(The concept of the Big Bounce envisions the Big Bang as the beginning of a period of expansion that followed a period of contraction. In this view, one could talk of a Big Crunch followed by a Big Bang, or more simply, a Big Bounce. This suggests that we could be living at any point in an infinite sequence of universes, or conversely the current universe could be the very first iteration. However, if the condition of the interval phase “between bounces”, considered the ‘hypothesis of the primeval atom’, is taken into full contingency such enumeration may be meaningless because that condition could represent a singularity in time at each instance, if such perpetual return was absolute and undifferentiated.)

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We who should know some things about spacial inequities, including snapshots of ill-advised stunts, in the bereaved throes of let us say “loss” for lack of a more suitable substitute, would rather be acting upon our hunches than maintaining a grander gallop, by far. Lack is grace’s ugly remainder, deficits undone by manipulation and human passion, of course, in the debilitating frequencies of solving, of course. Stacked bills, uncounted but never not regarded, stave off recrimination in the “shall we say” of more direct yet inaccurate models. And the proof resides in the fact that 95 percent of humans continue to tie their shoes with weak knots. Backwards is sometimes the way.

Inconsistent from other findings, looser with others, still, we see a revived return on abject valuation. If one were to make an art of work then the diminishment would be set at “Locks For Keys” prices only.


If you tickle the hills in just the right places a train sound will wander out like skateboards clacking by on the street. A cherry bomb for your thoughts. And the mailboxes are exploding with bad evidence. Wallowing from one drink to the next. Through nixed neighborhoods of half-willing substitutes, no more come-ons from the whores on any of the avenues. Coughing up diamonds. Itchy, bathed in rigmarole, bristly with it. Rope a fire hydrant. Eleven’s no time to complain. An inventory’s sticky investment, not a roll to buy on, in the audio-dictated heaven of all commands, to be or to smirch, deftly. The wired and the election carriers and the handheld gods. Blasted dunes past all hope of sand. Truer? Only badly hacked. Hoist a laugh through all petards. A squalid quarters gone with a flip. Stay hydrated. Not too alert. Until all art’s merely a business transaction. Poorly done to make no cents on any dollar’s painted-on mustache. We are through with allegiance to our names, only our brands now stand and flower. While an only’s each is compromised into a payable account on the credit of a when’s never. A tap’s not a wink, golden slicked, in the patched-through silence of a silicon briar’s USB, not unmentionable after a steely fiber-optic lurk. Pad away, now not darkness. Eyeless in televised remote. Now not scrambling harder. Light the un-way. We are done with solely, singularly. Shared. Plugged in to a mesh’s whole with no parts to be. Dash off a brief note. Formalize. Troll, ineluctably, in anonymity. Be unaccountable, too, in all judgment. There is no you left here. And also, please do not allow the closing door to nudge your backside as you exeunt from the premises.

A more rigorous example of the swell and ebb (flow and recherche limits notwithstanding) dynamics of substantial “dwelling instincts” renders all (or more than some) significant “others” under-performing market predictions within the caged boundaries of self, or self-hood, when the comforting sound of a text’s bleep is heard, or figured into the hardier aspects of the equation. “The phone’s ringing,” is less likely in this scenario than, “Let it go to voicemail.”

(Proportional distances of rubric-involved fallacies trend also within 2–3 points of “Less Likely” or so it would be assumed from watching capitals sink to lowercase even in their tamest nightmares, eliciting such sighs as, “Work without me here, shit.”)

We are all going to die.

Then there are those times when the universe gets unfigured, when all the obsolete angles and obtuse angels get railroaded and mole-hilled and sanctioned by the astronomical odds it takes just be born into all this. You scratch your head like a lottery ticket. The moon’s a bowl of mush and gravy, and who knows what the next spoonful will bring? Sorry, kid, but it’s not suppertime in the milky way. And the maid’s falling asleep to the sound of helicopters droning on and on overhead.

Risky stakes, here, offer the least common rewards. In other marginal instances we find the greater that there resides fear/worry over the subject matter, the more apt the custodian of the favorable will heed the injunction to not speak up or out for anything. Also, we find that treason is just another word for all that’s left to win.

Test Subject #4 was relieved of his inhibitions by a blip and a chime. When asked about his current state he related that, “Should’ve known her. The most objectively beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Ran a red to get back to where she was. Parked. Sat. Watched colors come and go. Loved all the faces she made, funny and not-so too. Thought of the word windswept. Thought, that’s perfect. Everything happens for a reason; and that reason is often times a really, really shitty one. Spare a light?”

The object caught between two warring particles, we exist also between two occurrences: what has happened and what is happening, which will always be the same, soon, and then forever undifferentiated from the present. Salient to this “set” circumvention, another reason to “get out of bed” will not just present itself until all abiding and arriving is done.

We are all part-time tenants on this big old oblate spheroid of ours. Get the most out of it while you can.

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