Moildering
If you ask how I got in the position of driving these asses across a moildering bridge, over supernatural forces, beings and lands, this record of adaptions is not like the first settling of old Philadelphia by the mystics of the Wissahickon. They lived in caves where the Creek passed through a gorge to merge with the Schuylkill River then into the Delaware and then to the sea. This series of transfers by water resembles their transfers of culture from the old they abandoned for the new they knew nothing of. Who could know anything of these myths? The Odyssey of Homer was a handbook for them. They founded that Society of the Woman in the Wilderness, thinking the world would end by 1694. The world has ended countless times before and since, but viola, it appears again.
No one could see this new world was not inhabited by monsters of the Odyssey. Further handicaps were it had no heroes of Truth or Helen of Troy like Kelpius and Homer, new and old. Descendants into hell are confused as to the scruples they thought they were reliving. In the beginning these obtuse recommendations excitedly questioned each others nerve. But the five microcosms did not notice believers then. Since the mystics were predominant certain extreme oddities of topography were involved. The majority in that town patterned their lives and homes after the sea monster that came up and got Laocoon. They saw it in the stars and in the cosmos, if not actually in the sea, casting omens of earth and fire and trying to foretell the future, for all the good it did. They sacrificed to Poseidon right out of the Greek, so though they believed a child born pure and innocent it was not scrupled to live among tens of millions out of the womb. These contrasted with the Harbor Seal Baptists who began speaking along the jetties and walks, parading with their eyes closed. Long after their audience had gone they kept up their antiphonies, anointed themselves elders in a Council of Watchers to oppose intrusion of this nemesis from the sky as much as Leviathan from the mystic sea.
Is it possible to have a novel without a character other than ourselves, the en masse collective of the world where certain mythological conflicts overwhelm? Not to spell them out New Philadelphia was such a colony, like an out post in Harlem or on Hadrian’s Wall, inhabited by refugees of that old world confronted in the new not so much by nature but by myth.
There are many ways to offend those who have not seen the cracks radiating from the center of this hypothesis. Divergences perceptible as the shape Ohio once implode fissures like Tycho in the Moon, which colony craterlets, orbits of phyllotaxis became proof of being. Some finite intelligence was at work, occurring passim, then a priori, which became a rendezvous-proving rule that circled down to those who descend, crossings seen in meeting-places along the canals.
To call them canals is a faux pa of the planned obsolescence of intelligence that once ruled the world. Like thinking the world flat or mistaking rivers for canals, spheroid for flat, these cracks, taken alone, were not seen any more than they could see Gilgamesh held captive below the Euphrates Beltway or the dug tracks or underground trains connecting their Beltway temples.
This *Stockholm-Munchhausen mosaic of tribes caught between the coasts of present-day fabulous and history displaced other processes of being. After exposure that Secret mind could produce these impulses on its own to gurgle full spoken the words. A huge intestine of money governed in Secret with its primitive media nerves, multilayered in a newfound gut had a brain stimulating the tribes with “wow pulses.” It would digest money, excrete money to and from to conceal the one cell organism known as Mammon-Oranus,
If you will free your mind from the logical and three dimensional for a moment, several poderent asses, moiderent asses, made a train across the bridge of this immaterial. The asses could speak and held a dialogue among themselves about the trek, which was fitting because all the other traffic was motorized. A complete list of the motors includes all the little articles of miscreant legend ordinarily seen. These fill the ordinary mind. The asses, being alive, could not be controlled by the machines whose predisposition above and below was taken as chaos. But to cross the bridge was to cross. All sight and sound, visible and heard in these proof states of of the world far below were after effects. Put one foot on the bridge and you will yourself prove endless nothingness into being. That’s why he rides the asses. Sentient beings, material among wraiths who pay no attention, are not seen or heard. Without these imaginations the bridge is bright thought and thoughts projected. In the second heaven of the invisible the discovery of the not, the naughty not, the psychonaut, the parabot kept image from the mind.
We designate all services here as accessible. It took only 300 years to undo the empiric world to nothing but rods and cones. The last disassociates could only remember paintings on adobe walls transferred to canvas the way giant forms transferred to the thought of the age. What’s it look like if you’re a rock wall. A giant? A fat monk? I don’t want to say.
Deserters who were disloyal at best, rebellious at worst, were recaptured, treated with drugs and reintegrated back. The odd fights with EU made this outpost. Nothing so dramatic as fortification of mind
those practical seizings of the moment to intuit a method.
Something about the universe changed, they thought.
The faith to apprehend without wonder.
I began to paint them to illustrate. It was as if the rebellion had been cast into rock colonies of hunchbacks. The Hunchback sat in his chair, knee to the left, shoulders right. Let’s count. There’s a face, nose, cheek, a brow over the eyes, arm hung down. When you begin to see these beings preserved in the wood grain doors, joined side by side at the shoulder, as if they were praying, or at least looking down, the premise of the ineffable gone from flesh to stone, heads, shoulders, one, two, three wearing long coats. I guess the other is a girl. That guy’s got an arm around her. Don’t have a name for her yet. This world must simply be done, which is going too far maybe into nature. Other worlds are analogous, badgers and dwarves, tortoise and yarrow. Waking trees and visible naiads, fauns and satyrs, dwarfs and giant gods, centaurs. Amateurs thrown into wars of angels. Abyss against the saints, blood moons and their coming King. Elbows, an arm behind the back, and down, another behind. Three corner colonial hats on top of rocks triangulating. A whole herringbone crowd of airy creatures between earth and moon, finally comprehended with reason, being in proportion superior to the world as if somebody left them, buttocks sticking out. There’s his arm going down the thigh. He’s reaching over...and they say people that play with clouds are weird. The charm is that life goes on.
Genetically modified avant-garde pop science, politics, and history. As above, so below, theosophists say. Altered Sky demonstrates new meaning to Ross Calvin's Sky Determines. Coming up from the ground seeds altered to match the new sky modify in reverse. When the gene gun fires new cells into the organ it is new. History ceases in the same way Monsanto eradicates natural seed. This means GMO rewriting cannot be understood from what used to be.
These codes of weather, politics, science are openly visible in architecture, art and the public politics, all agencies of government and academia, and super symbolic. For instance, Kurk Wold says Obama's acceptance speech that June night in Denver was an invocation of Iraq, meaning Babylon, meaning an invitation to the return of gods we'd rather not know. Baal, Ishtar, Moloch summon invisible forces and evoke those already present in the iconic designs built into the stage, a whole genre of super events has come, summoning and invoking. GMO religion and architectural politics extend into biology and geoenginnering to the least nano scale. The prima facie list of events continue. They are called Opiomes because that politics, science, history, religion are very high on dope.
