Editorial notes: This post/story appears in two versions (see also Warm Rays in Cold Rooms (v1)) and it is not clear which one is the later or more up to date of the two, hence they are both published here.
I was walking around the room, trying to focus on discovering new meanings between the storylines that were painted in items and their histories amidst history.
I returned to sit on the bed after he’d finished paying his respects to the anonymous pornstar. I chose to perch on the head of the bed, slightly floating [S says that I’m part fairy, because each of his loves are coalesced somehow into me, as though my heart were a Frankenstein of cloned-parts] toying with a wandering, lost, dictionary-cover with one toe, and eyeing with eye the Professor.
He was slurring his words.
“I tried to work out why my words kept getting caught. But I never worked it out. I got frustrated by the sense that all my attempts at gathering data were resulting in damage to my capabilities. Argh.”
That’s how he was. Outrageous one moment, and a silent dove the next. It was as perplexing as it was precious to my heart and love for him. I could never praise him enough, not if all the world were to be aware of his glory for fact of the present moment’s fad. {-give time for applause to die down-}
The revolution burned without pause, never lacking for fuel, but he was sick of smoke. He said he was too accustomed to its presence, and that he’d passed through levels and chambers of torments of unhumanly realms [where a fire is a common metaphor for an instrument of inflicting pain, as the route to absolutely unsolvable theodicy] enough for the smoke’s and fire’s chaotic dances to seem mundane.
“Would it start a war if I said that Mohammed was a metaphor for helping us bridge, and thus come to terms with the AntiChrist nature of the (by definition) Christly messiah?”
I could never tell why he felt like he could conduct his chemistry-kit tests in such a hazardously free-form manner, and always answered, “I don’t know.”
My tongue was always tied when he asked me a question. It was during those sparks of an interrogator’s humanity that his eyes would catch my gaze, and I’d become dumb, like before a supernova or garbage god smeared in shit and with sinews of putrifying meat-flesh, plastic and cans, slumbering, snoring in gusts of stink and miasma.
He’d abandoned the relatively sweet (amidst a lifestyle that bred corrosion and hard lessons) girl in favour of a quadrangle of sunlight.
Until abandoning her, and whilst I had been walking around his room trying to ignore him, he had been on his laptop, where he’d been ignoring me in turn or trying to ignore my presence. It was not unusual for him to switch me off, and I knew I could only wait to be acknowledged again into his throne room.
When I was ignored, it felt like I mattered as much as a pebble (which was something he had said a number of times, anyway), and I wouldn’t receive any consideration.
After he left the short-haired pay-per-view e-lady, he gave me the first sign that my benevolence-rights had been restored, by informing and recommending a sunbeam he’d “discovered”.
He explained that in a room that is warm, when one’s hands (with fingers) are cold, a ray of light is more than expected. More even than a sunlit field. More even than a warm blanket. More even than the first day of each newly arrived season.[1]
…
I now type but don’t show him the words, and I reserve the right to change any of them:
“I stand righteous, I am the vector which says, “You cannot preserve internal deities if outcast from their purified delineated,” and I fight that god too. Because during these late-day incarnations, deep lessons become deeper. A hidden god is called a wicked angel, and thus a hidden redemption is called an apocypse. Peace be upon us *raise sword on tower*.“
He is lying – the record must note. I can tell without a doubt.
…
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
[[[[ Using fire from fury at past self to defy past’s heaven, despite past’s superiority, hence past is like my pharaoh, my god, compared to past I am a newborn rising against his father
He shut up, and I had to prod him to explain himself, what did the meals mean to him?[2] 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 masterbating, 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 shadow for too long
My
Thoughts
Disso
Lved
Ash.
Lved.
[1] As he explains and describes, I worry that I have chosen the wrong imagery or paradigm, but I can never tell which is what, or whether any is either. —- So instead, I hurry to type what I can, weakly promising with my intentions to expand ideas into continuous sentences, and inflating with knowledge of accessible options, plans to introduce themes that are strictly delineated in their development and outputted for orderly maturation, and hoping at least that some of it is readable.
[2] They meant that there was unbounded talent residing in each other one of us and yet we weren’t constantly seeing that, which meant that sometimes we get to sparkle. Or was that what they meant to him if he mirrored the cook. Funny-mirror. Mirroring who he was if he was who she felt she was, and buffering differences.
