take a 5-minute metaphysic and call me in the morning

(loopiness factor: 9)

I am writing in a total vacuum. Finally I'm behaving according to theory

It is a test, to be swallowed by a whale, to be like Jonah or Job in the Bible... those are always the best stories the ones that stick they call it ancient scripture but really if it's still around it's because it’s relevant NOW and only now and at its apex. All histories in the present are at their apex. Ancient history is the most relevant thing, if we still remember it; who can forget it. I need to study calculus to understand why things seem like a snapshot but over time they fade. This is a reverse-Polaroid present; instant retinal imaging crumbling into the biased contingency of memory.

The person I was ten minutes ago, where did he go? No no Mr Hume, I believe in cause and effect cause and effect, the best the language I needed to invent to make a mark in my chosen field. Sure the brightest men may not be on television; at least they have their circle of friends among whom original ideas still circulate - a small hope is all a good man needs to exploit. This is the consolation for the ivory towered principals, this is the reward for the maggot breath midget? I am not even thinking these thoughts as they tumble out into the screen; they are passing through gaping holes I decided not to sieve, like an asteroid hurtling at you from the edge of a tunnel.

(On prosody): There are cadences that allow me to control my universe, and then there are rhythms that own me completely and to which I submit; I turn off my brain. Then I am pure trusty scribe, asking no questions, having blind faith in my stream of nonconsciousness, allowing all manner of outrage atrocity to mingle with beauty; pandora’s box meets the garden of eden. I used to write things for the fun of it, now I write out of morbid curiousity to see what can be conjured from fingers that have their own volition, educated by the unconscious rhythms of a practised guitar pick. There are notes on a guitar that follow one another; there are certain letters that make a certain word; there are certain words that my fingers are trained to emit in their complex reptilian cerebellar patterns. Call it a semantic photon - a discrete indivisible sentence packet - oh but that's fallacy fallacy language is productive and infinite meaning does not obey the laws of thermodynamics, meaning can be created and never destroyed (at least perhaps in the mind of the God). Meaning is metaphysical? - sorry but what's the point of saying something if I'm not able to comprehend it?

Interesting concept: Quantum Artists - unpredictable in space and time, having no fixed meaning point except upon observation, can be be pinned down only within a certain ranges of aesthetic probability.

I never thought first-person subjective analysis could be offered as strong proof of anything, then again it is the internet and everything's permissible. So I chose to exploit freedom, to bash any remaining shackle to bits and (irony) leave another temple in my wake.

I try not to mix-tape my metaphors, but music is a permasoundtrack, medley of elision one tune into another, and I’m self-referential like a rapper; I’m humble like a monk.

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