Kurk Wold wrote of genetic modification in the guise of myth. The whole notion of over writing literature from under writing of ancient palimpsests preoccupied these literary codes DARPA was are at pains to demystify. HMS Star Chylde, then Starchitect, Opiomes unvexed with reality, under the condition that movies became truth, drugs insight and myth fact, the comics had it right. There is no need to wonder what GMO poetry is talking about. Wold says it turned out to be versions of current events that occurred in literature thousands of years before.
Myth-fact, Fact-myth, GMO religion discovered last was ominous among those who took the DMT sacrament to penetrate the worlds. Not that they worshiped lines in the sky or took aluminum enhancers. It summed the Aquarian age. Brotherhood was tyranny, illumination was deceit, diversity was annihilation.
If you want to get dropped off by cab in this supernatural Weimar, the first thing you’ll see in innocence is the lung, heart, kidney, liver of the buildings are the ancient worship of the self. What else could it be to house organs all over the cities? And they weren't built out of cardboard. Carbon was the builder! Dogs are carbon, women are carbon! And trees! So if Hawking thinks the bugger from beyond is not carbon, aliens must be silcone, eh? These QED artificial organs rose all over Weimar where “hell was a giant projection of the human body” (Durling 398), a new line from Dante to include the headless capitals of the world. If any of this means that the body cut off at the genitals has no legs and feet, and if all the capitals planted had the ‘groin cut off / from that part of his body where it forks (xxx 49f), as is said of Master Adam, “spiritually immobilized by his sins, then the capitals "essentially have no legs” (Druling 394), but neither does the torso that spans the Weimar hell. It’s not a body anyway, it’s a torso, a trunk, a quadrapod.
Mice and Brain
Now if you will look up you will see the giant heads floating above the city
like balloons. Such anthropology suggests hands and feet dug below them so they
can come into landing and be placed on pedestals as the religion of the day
assembles its body parts, kidney, lung worship, from the small intestine to the
ankle. notwithstanding the heart’s dendroliths. All of this is made possible by
the little brains carried in pockets, wallets and purses. Dashboards are modems
coiled and writhed like the Egyptian past put to good effect to lead to the
Penis Monument and the Capitol Womb. One big god too big to see, but of course
the giant and giant remains have already been dug.
Gnomic events are like rubber bands.
They really show the use of transfers of consciousness occurs as the will
allows another into its domain. It wills itself out of its own and into
another. You do not know if you get it back after you have given it up. Domain
transfer is not simply transfer. Repeated instances alter, there is that word
again, the terrain. Some call it reality, astral travel, LSD, DMT. Ninane did
this to Merlin.
The Johnson Memorial is the center of this organ donor capitol, a story right
out of platonic solids with 26 facets. Why are faceted fractal geodesic
hexagonal craters stored below the equatorial ridge? You might as well ask why
buildings are square or radar reflective? Why are there twins in the
experiments?
I first saw the giant kidney when I took a wrong turn off Constitution Ave going down toward the mint. It was all hooked up and ferreting, filtering out impurities from the nation’s blood. That opened my eyes and then I began to see the giant liver buildings, hearts and lungs on all sides and the great finger spurting up. Maybe it’s a disrespect for all the other functioning organs,so I drove closer. A guy washanding out pamphlets that explained it so I took one and found to my amazement it was a giant erect phallus. Then I saw the balloon heads everywhere looked like asses, little and big, and coupled to them because similar in size and shape, the brains. I can tell you it changed the way I think about the seat of government. Asses as brains as Weimar had promised, prototypes right here in the capitol. So I asked the guy it that’s a penis where’s the, but being discreet, left it mentionless. So he says can’t you see buddy, and he jerks toward the Capitol sitting there like an upside down bowl. Womb! Womb! He muttered, breasts and bellies and thighs, with rivers running down the sides of hills.
Brubaker Going Out
As opposed to Wold, a Brubakaer is a multicharacter in historical time. So when the dish jumped off the table and Brubaker got out that is plural. Brow Bender went someplace else besides Calcutta, Ca Ching, New York, Ca Ching, London. Is there a book one can read? That's where you go if escape is made. Let'em argue while you pass. The pot swallowed the ladle and the armored Brinks trucks flee.
GET OUT OF THE CITY KNEE.
LEAVE FOOT,
HENCE ARM AND LEG.
In that time Idaho, Utah, Nevada, and the Great Basin washed away. Ohio had long since gone. If you live toward knowing and the north wind blows, then when the butter truck pulls up with piled bodies of fox and hawk, coyote, horse and seal, the road winds around some cliffs and the multitudes fall from trucks.
On Houston Island the honorable men of No-Cleveland and No-York, L.A. saw the global shaken out to tread the clay. Visions of Providence plunged the waves of Toledo, Akron done. Miami, Nulon Rouge, Akron for Gaza was mistaken, Manhattan desolate drove out day. Forgive the poetry. The bone boats sail. Japan was sent sleeping to the sun. Straight out, the Forces hid the light to orient the fish. Rowboats loaded to the gunnels with pennies pushed beyond the lunar mount. Spontaneous analytical precogs where the sage man shuts his mouth came to all.
Alert bridges pontaneously swelling by.
Held further down in letters written in stone creeks, the man tells all under the factories of wax You can see him for what he is, filling in the entrance, a thin layer of hard earth on top with loose soil further down "You have seen many things, but pay no attention; your ears are open, but you hear nothing."
The amount of sleeping gas doubled down.. Instead of writing what we did we wrote what they thought. Either let loose was a thing to decide. The first and middle stages of unknowing are unconscious, but consciousness can work many a surprise. When time brings recognition that there's a continual Rapture In Progress have no purpose, no goal, the thing to finish this romance is to reach another world. An puir wee crannie doodlee broke in different minds into the barn, hid the mass effects of a twister twisting a twist. There were three choices:
1) was he a black man upon a black horse who would not acknowledge the collective?
2) was it just a pig fiddling out -- thinking to be autonomous?
3) was it an old sow in a terrible swoon that our minds were our own? Odd poems came from this like, “thou must barn thy mouse and thrash off the shoe to read.” So psychiatric patients renamed themselves for disease.
