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. . . . I am, frankly, not sure if the Jealous One is still here, in Vancouver, in this year 2019, start of the rainy season.
. . . . She indicated she was in tears — (someone an asian older woman said “there’s a girl crying out there” from the depths of the Megabite emporium for pizza) and the context
suggests she was being compelled to leave, once and for all, and was expressing herself. But how? But why? Was she defeated once and for all on the plains of battle?
. . . . And then the proper visits from those I know came with regularity, like a block slotting into position abruptly. They had been dwindling for a long time, or skipping occurrences and then boom — appearing correctly.
. . . . Vancouver feels different. My senses reach out like tendrils and touch emptiness. (“Patterned Empiness” — title of novel). I cannot be sure what is what. Today in the 7-11 a freak was standing there. A sign of something? Or just a freak loser with a tattooed girl’s name near the neck.
. . . . Ta — ta — ta (thinking) . . . It is important I get this right. There is nothing more aggravating than planning for the future through my Autopilot (super subconscious) and being wrong for greater reasons of purpose. I hate the feeling when I’m wrong, even if it’s for a damn good reason. Last year I felt she was gone around August 1 and she wasn’t.
@@ X slams a fist on the table in real life @@
This has to stop. I need to know what to do, and what to do fast.
. . . . (Had a grotesque but sexual dream last night where a bloated whale of a wife and her cuckolded husband tried to wheedle me into sex with them and I actually fucked the cow/sow/thing. Remarkable where dreams will carry one!)
. . . . Looking at the above text, we can see that uncertainty is a devil that prances from spot to spot in our lives, unless we trust some guidance from our Dreams.
. . . . Dreams are more than just brief jaunts to alternate realities . . . sometimes they are our internal voices speaking to ourselves. We need to separate the wheat from the chaff. Even a visit to an interesting, but obsolete, reality in dream-state can distract us from the main engines of our lives, resulting in a stalled life-progression.
. . . . As I’ve said before, scatter your dream seeds throughout the multiverse and see what grows and falls back into your cupped hands. This growth mirrors an organic pattern. It can take two forms: a Fibonacci numeric of expansion, or a tree’s circle of years.
. . . . In the end, all we are is encased in the fleeing ectoplasm of our dreams. The flesh is not whole. The mind is only partial. It is the dream we dream that makes us whole.
Dear Albert Einstein,
As with so many physicists and scientists in general, you sought a government job. What I would like to know is — doesn’t this undermine your authority? Why don’t you go after chicks and let the bouncy boobs support you the way bras support the bouncy tits?
Your view of reality seems, now, short-sighted and misplaced. And yet your American university sponsor didn’t seem to mind. Accuracy seems not to be a precondition of employment.
What makes belief accurate? At the very least it has to be helpful. A religion that boosts feelings can be viewed as accurate based on the sheer number of believers.
And in the end, physics can coexist with dream seeds, wouldn’t you say, mein herr? One can lift up the other. On the shoulders of human gods, go the kayaks of the impossible whitewater ride.