XXXIII.

‘In the cave of the Flower-Fruit mountain, there is no
space for bad thoughts, no room for a thousand shafts
of golden light. I went and stole the centre of the ocean
treasury, but I found no peace.’ Monkey is talking to

himself. Ever since he asundered from Gawain, he
finds it difficult not to discuss matters with another
self. He feels as bent as the Golden-Hooped Rod.
Allow me to ask him how he feels, dearReader. He

XXXIV.

wishes to go through some more metamorphoses,
but he has lost all purpose of his shapeshifting. Of
course, he feels shame about the death of Fortune
Lobo, but his malady is deeper, a leukemia of the

spirit. No soaring of clouds, or riding of mists, no
breaking up into a ten thousand bareback gibbons
can mend his ways, he has reached the outskirts of
the city of Corruption, a place beyond return. It’s

XXXV.

all very metaphorical, of course. He’s still in
Volterra, but the region of Darkness is upon him.
The galaxies in the sky are blue-shifted to-night,
in honour of Monkey’s sapphic restlessness, because

Eros, you burn us. Of all stars, the most beautiful…
blame the delicate Artemis. Walking the streets of
Volterra, the staccato repetitions of hollow steps
on the stone slabs. The amplitude and the phase

XXXVI.

of Monkey’s multi extro versality accounts for
his ability of being absolutely everywhere at any
time, and shapeshifting into everything, but the
sum of Feynman histories is melancholy and contro

versy. The Pheistos disc is a riddle that requires
much strength and temperance, not exactly our
simian friend’s forte. On multiple occasions,
Monkey has metamorphosed through spacetime,

XXXVII.

carried a vessel of wirelessness and crimson joy.
Then he rode a bubble-brane and came to Titan to
hack the NeverEnder of his computational loop.
He was responsible for the leak in the

Murakamian Well. He poisoned the well by
a blundering attempt to stop all unwanted
negativity. Living in denial was not enough,
he had to go and emotionally off-load into

XXXVIII.

the Murakamian liquid phase. Result, John
C is dead, even if his dance-zheimer would
have killed him sooner or later. Now, brane
somer-saulting is a new art, one for which the

dying Galatian would resist letting go. Even
the gallery upstream in the Archive of Myth
has a section with a dedicated exhibition on
the portrayal of such bounce-raging imbalances.

XXXIX.

Monkey is furious. ‘I do not accept suffering,
I do not accept decay. I do not accept death.
So, kill me. I cannot die, anyway. I refuse to
die.’ She is speaking to the vast emptiness

before her, and the nodding cypresses, who
always agree with her in silence. ‘An avenue
for escape, is all I need. But transformation

XL.

after transformation, I seem to fall further
into suffering, and not slip away from the
ashes of the phoenix. Perhaps I should stop
thinking in dualistic terms. Even the word

‘stop’ is dualistic. I am a cavalier servente,
I am the second marriage that corrupts the
first. I, I, I… Wait, I dreamed that Greece might
still be free. For standing on the Persian’s grave

XL.

(Ahura Mazda feels explosions in his ears)
I could not deem myself a slave.’ But Monkey,
you are a slave, even if you are a brave one,
one that would gladly die at Missolonghi.

There is much duality in your croco-tears,
and though we cannot measure the amplitude
of your oscillatory sorrow, we can venture to
say that you are a Nostromo-type unreliable

XLI.

narrator. You tell yourself stories of how much
you have suffered when you have been abandoned,
but have you not betrayed and stolen, have you
not eaten forbidden peaches (there is at least

a chapter about this in a westward novel). We’ve
all been abandoned, we’ve all been betrayed. So
what. If you die fighting the Turkish hordes, if
you trace the hidden treasures of Dacia, you are

XLII.

playing the materialist fool, are you not? Ahura
Mazda feels wild as a whirling wave, the concept
of ‘accursed one’ has haunted him for centuries.
No, Monkey refuses to surrender. He makes sail

for the primitive cloud in the sky, and his mono
mania takes new level, and his imagination spans
the size of another literature. He stabs at the invisible
whale that haunts him, but there is no vengeance.

