linier narrative 1

the impossibility of the linier narrative. does this represent a thought, or a vast network of connecting brain activity from the result of a thought. this is the simulation of a thought, decidedly unironically not about the simulation of thought.


I cant see how anybody has done anything.

I agree with the theorists that I seem to connect with, but the seemingness of it suggests a frailty of these words, even the words are suggesting this. no no im not suggesting this, I am no user of language, it is not my skilled trade. It; (the sickening racist generalisation that all language is the same, not within itself but what it is saying, or more specifically these indefinable present words) is using me, therefore these suggested suggestions are floating narratives with no port to call home, an unrequited indifference.

the amount of unresolved linguistically troubled ideas; (twinned)x sextuplet, with a handful of sensory metaphors and paradoxical intellectually masturbatory adjectives words is truly sickening to this being. if I were a calculator and derived these ideas into numbers could I then be satisfied. . . .

why cant I see how anybody has done anything? well, ill just go for it.

I see the peers I have assumed to be correct in their theories, this may have no actual relation to what they themselves perceive their theories to be about, this is a starter example of said theory and could be said to exemplify it, but if someone were to say this then the whole process become a base refinement of an assumed identity with books and lakes and the smallest remnants of crumbs from the most wonderfully homely and organic biscuit trapped in a jumper, not of wool, because wool is itchy, but almost exactly like wool with a wide stitch that tricks your senses that it may get cold, but startles your subconscious when you become toasty. this may seem farfetched but science may come up with such a romanticised material from within the brains of romanticising memory. or polyester.

so my peers have said all I could possibly say, or so I have said. I am a product of my time as I am sure that they were, an environmental network where the idea of an outside other lies within, and the outside other only really consists of many other brains with the same affliction, did they not think the same things, did it really take this many years to come to our saturation point of creativity and are we doomed to swill in a giant sherry glass of some strange woman who scares us slightly for a reason we cant quite verbalize, or more prominently right now at the start of these words, write ; I originally wrote type here but changed it afterwards because of personal problems.

this is all slightly environmentally and mortally challenged, I am failing to see the longer timescales because of this fragile body, if I am cut will I bleed a post-modern mess. then I will clean the carpet, critiquing death and household identity, psycho will be in my appendix. the only problem I see hear is that how could I possibly be on the cusp of the collapse of creativity from the saturation of our bodies and minds, can this brain go no further. In a mathematical world it is hard to perceive, however the logic in that statement is so horrifically flawed that it was a pointless thing to say, and if im saying things like that then what could I possibly add to the linier narrative of this idea of humanity. bulk maybe. please don’t make me explain why it is horribly flawed, please sit and think, please do as I say, look this is fun, lets go down the slide.



this was an account from a robot posing as a troubled human artist.

that was an account from a human laughing at someone else laughing at the last sentence and how "I" am romanticising the troubled lonely artist who is so inaccessible enigmatic and sporting a woollen jumper . . . . made from polyester