The blessed face and voice of the Word, a noise boisterous in its earthly function.
The operative relevance of the translated passages is such that even one sample spoken aloud displays profound psychological transformations in the reader, the speaker, such that old-fashioned principles can be observed to rot through like moldy timbers, a matter of time and probability, drowsily dousing the insight of the everyday for profundities hardly comprehensible to mortal reckoning.
All that is alive is in some view profane; a taste for sweets justifies unmerited suffering.
It's a game of zero-distribution. An equation of the working substance within these words cannot be properly known, that is, it cannot be housed by sane means, couched in linear thinking.The evidence seems pervasive that contemporary experiments with the Word provide a coalescence of identity which is not ordinarily provided in ideal persona models, factory-direct or home-grown. The alliance between so-called conventional wisdom and and sanguine fancies grows dim in the presence of the Word. Linguistic structure as a whole begins to break down on a cosmic level, in a manner of speaking.
Mimic the dealer and you will never bust; a concurrence of skulls and diamonds.
Periodical linguistic consumption and purging fringes our interactions here, as if the process of translation itself was never-ending. The massive lore of the Word's cryptography yawns wide like a black-lit abyss, antiphonal, scarcely pronounceable, hastily scribbled, hurriedly typed, unmistakably unique it its inheritance. The manuscript, as we have already said, is compelling yet absurd. It deconstructs itself halfway through, then works back towards a linear model with just enough time for a photo finish.
The operative relevance of the translated passages is such that even one sample spoken aloud displays profound psychological transformations in the reader, the speaker, such that old-fashioned principles can be observed to rot through like moldy timbers, a matter of time and probability, drowsily dousing the insight of the everyday for profundities hardly comprehensible to mortal reckoning.
All that is alive is in some view profane; a taste for sweets justifies unmerited suffering.
It's a game of zero-distribution. An equation of the working substance within these words cannot be properly known, that is, it cannot be housed by sane means, couched in linear thinking.The evidence seems pervasive that contemporary experiments with the Word provide a coalescence of identity which is not ordinarily provided in ideal persona models, factory-direct or home-grown. The alliance between so-called conventional wisdom and and sanguine fancies grows dim in the presence of the Word. Linguistic structure as a whole begins to break down on a cosmic level, in a manner of speaking.
Mimic the dealer and you will never bust; a concurrence of skulls and diamonds.
Periodical linguistic consumption and purging fringes our interactions here, as if the process of translation itself was never-ending. The massive lore of the Word's cryptography yawns wide like a black-lit abyss, antiphonal, scarcely pronounceable, hastily scribbled, hurriedly typed, unmistakably unique it its inheritance. The manuscript, as we have already said, is compelling yet absurd. It deconstructs itself halfway through, then works back towards a linear model with just enough time for a photo finish.
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