After the face, the nose, the brow among the hunchbacks we are sidetracked in the staging of the news. A vision of stone cuts like faery heads illustrates the speech of Brubaker's rose-preparing Fut. If they say the black and white topographies, tunnels and roads, and oil fueled by undermined coal is the future stay out of the mines. There we lived beside the tracks. Those who know Whose name is this, this name and this, make pretty cartoons.
Possession renamed the users beneath the water as Ford families, Sony people. Genuine interiority changed for commercial identity. This said, we were doing well. UK planetary agents had mutated fifteen dimensions.
I know the truth because I had seen the fourth beast stomp, diverse from the others. Teeth of iron and nails of brass break in pieces all residue with its feet where the other three were slain. Yes when the four winds blow then goats stomp stars and then Leviathan comes for the lettuce, a gigantic tadpole, followed by lexicographer, a pestilent fellow
This great fish would seem to fail,
a great fish without a sail,
hauling pillars and high arched roof
ribs blunt and thunder-proof
follows to its whirlpool fall
that drinks up seas, and eats up all.
Jostle islands, shake firm rock
From its flail-finned and steel-beak locks.
This naive fact does so without wondering, which neither explains the current or a bird. I prefer the great river. To go to sleep amd wake up in the data base naif, this would be lost if it must first be known. If only you could teach it to pray, they say. Practical seizings this moment intuit a method. Nothing about the universe had changed, unless it's the way we hooked memory ports into the veins, to oscillate a polarizing. They call that Homo Zap'em. Hey Willie Winkle doesn't give a cheep when sown seeds sown make a kilowatt.
Thimbikin, Thimbikin, broke the barn,
Pinnikin, Pinnikin stole the corn.
Spiritual tuffing and wadding unpack,
Portions of spirit, circumcised heart.
Poeop-ple of the fairy tales
save the pekldfille up and down,
love pep0le saving in valleys below,
protect, pertect peoopel, peertect du peoplez.
Children sliding upon a place so thin, at last did fall and they all fell in.
A huge anima of Bridge King confeigorole hung in the air. Neptune spun its round arms about the shaping circles of moon. Not to dislike moon or crocodiles hatched by the Nile, those sea blown arrivals would quarrel like squirrels from down branches. Black kestrals caterwauled steadily at seabears and boasted in the rigging of the breakers. The babble of relics and ad sticks, bodiless smokes stoved muscle in the struggle pouring down, enamel panels for the skulls of the menial. Against this fabulous curtain the asses of thirsty hemispheres bawled the sky scrape. Even the stones there speak out loud as they try to invent bird notes. Not to use such terms as tower or ghost about these windy mansions is a crime.
No fair form loin but of horn and dawn send against the circuses of sky wagons that cross this Bridge that covers the sea. The sharper swords and comets wield into the sun from rooftops.
Poems flew about the heads of the travelers like particles of aluminum. The travelers thought the poems were outside but they were themselves the medium. Particles of reflective gooseand crocus sprouted from the air like snow. The air was ground where bulbs came up, except they weren’t flowers, they were heads. When the heads flew off leftovers from previous winters sprouted. Skeletons were their means of their speech that emerged in the spring among the take offs of thaw.
These registered greater and less in the minds of aristocrats who wore their towels like shirts, a knot at the shoulder like Roman legions wore a mantle, but these were only visible when remembered. Otherwise invisible, sheaths swirled about their chests and shoulders. The big blobs floated like luminous whales offshore in midair. They probably thought they were white gowned tongues hanging from the pole star.
Schimmel parrots, Craunch scythe, marrow bone, broke shin against the shell of a snail, spinet, Dionysius Hallearnassensis, more savage and cruel in proportion to this bulk, trencher, small cider, grildrig splacknuck, eyes like 2 full moons shining in 2 windows, pumpion, scrutore, scrutorian. Effigies, nonfunctional embellishment of an artifact used as a container. Pitchers, mugs, small monty jars. Human effigy bottles, horse effigies. ion sputtering and regolith.
Knowledge for the sake of power preoccupied megalomania of Soul of sixgun mushroom bagpipe powers justified anything superior to the world of sound and cloud and snail. They ordered the extinction of the invisible or of the visible to force the world into this flight upon the rude tree, filtered always through megalomania of the three terms, the visible, the invisible, the megalomania rising. From the steadily falling night came also a fourth, the true man who opposed webfooted supernatural coitus, cosmic intercourse of ancient existences of spiritual beings invoked by corporations and government. The remything absolut engineers made a twin world spinning double to milk the bronze root of the rose of fortune.
Not that it was crowded, not that it was fluid or solid or that any positional space was described because in some certain sense the snowflakes of navies under the sun all flew through each other. The poems and birds yawned like sheets in a storm hooking over ice jams the salt beak of spirit kings melting over the liquid world galleries of their drifting hair trailed fresh oer their breath that run a long trais of association you couldn’t see. The end of or the start of all the mythreal sword of Arthur taken from the stone as their dividing seemed so and now you know what they do on mountains lifting pretty heads from pillowed beds. The sun shining in their hair is not a dream, it is the mythreal poem, the words the moon opened. The moon, the moon to show or to tell all was also a doctrine, the greatest of which was to keep them on the bridge, going back and forth forever, never getting off. Great tomes to explain the meaning of the poems flying, commentaries, languages, sciences enforced the doctrines on the rivers below, the great myth asanas.
***
Look at the faces below the skins, the pudding-pie ridges named. Below the plateau in mountain caves you can see a topography of face, a nose, the cheek, a brow that shades the eyes, one knee stuck out among hunchbacks, joined. Gully swore one's a girl, which guy had got an arm around her, looking down, praying something around his shoes.
Shoulders, heads, one, two, three, long coats, hats on top, left on the rocks like ten thousand flee. Brush off the cobwebs of sky. People who play with the clouds of herringbone put them down. Some unborn eye hidden in a cliff, toddles the rocks.
Another arm sticking out to brush cobwebs off of sky. You know what that is? A Dilly dander bird on a fat roost monk. Don’t have names for them all, the samurai behind the back, elbow down in a chair, knee to the left, shoulders right, entities of Collective Mind.
Yes we had a picture up but it was the only thing on so we took it down. You can assay it yourself by image search, but beware the eyes and the shine, the tilt of head and hair. What depraved can come in the communities of hell. The insensible loosed acceptance of the thing we all dread to know. Twitter in a major element, Smart 9-11 biometric names, numbers.
