Structure one. Disambiguated. Tectonic shift is responsible for the massacring of ideas in people's heads. So I blame the world's great mechanism. Structure two. Obtuse. Solar flare is responsible for what. An unnecessary truth that hurts to think about. So I blame the Sun's great mechanism. Structure three. All. Universe collides itself with me. This is where I refuse to believe in the truth, then. If I had a fucking clue - Compulsive exhibitory symptoms, upsetting ideas blasted outward, identifiable as "things blurted out" that never actually get themselves (burden of movement) across the murky sea that is offset by the lunar push. Still a steady alchemist, my furst be(lie)f is to dictate the flow of mercury over a surface that will always act as a weather display. I choose to be the weather; I am the climate that was wounded, et cetera. Courage is needed these days to be something non-human (the kids love doing it! Why can't I), in that sharp moment of potential that exceeds the pain threshold because it violates the stab limit. Mercury is particularly easy to predict now. The world is that - is that mercury - is the surface - I am not the world but I can fucking predict it. So this is where the dilemma kicks in, then. I have had a guilt for however long about not doing anything right for the universe. Max out servitude - still get nothing in return. I have the slightest idea that me am not fit for the job. She, aiming language at myself, on the axis of me, She aims at herself. The She that created the axis. In your absence. This is carried on a long, long, long, long, long way by your absence. I don't know what to do with myself when you're not here, I'm a little more frantic than usual when I can't talk to you. So that's separation anxiety then - take the mercury away from the marble and it will become loose. I have attempted this before. Hint: I mistakenly invented a hierarchy by believing in one that didn't exist prior, because I was anxious and afraid of I lose ing my wage from the universe. That makes this equivalent to - or residue of - my trust in you. If you were not so you, had always been yourself but lost some of you, I would not be as lost. I refuse to stoop to romance because I am afraid full stop. Not as liberal, more as Liber AL (let's smirk). If you can catch my drift and stop everything from falling apart - the manipulation of language drives some brilliant people up the wall, and I'm sorry to say, but I can't go on with these academic types who are still shatHerfaced (intoxicated on trauma) and bollockoziced (suspended in lies), and who then can't take my speech pro quo impediment. Mercurial is my gaze and it will refrain from corruption from now on. My first question would have been - if the eye is in the pyramid, and you're so depressed about it, why can't you just tear it out? This was the beginning of bad praxis, then. AdHering myself to the weather, my-self was able to see for severed years, was able to breach, and could talk from the bottom of my ass about accelerating the future (that was not the goal) but refrained from doing so. The universe, yet again, never actually communicated at me about my required servitude, but I assumed I had to serve time for the universe from (sneezing word) bad past experiences that glued themselves to the Earth Plane and laughed at me everywhere I went. Count how many Is myself has, unless She has poked them out. Schizocontextual insanity energizes uncomfortable potential in the non-body friends' heads; it would not do any decent justice to say I have regrets about it - when that's a non-apology. Trying to read this for an apology will give you Lemon Mind. So this was the 21st century mechanomorphic premise of the universe being like a machine, then. At least human beings are not machines. If they aim up to the Magic Mountain all regrets are served, due justice is served course, to elaborate, I think it's okay that you're angry at me for giving legal freedom to the destruction of language because I haven't fixed it yet. Self-diagnosis: omniglossia has left me considering a career change. Pointing to self: Weak. Next.