Sakura, sakura.

Image source? None Cartwright.

Soon.

Q Winter.

Ever stood atop a moor in deep mid winter? Snow deep and pitch. Staring up at starry infinity? A thing you cannot do in the Smoke because London is a light sewer, crime scene and shit heap. It is a sun warmed Petri dish of human experiment cloaked in Global warming. Though it does have its moments.

A Silence

Ever stood still under an equinox midnight as the petals fell upon you?

Zoh Soon the dead of life.

Sakura, sakura.

The cherry blossoms, apple blossoms and cassia fistula are right here, written now, in the coloursplashed RICOeasyjet borough, and who am I to complain. If they want to live in a crime scene, and most do, then who am I to point out the horror of their wares?

And who would depart from their reframed lives to stare at the incredulity of their dullard nonstopped edited intuity?

None to fall.

I have never believed belief. Belief brief is a killer flame that consumes the true light. It is a fire front that eats all in its path and leaves no thing as witness to the delicacy of our grace. I am sufficiently advanced today to know that I can never retread my burning steps and be reborn, the point of no return means there are insufficient days left to me to relive each of the splendid days of my meagre existence, so far. All that can be done is to keep pounding the solemn pathway to death and consume all.

I will have answers through though, that is certain. Before I draw my last breath I will have scribed the clown’s plans, and if push comes to shuv, verily phukked them up like a butterfly farting in the Amazon.

Strange attractors do weigh more than their constituent parts in this hall of smashed mirrors.

If you read through the quaternion stuff then you’ll know what I suspected all those years ago, our houred horrored feeding trough is all escrow. Everything for the one side of the mirror we glean is not the half; it is the false lie of the hand. No doubt about it. As an example, and again this is all grooming the young, I would ask you to examine JKR and her Harry, the legend of an Edinburgh café scribe. Well go and read about Flamel and Fulcanelli; toot toot all aboard!

So Newton and Einstein? Bollox, go read Kepler and JCM.

That is the easy stuff.

Darwin, crap. Lamarck is the game.

We know that is so because we get it spoon fed to us. We are chimps and like chumps scoffing, chips, we adapt to the shit heap, chattel. Owned, like refugee, refuge, garbage dump property.

You know where this is heading. D passive, L active. Got that? Open. Close. Hot cold.

The difficult occult is occluded from us by many layers of distraction. Why? Well it is so simple, that is why, and it is a lie. Not untruth but topography.

Youzgotsta think like a bankster.

What is it that the foe does not want us to realise? What is the whole charabanc and pantechnicon of idiocy stealing from us every day in every way?

Our thoughts. Our spirit. Our hearts. Our individual collective truth, contradiction. We are CISC. Not RISC. We are as yet not complete, just as they are not so solitary. The heathen hate us and only seek to deconstruct us to a state of Lego.

Is it not striking that all we should think is rejected by the inbred clowns who drive the make belief puppets of our Herd Intention Space?

Look at the religious clowns stiffing banking. That is correct, stiffing, stuffing, not staffing. It does not interest them whether there is sacred trade any more since all the world has been measured and indexed again. They all work, exist, are tolerated, because they serve the Dias. They are as temple virgins and harlots. Yet perceive power of none.

Selling their asses to attract the masses.

In an economy that measures the conniviningings of false savingingnings to persons neck deep in fiat debturpitude, as activity worthy of calculus, and then the fool is the author of the future.

So Soon.

What can I describe concerning the Lamarckian world we script?

Whatever it was, is or will be; I hope you will wander over to Lalaland again to think about that.