Disaster is an experimental metadata culture to harvest information to produce the future optimum fifth dimension capstone event. It's not what happened, but how the story tells in the dimensions. Actors set a stage for effects. The future or what will happen is the fifth. The sixth extends this paradigm. Hegel has to play a part but then you knew we were training him.
Behind the events broadcast by the blatant beast every opinion was wrong. The entire purpose was to absorb the attention of the single celled. Network actors on play to the audience of History peeled in mutual relation to each other as onions, none more primary than another, except of course in the fantasy the stages project. There the drones rule by channels. There have been drones all our lives. The worker bee fulfills the dictates of a "higher" power, the queen and the hive. Bestiaries have always done this to the natural, to demean bees if we take them as symbolic of ourselves. We had seen drones among the neighbors spouting shibboleths, zapoliths.
This is the one
that broke the barn,
that ate the corn.
Charley Wag ate the pudding and left the bag. I picked it up and threw it in the water and none will dare there find it.
Dis is da een 'at bruk da barn,
Dis is da een 'at still da corn.
Undrape! Undrape! I cannot find a shoe to fit the mouth, but turned the spit and cannot pull my fingers out. My tongue, every atom of blood form'd from this soil, this air, Poet of Body and Soul, Guten noir.
I dropped heavy stones from the small bridge to explode them, fastened torpedoes to the undersides of little metal sheds that housed the pollution. Among overturned bales of metal never taken from the wrecks, and slag piles that breathed iron rails and oil stains from the pumping fires and unscrubbed smoke, that later white, but now was black as soot, Jack pulpits hid in the springs. Creosote ties, spikes, rail rock made their beds. On the dirt floor of the firehouse nation with fire axes and mats sat Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar of the north. Alejandro-Nabucodonosor! Ophelia was still silent about it. Apocalypse sat in his chair, glum, with a lump of a beating heart, but a right rock in its hand.
This is the one that ran away
and like the one that came to tea
it had a thing but did not know,
it did a thing it did not do.
The cock on the wood pile blowing his horn.
Dis da een 'at ran awa' on,
dis da ' 'tell ya it a' on.
Who are you, up before your time? Little Horn! Alouette! Zip zapped its horn, unzipped unseen. Undredged divots of lariet-like swings of pigment, loops and swirls, where did they go? They go "in that day to where one shall take up a parable against you with a doleful lamentation."
In New Jersey I feel transcendent.
oOOO OOOooo
Fly angels fly, fly angels fly, its rescue time.
The Bridge
Hanging above, Suspended from the bridge like a chandelier, which made big seem little and little big, wearing masks and jangling, advanced similitudes of control would flutter. We see these in some paintings described as insectoid businessmen. Harnessed and exalted to high status on the bridge with that old trick of Remus they hold their feathers on by adhesives once called tar but now polymer. The whole is suspended over the heads of those who traverse the bridge and those under. Two levels at least, two we can see anyway while standing on the first. What we think is a chandelier is in fact a moon suspended to revolve where crowds underneath look up to see the spectacle. Proper shock and awe is there, a twelve night clock at new year, days, months, the whole scene lit with the fire of its own flammable clothing, like rayon shirts burst into flame. To heighten the effect, turned round to face the angel, there is a sudden rush at the doors. Citizens above, below, the bigs hang in chains, if you want to know. You know what this portends.
The under bridge is filled with refugees, smoke and noise, waves of Eastland patents with rosters in a lab, and lines of important people. There are wheels in wheels. An effect is a cause that has gone before. The warehouses first reside in what we call The Briefcase. When the doors of the briefcase open all these refugees fly out like pieces of paper and exit to the warehouse. It follows that to those under the bridge the ones who float above seem far away. The melodious rhyme of warehouse smokestacks suggest also factories of some kind. Passage from the briefcase is like sailing in the air.
I was canoeing down the phase-locked signals, reaches of water cold as ice. Bordering factories rose from foam, made effluent the factory scum. Factory after factory of storm drains would elaborate. I walked miles up the concrete tubes, which got smaller until some sphincter tinkled at the foot. Frozen creeks in winter flooded into skating rinks. The flood felled tree trunks, overran scrape train wrecked cars and cubes of metal. I walked the tracks with a .22 to shoot out insulators on the power lines like some grandson against illumination in the Esquilache Mutiny. In Madrid in 1766, 4400 oil burning streetlamps twelve feet high of iron and glass were smashed in protest against illumination. Spy cameras, geo phones, grid illumined life surveillance lamps, cameras, microphones shoot out. Resistance to the collective is where ever you connect the Schumann Resonance.
Flares and torpedoes picked up beside the trains, strapped to a rock, dropped twenty feet down, explode below. Human brainwaves jimmied from the metal shacks, phase-locked to multiple frequencies of the entrained up in the slap hills, manipulate a belief system into critical mass. Freight trains boil black soot over it all. Giant holes from strip mine fresh pits swell green a hundred feet below. There was a path around the back of the hill to a cave of scorpions linked with a network of cables shaped like umbrellas.
A double strand of layers hangs the long thrones from the upper deck. Suspended over the deck seen by the villages on the ground, radium pyres flash beside the thrones in nightjars. These are the stars that light the wishes always rising. They could have been plum-trees that grew over rivers overhung with fruit to feed the gulls that circled in and out like wheels.
Gyres of immortal turpitude upside down glowed out of the eyes. Under their seats endless rows of commentary in every language were stacks from one end to the other. This was the reality that the thrones as rulers were creating. Their kings indulged this ferment by projecting it in riddles to the dreams below. This connect of feet and head is a counterfoil to think. The making was itself the beauty and falsehood of a dimension more spotted than Laban's sheep.
The images flow upward from down below too. The tribal folk along the river broadcst visions and sound of Home and Rome and Holmes. Songs and a state of mind, chartreuse clothing with yellow scarves, dandy hats impersonate the nightjar stars. The ones below impersonate the ones above on a two way up and down. The up and down is one, the down up and the up down one. High herons dive in projections of poems from the bridge, not over under either, but around and through with water birds and winged trees. On the hill shoulder, pears and parables of sun light descend to a rookery where Democracy makes love in her Sunkist hair and alabaster plain. Just the opposite of pure vacancy, the winds turn the mother of pearl to blue. No lands or sun or stars in the crowd sing of itself, House and Mouth.
