Editorial notes: This essay/story appears in two versions (see also Warm Rays in Cold Rooms (v2)) and it is not clear which one is the later or more up-to-date of the two, hence they are both published here.
After paying his respect to the anonymous pornstar, Professor Steven Stephenson, said, slurring his words [it was the one and only time I caught him blind drunk (nb. ethanol)], “I tried to work out why my words kept getting caught, but I kept being bored.” And that was all we ever got was a sudden epiphany, yet in complete contrast to the famous bathtub Eureka, this one was conducted in continued silence.
We were sitting on the bed together. He had been on the laptop ignoring (or trying to ignore) my presence and had only recently admitted benevolence to my consciousness’ perspectives when recommending a particular ray of light.
He explained that in a room that is warm, but with cold fingers and hands, a ray of light like an old oil heater, attached to the wall thus immobile, but kind.
I hurried to type, intending to expand those ideas into continuous sentences, with introducing themes, developing the theme, outputting theme, but hoped to at least make them readable.
The ghost of the family he lost (he was on a rescue mission he said, using technology from Casper [avoiding mistakes nb!!]) could be heard in footsteps, and echoes informing schedules, doors offering remote setting, meals
He shut up, and I had to prod him to explain himself, what did the meals mean to him? The question was deeper than he’d expected, which suggested that she was benefiting from the change to her class [I changed from Technological Science to Phenomenological Science, as the Prof had been prodding me to do since X-mas].
He was trying to spin boundary freedom development, mixing meat and milk according to laws, iterating that unto itself, iterating values unto themselves, following constellations that fall into irrelevance whilst abiding by an unwavering belief in their form.
He hated this feeling. It was better passed masturbating, she knew, but he wore his crown emanating from his asshole, and this obstructed his genitalia due to accident or sabotage or neither, but certainly due to bad design. I could see that his shadow resembled a devil during these periods. These were amongst the few proofs I had that Prof was not a common crackpot.
Description of shadow:
- Penis reminds me of Greek mosaics of comical nature
- Tail raised over head like a scorpion
- Tall legs and no torso
- Feeling of smoke if look at the shadow for too long
My
Thoughts
Disso
Lved
Ash.
