re-telling and get's a little more messy the thing gets a little more messy to accommodate failure of communication, do you see now? it raises the stakes ups the ante in any event at some point the communique breaks down completely but the thing still remains; aware; veiled; the lights withdraw no longer visible but still you know you gotta press on no it is not yet over Monocell still sleeps compile the data organize it analyze it from each angle and in every which dimension like a little insect with more legs than you know what to pluck off innumerable legs waving in all directions like canned food for the Ouroboros like a sizzling steak freshly chainsawed out of the majestic bovine by a hobo slapped over a trashcan fire somewhere in a rail yard somewhere in Indiana. It's breath is encoded in the constellations, dimly, like all the stars are commin' down from stimulants (even a mild caffeine high) an' the time speeds back up an' the light catches up to itself yet somehow gets darker and it falls through your mind like water waves eroding into your awareness xylophones of bones clinking an unplanned melody thousands of feet below us down down somewhere in the purgatory or The Fiddler's Green or cozily nestled betwixt the molten rock or whatever stock lie you've been spoon fed into believing is under the ground. Look, you've started something you can't stop, man, I see the signs it's painted all over you and trust me I know, I started it too, three decades ago and it's still going I tried to stop it but you can't you can never stop it, man, you can only hope it stops you and it will, I promise you it will, cross my heart hope to die stick a needle in my eye, it always stops you, but if you're lucky (and I think you are) it won't be in the same instant you the peace out from the mortal coil like it was for my old pal but sometimes it can be merciful and give you a few minutes or hours even to live with the knowledge but usually no, just no, it just takes you and you exeúnt stage left, syanara, thats all folks, but you must be prepared to face that, to stand, to rise above while your peers flounder about in the same cycles reliving the same stories day in and day out look at you here in this new place while others run away from here you stand in Synnestvedt Orchards, like a champ but guess what? this little tuft of grass we're standing on might as well be one square centimeter on the tip of the dick of the Sphinx compared to the rest of the mystery swimming all around and in us and you wouldn't believe me if I told you I was dreamin' and you was dreamin' and our dreamin' got all tangled up cuz this ground is real right now even though it's not really ground. the frostbitten grass may as well be a layer of paint slapped on the great wall of china like graffiti scrawled in a krylon glyph by a man who saw God and if you were so daring as to kick the ground through this ice and snow and grass and dirt (there's a shovel somewhere out here that I stashed 2 long years ago but I guess that doesn't matter now...) good n' hard you'll see what i'm talking about and if you squint your eyes enough you'll see past this murk enough make out the letters, words even, a full congruent sentence if you're feelin' lucky, which I know you are, and then you'll realize we are standing on the greatest cache of books ever buried but even if you devoted your entire life to reading all these soylent volumes you'd never get to them all. truth of the matter is there are rats, man, rats the size of horses that are on a special mission. their tails dip down thousands of feet to the waters that bubble there to fuel their blind frenzy, cuz they are blind man, blinder than Paul Atreides and they carve blind tunnels through the moldy paper in mad idiot spirals if you put your dome-piece to the ground the cold unforgiving ground and listen - when the wind is still and right and good - you can hear them chat-chat-chattering away devouring the dreams and memories and visions and discoveries of mankind. yes. you guessed it. they were sent by the thing, the great pumpkin itself to erase all the Akashic Records from existence. This is why you gotta keep on doing what you're doing, cuz if you give up, well I may as well light a match and burn this entire orchard to the ground (I've done it before and I'll do it again) so you want something to live for? HUH? Do ya?! Well quit your belly aching and jump in the car, there's not much time left (even though that's all we really have, time)...