The moon chained villages on the river in the ground below, once thought empirical, are thought designed, but don’t take my word for it, see yourself. The boots of the kings lie in contempt on the tomes of the books stacked like necks whose heads had been left in the trees. Book heads, nicely bound in leather, lay on the ground like Egyptian mummies at nice 7 degree angles too. Would that sleep of the mummy revive? The piezo electric of this EM rad made the body rad.
There is a time when the merry work is done and the bridge will collapse. If then we is all going o'er and hear a crack run through the towns like Paul Revere--a natural sway is coming! This is done to inculcate the soul river beneath depatterning. Universal amplitude had to found in children when sensory deprivation at the Society for the Investigation kicked in.
Flying like butterflies in fall about the heads and necks of the bridges darted swallows of different colors among them hawks and chickens and ducks, white, red and orange parrots thick as leaves in a wind. We only call them bridges because those who cruise the lobbies at the river mouth do, suspended from even greater reconstituted towers which fit the quantum structure both and never.
Beautiful puffed birds, everything that could be said of bobbling on one ungainly foot observes the algorhythm, divine gates concurrent with our sympathy that runs in waves. In case the analogy in plus, minus, both and maybe neither in quantum landscape profanes this wilderness, then either/or every hill will valley, every valley hill, and both maybe, not then phantom, invent numbering beyond where you stop, with every breath root for this quantum info to sell, as if that were.
Another faience model of this shabty recupense all should avoid holds that strangers in the hold of ships brought fantastic waterside constructions to build on land.
One question of our history concerns whether, when the bridge is destroyed, any record of these versions of history remain. At least there will be no new tomes as they are now constantly added. Are these to be preserved in some cloud? For otherwise how would we say that any of it is true, I mean like the bushy stems and roots clockwise on a face, doubled and doubled again until hands and fingers over all the earth. Eagles nests on road signs change into geometric symbols as we look. On the edge of a lake in high season we go down the high road to find an apartment where a woman gives us a fluffy, red, green, yellow, blue, white bird to ride on our shoulder as we walk. It is playful and likes to flip around for the day. In the end I wonder if all of us are guilty of trying to prepare people to live in a world we do not inhabit.
Brubaker is still waiting to see if the music can be heard. Two cases exist happily under different names. Editors have put some effort into dialogue, but are reluctant to start another. All this writing is in free fall and under revision, doubted as an expression, unless context makes it whole. If Bruk=er going out is a prequel that predates that included here, it would help to know what comes after. It is all simultaneous. Juggling the narrative is the same as saying we don't know our youth until our age. They are versions. We hope to get a glossary at the end.
An actor performing on a stage who can’t see the script, after life in life concludes the hardest thing to accept is terrestrial life, that a body matters apart from the thoughts while in it. Like it should be a pleasure center, ok. That it can perform work, ok. That it is a way to touch other bodies, ok. Center of emotion, feeling. That it is a locus for gratification of fame or success or an end in itself. Except in general, like war, there is no historical effect or event but it is all looked at both before the effect and after the event and the only matter was the choice, first to deny the world and second to comfort the prisoners, along with the effort to sustain life to work to find its purpose –provide an identity of children and grandchildren.
So that’s where we are on this side of the bridge. We wake up in the midst of a struggle older than ourselves being controlled by evil in an evil world that calls itself good. This is the day.
-- Thought is the bridge between the worlds of Speech—thought and faith. To abstract the simultaneous into a rotund illusion on the bridge where the thoughts fly with momentary precision and immediate perception of a constant dream apprehended with a butterfly net, and take the leavings of the net back to your space and past them in a notebook, or spread their wings with pins as an herbarium aviary ossuary of thought. The illusion is they fly, they fly and who ever dares will meet them in the bye and bye.
-----Reading this thought stream at odd moments of fatigue and coming in and out of sleep the terms energy, mass, information, spacetime, field, time, charge, plasma, wave, and others are NOT and do NOT qualify as physical objects. Coming in from the spontaneity, cha ching, three steps removed from what was apparent and unspeakable, here becomes the proposition that they erect statues in that place, in all the cites and hence the nations, which they stick with various afflictions, pins and needles as a simple ruse, and infect the streets and the citizens with their maladies so that London is not London all by itself but withal the tampering and predicament of the kings and powers of that place. Whether any of this is true cannot be said for it is triple translated, but that’s what it is in our world to us, in the three envelops, understanding that the envelop is one, two, and three quantums accelerated from each other and the depth of the third is beyond leaped by the fourth unspeakable, spontaneous and self evident there, but non existent here, except as a passing memory and fancy.
We wake up this side of The Bridge as an a priori and are told to walk. It connects what was with what is. The world makes up all doctrines to explain it. Most of us wake up in families bound to the land and to each other in a web of generations. We are born, live and die according to doctrines like reincarnation to keep us in line. You got what you get because you deserve it --even if you don’t know how and you’ll keep on getting it, so stay in line, they say. March. That holds most of the people of the earth in line so they don’t kick against the pricks, but there are two p’s in people.
Even with a good birth they stay in line and bury themselves in themselves not finding an alternative of being. Reincarnation is the greatest prison of all. Walk the bridge, turn around and walk the bridge, turn around and walk the bridge, but if the bridge had some other purpose, to see through its veil, all the floating clouds of existence, the inventions of karma, the houses and the fairs, the burlesques and the carnivals, the corporations and cell phones, the worship of gods, the slaughter of others and use for exploitation? What if the purpose of life, the purpose of the bridge is take it over, to defeat the gods? What if the gods are a tyranny, and their government is a tyranny to milk us like cows and then slaughter us for our adrenal glands after being stimulated with enough fear to spike the juice? What if the gods were in league with the governments? What if they made the governments, keep them as their favorite pets before they eat them too?
How many gods there are and what are their names is what the gods what you to know, to spend your whole life studying them and their philo-soophies. What if kings and princes, senators and presidents were special candy bits cuddled and tended as their delights before the bite? What if the gods were real and these forces they generate control the world as far as it goes? And what if the favored of the nations were taught that if they had talents and worked hard they too could be favored, as long as they went along with the program of milking all the others under them and having a bite to eat themselves? All they had to do was pretend to be beautiful, confident, powerful and they could fool the masses into their stalls at night to be milked. And they would even get to taste the fruit, the bitter fruit of what they do to them.
