XXXIV.

At night the galaxy is loudest. Privy to its 
Secrets, Cicciotta has come to planet Vashisht.
Unfinished business, the spirituality rabbit 
Chase. Too bad many researchers abandon ship.

The mirror is dark. Great research is never over. 
Dig deep into the folds of 
Time, Gravity, Electro-magnetism; the coordinates 
May change, but do the laws change also?

XXXV

Once, I found a mini blackhole in the cupboard. 
It was 7 o'clock. I fell from the chair. 
Finnegan and Watt helped me up.
Legacy, dreamt Ariadne; guilt bricks.

River petals; evolution: angular and tragic.
Dreams are amalgamations of everything.
In euclidean space time, long range
interactions between this and that flare up

XXXVI.

With potency inverse of square of distance.
Standing at the seashore of spirituality,
The drift of the atoms lurks toward the event 
horizon. The laws of right and honey.

Everything could end at any moment. Time
out. My ancestor awakes. He was a prick. 
Hesse and Jung, double dose; will cure
You of family. Monkey was born into pain.

XXXVII.

"My heart is an anvil to sorrow" quotes 
Monkey in Ariadnes dream. "Generosity
Youth Leisure. Eloquent intelligent patient.
Overcomes mighty adversaries. My CV."

In no way does monkeys ego mingle. I swear on 
Rust'haveli's word. (Cicciotta copies the 
Dream word for word). Love is purely
Platonic. You, ravisher of my reason! Desert.

XXXVIII.

In a desert I grew to Gullivers proportions.
The multiverse is plagued with Yahoos and
Ariadne just dreams, Cicciotta just copies,
John C wanders, just. The sound of the souls

Is deafening. Could we tune in some Endymion,
some thing of beauty? This poem sucks. It is
Inane. It dillydallies, it stares at you. Monkey
just suffers. Night grows darker, and stars hide.

XXXIX.

It began when Desert Storm, turned historian, 
found a mini black hole in the City of Griffin, 
amidst the echoes of SM di Castello. The monks

had long gone. Not so the history. All
Stories untold, uncorrupted, came forth in
A Hawking memoranda. On planet Vashisht,
Noted Cicciotta amanuensis, everything had

XL.

Changed. It had changed for it to grow, else
We're not really living. Consciousness can be
collective, a loud stream in the valley.
My mind, dearReader, is a tiny bell

oscillating in the wind. The last time 
Cicciotta copied, Desert Storm read, and all 
The other characters of this story were in
Alignment, the stars were close, and I had

XLI.

Much love. But then, I still have much love. 
Consciousness is in layers, peel away at the
Surface and the skin will come off. Another
Layer, and then another. There is a certain

Melancholy in the act of peeling, a certain
Sense of loss of identity, gain of function.
Human life, a meaningless conglomerate of
Memory fragments? Almost all of our life

XLII.

Is passed in a more or less unconscious state
Waking up from the constant dream, on
Occasions mountains rise in the distance,
Roads and purposes clear up. Successive

States of unconsciousness. Deep space reads
The one sweet page that is us, then shuts the
Book. Information-echoing probes move on.
Planets spin frozen, so Desert Storm reads. 

XLIII.

If time progresses, axes tilt. Suns set and 
rise again. The wheel is spun once more. It was
Then that Tariel wept and loved. The higher
Space called him, the emptiness above.

Heaven called. The abode of I dunno wot.
But then there was a gravitational, narrative
Collapse. In a great exercise of blackhole
Dustbusting, all characters, matter, juice

XLIV.

Of story-telling - everything comes now
Round to pounce away, midsummer-like,
in a giant singularity (make sure your black 
holes are big). "So good-night, with lullaby."

Thus, amidst great fanfare we witness
Reversibility in time. Theseus and Hyppolita
Are yet to marry. Perseus is yet to perform
The sexist act; that is the power of drama.

XLV.

"Lies!" cries the philistine in you! "LIES!"
But, dearReader, in this neck of the multiverse
everything is possible. Granted that symmetry and time
Reversal give us space, given the gravity

Of the situation, let us line up the characters
each with his or her toil, anon comes clarity.
Guarding alertness, Shantideva roĺls the drums,
The elephant of the mind comes bumbling forth.