And what if this had been going on for thousands of years but that there was after all another force besides this evil which was so different from it that the evil could not understand it and feared the Good. The herds below the bridge thought the evil was the good, but the evil knew that the Good was the good. What goodness is then would be paramount, but could not be known by evil which would be constantly mistaking it for itself. What if the Good was patient? What if the Good saw the end from the beginning? For there must be an end of the world as there is an end of life. What if the Good saw that the principle of evil was a lower force, but still far above the governments, the gods and their herds? What if the Good decided to enter the very world of evil and subvert it, overthrow it, destroy it? How would the evil like that? So that’s where we are on this side of the bridge. We wake up in the midst of a struggle older than ourselves being controlled by evil in an evil world that calls itself good. This is the first day of the rest of your life.
Since the world might not like its own overthrow, what if the world said all these controls are for your good and without them you would fall into chaos. Our government is the producer of your advancement in the world and prosperity! Of course the world would lie. It is built on lie upon lie. All the world good is evil and now comes its overthrow. Hallelujah that you were born for such a time as this.
2. Happily enough this seems as good a time as any to admit to a discourse on invisibility had yesterday with one who argued that if invisible he would just feel around until he found it out. Well put, master, if your one sense is all you lose to blindness and not them all, for they would they all desert you and disappear.
Hey can I make you believe that every thing you believe is false and that there is a layer of reality you don’t believe that is true?
On the other side of the bridge our outpost was invisible. As much as ourselves. There were no characters, individuals, but numbers and letters. Resistance was a small event in the compounds. For where the continual play of our relations with the world were interrupted an anonymous state of being existed. In that situation Being was only possible when the world disappeared. Deserters from the other side knew all these stratagems. Supposed opposites were more disinformed military of a Pict Wall, a colony not so dramatic as Hadrian for our fortification of mind. In the race to faith those at war with the wild worlds of badger, tortoise and yarrow prophesied that world government theologues would order invisible supernatural intercourse to replace the natural. Bare topped flat rock provoked more thought, but travelers leave just to be leaving. They do not turn aside from their fatality. Without knowing why they say: "Let's go!” No wonder we were feared. It seemed to suit us.
The colonies emerged gradually for some reason inherent in themselves conspicuous with the visible development of the canals following the melting snow. Not until melting had progressed could colonies be seen, as if the moisture invigorated air. Ours darkens considerably about eight miles up Pisinemo Road near KiaHoaToak. Place makes the body, then makes the soul conscious. Place makes the man as a transformation of an event into a being. Place is breath, a base of the existent, Carrying Basket Mountain, known for its horsehair and yucca baskets, its bear grass and martynia, There, instead of writing we wrote the thought. Whether either mattered is a thing to decide. The first and middle stages of unknowing are not conscious, but consciousness can work a surprise. When time brings precognition there's a continual Rapture in Progress. Having no purpose, no goal, the thing had its finish, a romance to reach another world. Hiding away from all images and forms came to a forgetting and an unknowing.
The entire affair was an invention of a dozen generations. If I say they thought they might convince us to join them this means we were led by their tracks, but we had only ourselves to consult. This at least is what we were led to believe. The axioms deny all shortcomings in practice. Give it time and believe. In the border consciousness a scene of huge depth, 1000 feet and more above and below surface, atmosphere, ionosphere, magnetosphere, and then below continents, plates and lava streams submersible between. All documents on this site are meant to explore the staging of these worlds reported as literatures of fact. Each facility of the Futurist playbook translates to the new societies the fakta of a continent and an age apart from the original. The formalist theories of faktovivi bypass algorithmic controls to code hidden propitiatory work, read correctly. The first priority remains that of accentuated real material gathered either first hand or culled from documentary sources.
3. Here are excerpts from the diary.
-- fact must be reported free of rhetoric to be fact, but with irony to be truth.
-- awakening from sleep is like descent from a huge cyclone cloud above down the funnel of connect to the ground, but with decreasing intensity. Best done slowly from the moment of awareness detaching from the cloud but descending slowly to preserve awareness until landing, then making this note.
Preface on the Death of Doris Lessing "The standard literary conventions gradually decompose until Not Quite Human ends with A. E. Reiff's seemingly random accumulation of "Dispatch Memoirs of the Ubu Attorney General", a hyperlinked miscellany including selections such as "Street Vendor's Pamphlet Distributed Outside the White House" and "Worship at the Beast Dome." -in The World is a Text Interpretable by the Elect
It has been assumed here that buildings
shape the mind when it enters them, and from a distance, as an idea, image or
metaphor. This gets unforeseen mention in the context of a battle “between
Forces” of which Canopus and Sirius are analogous science fiction doctrines: “I
would not be at all surprised to find out that this earth had been used for the
purposes of experiment by more advanced creatures…that the dimensions of
buildings affect us in ways we don’t guess and that there might have been a
science in the past which we have forgotten…that we may be enslaved in ways we
know nothing about, befriended in ways we known nothing about” (Lessing, viii).
The sister to Opiomes takes up
that battle at HistoPossum, which essentially holds that there
are three enemies, collective mind, artificial intelligence, and the ruse of
ET, all of which have one strategy, to dwarf the human by either size or
number, exactly what the architects design outwardly, but this takes the cover
of science. Lessing says some of the
preoccupations of her narrator are hers: “the
chief one is the nature of the group mind, the collective minds we are all part
of, though we are seldom prepared to acknowledge this. We see ourselves as
autonomous creatures, our minds our own, our beliefs freely chosen, our ideas
individual and unique…with billions and billions and billions of us on this
planet, we are still prepared to believe that each of us is unique, or that if
all the others are mere dots in a swarm, then at least I am this
self-determined thing, my mind my own” (ix).
This battle of the great against the small, and all together against blinds the
cosmic doctrine that preoccupies science religion. That cosmic doctrine is the
purpose of writing those pamphlets taking the part of the mouse, or
human. That the human is like the mouse is meant to be covered by the
insistence that we must experiment upon mice to save ourselves, but which
invites the corollary that the human may be experimented on to serve some
greater cause. None of these premises are easily or fully understood because
this discussion is manipulated.
One thing is sure, the individual is not to be countenanced by the “forces”
whatever they are. Actually the mention of forces stems from the OT, which is
perhaps not so much a title as a description of an activity according to Daniel
(11.38). Lessing demonstrates how the war works, casting the individual under
the bus of the collective by saying that 1) we do not acknowledge the
collective, 2) we think we are autonomous, unique, 3) that our minds are our
own. The purpose of these exaggerations to further the cosmic is perhaps 19th
century idealism. But even in the midst of continued ballyhoo about freedom and
access to information, great collective ideas rule the masses, whose control is
the more impressive since Lessing’s birth in 1919. The world population of 2
billion (1927) more than tripled to 7 billion (2012). The means of control
however, as Opiomes shows, has cubed.
Even more oddly it occurs that Doris Lessing died (17 Nov 2013) exactly at the moment I was composing this paragraph. I had been checking to correlate those population statistics with her birth because the argument about controls and buildings influencing people is so much more profound when the population has tripled. I found she had literally just died, as I was writing of her. I had of course long respected Canopus before myself taking up questions of the Alien Colonies. When the news came on I was literally writing, had been reexamining the Canopus in Argos series the previous night and awoke that morning to compose this Preface. When I first got The Sirian Experiments in those years as a book scout for Bonita Porter I had not contemplated doing such myself. I also share Lessing's interest in the Neanderthal Ben, or Grendel, so to speak, and the essence of our disaffections that Brief our discensions. I call them Discensions in the Alien Colonies, to spell out the falling, because I take the opposite of Canopus, that all these pieties spelled out in the SF dictims, now furthered by government science and genetic tinkers (which you can peruse in the raw at Notes and Journals of Kurk Wold), whether Pleiadian or not, that these are the Trojan, the proto history buried in all the books to deceive us, and have us take the Horse into the city, of which a good summary of the Canopean appears here (p 242f). The Canopeans are transhumanists before their time, as least as we know them now, are able to renew their bodies almost indefinitely. It’s a good thing Ray Kurzweil doesn’t read fiction. The Canopeans genetically engineered the human and sent benevolent alien giants to tutor them in their protohuman state, which Ur human was the one then who fell by failure of the cosmic influence. They say they are converging on the earth to give an evolutionary boost otherwise we ain’t got no home in this world anymore. This this is exactly backwards and the giants are malevolent in the Book of Enoch, and the purpose of genetic engineering in latter day, to make the man immortal will cause him to implode, Lessing is to be admired for her disdain of the Nobel committees who honor their own. It is said she got the award for her enlightenment of the feminine relation, but this is the continued practice of those who give the short hand of fellowship, the put down, for she is a poet, a spokesperson against tyranny, and that is her reward. But having said this I hope Lessing would own up to the theosophical roots of Canopus. Maybe she does, abstracted as it is from Alice Bailey or Mdm. Blavatsky or the O’Briens and Farrell, "theosophical emanations, cosmic influences, occult powers, spiritual visitations and stellar vibrations" SOWF. Substance-Of-We-Feeling becomes earth’s noir, and whether this is about pain and suffering or redemption you must see.
I call her a poet, but it is merely a matter of whether to celebrate the greater or the less, the less being family and home in which no pretense of culture is needed or occurs and which does not lessen the less for that, it being complete and absolutely so. Or the greater, failing the less as a refuge, for the less is always desired, but some are driven out, with a chip of ice in their hearts (Graham Greene) to conduct symphonies, in the case of fiction, or solos and quartets, in the case of poems of the universal pain and suffering. So to me it doesn't matter whether it is poetry or prose, whether the Descent into Hell is exteriorized in a man on a life raft, as Lessing has it, or sent into verse beyond the sea and below the earth, as perhaps you Dante, the subject is the same, so let's not pretend different. And don't pretend either that the middle is of any value between these two. The middle is the thought controlled collective mass, says the antagonist.
Always for the astronomer evangelist salvation is from without. In Briefing Lessing’s protagonist friends are abducted at sea by a ufo, in Sirian Experiments the annunuki selectively breed, as background, the human race.
Description:
"From the arched roof Pendant by subtle Magic many a row Of Starry Lamps and blazing Cresents fed With Naphtha and Asphaltus yielded light As from a sky. PL I, 726f 17 Apr 14 A miniature of this was issued on Red Fez recently jokes that the classics and movies are the two greatest sources of the news. Since then more elements of starchitecture have been revealed and a countdown to the Day. Meantime clues are given at the Encouragements entry announcing the Red Fez article. Other more finished papers of Kurk Wold, black scientist, are on Scribd too, but the rough notes, exhaustive in their way, and sometimes mystifying, are posted on a blog. Everyboy's afraid of this stuff but we’re just reporting the literature.
Brubaker Going Out of Jerusalem on the M1
The solecisms, spellings etc. are a way of speaking this reality
Several poderent asses, moiderent asses made a train across. The bridge itself is immaterial. The asses could speak and held a dialogue among themselves about the trek. This was fitting because all that traffic was motorized. A complete list of the motors included all the little articles of miscreant legend ordinarily seen. The asses could not be controlled by the machines whose presdisposition above was taken as chaos. Best to cross the bridge to cross. All sight and sound visible and heard in their proof sates, not after effect states of the warold, far below. Put one foot on the bridge and prove endless being into nothingness. That’s why he rides asses. Sentient beings, material among the wraiths. Pay no attention, eye has not seen or ear heard, cast down imaginations, bright ever thought, for the bridge is thought, and thoughts, all projected. Now in the second heaven, the one discovery of the not, the naughty not, the psychonaut, the parabot, long days and long the nights I kept this image from the mind.
New Goden Age
Scholars, researchers and alarmists posed the arrival of these gods to found the goden age. Their research said overpopulation, degradation of resources, threats of revolution would bring an end that their goden age would save. But whether Hades or heaven, the goden that pretended health, three harvests and long life with ease, was always a state of death, so the opposite of what they said was true. The Goden Age would be the greatest age of tyranny ever known.
Fantasy reality! People had been living in the goden all our lives and didn’t know, thought it myth. Then it became fact, like bad wine. Things turned opposite. The peasant farmer, hungry and benighted, ignorant of higher math, who had music and art, and even more community, like the Chinese peasant, had no difficulty until business-science in about a hundred years made communities over into new tribal forms. Not like the old that lived on earth under sky, these lived in a biosphere.
Compare the number of days and nights these peasants spent in air, under sun and star, against the modern like a putative escapee of Mars. When living failed, this Caucasoid built a planetoid and settled off Saturn. No ocean there, no air. Boys didn’t tan. Worse than any prison, shut off from life, compared to the dream of the Santa Monica pier, the analogy held for people secluded in rooms, captivated by flickering screens. They lost their health contemplating images. There was no weather or grandparents.
The goden age appealed to good will, justice, fairness and peace, as a fraud, virtues which had only just disappeared, killed by scientist demagogues. Brainwashed, behind appeals for justice, new god scientists, prophets said they would fix it with facts of their own, overwhelm people overwhelmed already by artificial food engineered to make them hungry, then sick. There’s three harvests. The golden age made them better with dissatisfaction, health and life suckered in. There’s fair weather.. Selected facts in obesity twisted the false into the true. There’s immortality.
Were we members of herds like cows or sheep, always subject we’re told, when we’re not, these demagogues would have their news men aggressively question any voice that challenged this view. See, it breaks control.
Superman, Hatman borning Pop Mind, implied transgenics before 2012. Singularity 2045, 2025, counting down, H+ viewed the past superseded in itself. A therefore A, first law of Descartes, I think, therefore I am, assumed the I pre-enunciated being, before I think. So if I think I remember that I thought and I am not just a palindrome. Singularity = novus ordo. The woods come to Dunsinane! What kind of consciousness creates over gene alteration centuries before it is dreamt? The transgenic interprets myths of giants, monsters, aerial phenomena as precursors of his own. Chimeras, Polyphemus, Neptune, angels...there is room if it mattered, but it doesn't since it is shortly o’er-flown.
Were there really dinosaurs revived with tatters of DNA, engineered, then reengineered? If dinosaurs will Yeats be raised, for transmortals seek selective resurrection of important persons, Max Planck? Tom Gilbert begs that the agenda of the Transhuman is not about his grandmother. “An expert in ancient DNA at Copenhagen University, who with Schuster and Webb pioneered the harvesting of mammoth DNA from hair, [he] admits that as a student of mammoths, he'd be the first to go see one trundle across a paddock…"if you can do a mammoth, you can do anything else that's dead, including your grandmother. But in a world in global warming and with limited resources for research, do you really want to bring back your dead grandmother?" National Geographic, May 2009). To him she’s like a mouse.
Brought back by hair or bone is why the grave of Gilgamesh was dug and why the Smithsonian hides the excavated giants. This sounds totally like the search for Merlin’s grave in That Hideous Strength. It impacts King Ramses and whoever else would return with plans, come back to tell you all, unlike grandma.
Boasts in architecture which the uninitiated ignorantly venerate and worship on the National Mall do not understand the absolute import. Maybe the Greenhouse Effect will make the new/oldies feel at home. The Defense Advance Research Projects Agency of the U.S. (DARPA) will construct an enhanced, hybrid, super soldier; it feels it must beat the Russian. There are as many links to this as you wish. The one cited here is 4 years old. The SEALS might be part fish.
If it sounds like Swift, Gulliver according to its kind, the organic machine will be dead serious when it comes online to the 10 to the 26 trillion trillion brain by Singular fiat, except old mammoths and warriors of the past will be new dug in Palestine. But the hybrids will be new. If transhuman assumptions hold and things are as they say, it were impossible to override, as impossible as the taunt that Isaiah gives against Babylon. Oops, also Ezekiel, Jeremiah, Jonah, Zechariah and Psalms. And, oops again, Matthew and Revelations dismayed "the moral tragedy of not building god," (Hugo de Garis. BBC Horizon, HumanV2.0--47.12-47:26) .
Hybrid Age Reverse Genesis
It should be obvious why the Transgenic does not sanction God. If you think the Hybrid Age the reverse of Genesis, that destruction does not create, then the bringing back of Ramses, Yeats and the wooly Mammoth mocks shows how prejudiced you are.
Many religious are concerned not to take "the mark of the beast," emphasizing mark, not beast. In the age of the hybrid a retrofitted serum injected in guise of vaccine combining animal and human DNA to cure some engineered disease, in the words of Verner Vinge in 1993!, "within thirty years, we will have the technological means to create superhuman intelligence. Shortly after, the human era will be ended." (Abstract, The Coming Technological Singularity). Two-thirds of those thirty years are gone.
Transmorts put up Ray Kurzweil to speak so they won’t be taken seriously. When PBS last showed him on Charlie Rose he spoke of Singularity as if it were an expression of the information age, that the "democratizing" technologies of cell phones and Facebook would prevent it being used for tyranny because of "the wisdom of crowds." But singularity is of the HYBRID AGE, like his rhetoric, where human organs are grown in pigs and dinosaurs are reconstituted from 80 million year old DNA stored in their bones. This is considered fantasy to the culture, an unserious effort of government and business to remake dinosaurs and pair all kinds of human and animal genes for human enhancement as well as parading nanobots in Kurzweil's brain.
Bio: This primer, emerged from work at the Human Botany Review and other sites where these links and others are live.
AE Day 4+
Further Operations:
Beijing1420 AD,
the Altar of Heaven
How did the eye atop the Washington monument pyramid fall off onto the dollar bill?
William Burroughs sharpening the Pyramid of aluminum atop
the Washington Monument
What has this to do with the buying and selling of influence in the Ishtar hotel and to the National Mall compared to the Vatican?
How is the opposition of Benjamin Rush and John Adams to the deification of George Washington symbolic of the city, the Capitol Dome, street layout and the nation’s deification of itself in these architectural and Political
Starchitectures of Roman emperor worship?
1791 layout of Washington D.C. The District is a perfect square ten miles on a side, but rotated 45 degrees so that it resembles the Masonic symbol of a square and compass. The city’s central north-south axis runs along 16th Street, NW, Lafayette Park, the White House and thence through what is now the Jefferson Memorial. L’Enfant planned a “grand avenue” running west from the Capitol to the Potomac River. The point at which it intersected the 16th Street axis
was to be the zero mile marker for the United States, and the site of a proposed equestrian statue of Washington. Instead, the country Capitol Hexagram ultimately decided to honor him on that spot with a gigantic Masonic obelisk, ultimately to be moved a few hundred feet to the east due to fears about building on soggy ground closer to the river. L’Enfant’s Washington Francis Fukuyama
What does Ishtar have to do with Horus, Israel, Babylon? How is DC laid out in Geometric isotech or Genetic isotech of this? Are genes programmed like the DC streets to form a chimera of deification itself?
The All Seeing Eye on the supreme court building of Israel
What’s Solomon’s Star got to do with it? What are these followers of Yah: http://www.nicolations.followersofyah.com/
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