XXII.

The night is dark, but the moon is white.
Fortune Lobo is dead, and so the love of
Monkey, who once was a Wallyeean beauty.
She was the daughter of a farmer, with

humorous utility to the commune where
they were living. Monkey was a bonny swan.
The darkness over Volterra is absolute. The
memory of love is always hardest to exorcise.

XXIII.

‘Oh father, oh daddy, here swims a swan…’
Monkey sings a song from old times, he
looks at the absolute stillness of the white
washed tower-city leering over the cloud murk.

Haunted, desperate, Monkey holds the Auryn
talisman in his hand, looking back across the
flatlands toward the interior of the land. He
knows that his soul is in prison, the Medici

XXIV.

have a fortress to hold all reason and all desire.
Volterra is famous for the temples, and the
voices of the wind, and for the whispers of the
dead. The Etruscans are no more. Monkey

is mourning the death of her innocence. She
lost her virginity in the park, and now she
traces the footsteps back to the temple where
Athena’s honour has been desecrated. Monkey

XXV.

is full of sorrow, and beats his dead hand
against the stone, and the city responds with
a groan. Cecco and Gawain have arrived,
Desert Storm with them. They are sleeping

at the monastery. That is a place where
writers and vampires alike have found
solace and solstice, and the light of the star
has found them even in decaying dreams.

XXVI.

There is just not enough space for Monkey’s
sense of guilt and wonder. The water-ammonia
ocean on planet Poseidon expands and the
GuiltTripper dragon grows into the archenemy

of Thor. He has grown so large that if he lets
go of his tail, which he is holding in his jaw,
the world will come to an end. Ironic, for

XXVII.

Monkey stares at the image of Miðgarðsormr,
he knows that the ubiverse is coming to an end.
The ouroboros has dawn-significance for the
human psyche, but the eternal recurrence may

not awake Thor from the slumber of Ragnarok.
It is not time yet. Volterra is asleep, and so our
characters. The painters are assembled in the
hall, waiting for the inspiration of Grendel.

XXVIII.

Michael Ende predicted in his days in Rome,
the turtle and the street sweeper, and Momo.
Men in grey suits are stealing time. In the
story of Bastian, the sword was drawn, and

the unending force of drowning nothingness
is swallowing every dream and myth, every
gesture of kindness, any hope and emotion.
Monkey knows that his actions also fuel the

XXIX.

expansion of the domain of nothingness, and
the advancing of the white plague. Sleep,
Monkey! Rest your weary mind. You may
not grow big and small any longer. You

may have lost your ability to cloud somer
sault, but you are a living being, a creature
of the spirit. You’re very like a gentle woman.
There is no rest for victims of the GuiltTripper.

XXX.

Circling around the peaks of the abode of the
snows, the Him Alaya. The abode of light
is the place that Monkey is reaching for, if
only he closes his eyes, he can see that small

balcony, and small black ants scurrying along,
looking for food and shelter. The joy of waiting
for the summer to start, or the spring flowers
suddenly appearing at the corner of the street.

XXXI.

Then the early snows of autumn, carrying all
the hope of of the dawn-life, the new cycle of
the cockroach’s existence, so much to look for
ward to. John C is dead, long live his memory!

Monkey feels dead inside, but with eyes closed
he sees images of past life, of joyous life, his
life, other people’s life, he sees all, and he can
almost reach the awakening, the words of Blake

XXXII.

scattered like wild fire in the night’s shadow,
out of the window of the train on which you are
travelling at full speed toward the essence of the
chromoflower, and more songs of experience.

Monkey refuses to go to sleep, and refuses to give
in to shame, and fear, and guilt. He knows that even
if his soul is rotten, even if he is past forgiveness, he
knows that Heaven is compassion, here. Thus, he weeps.

XVI.

Suspend wisdom, and eliminate knowledge
for knowledge’s sale. Ahura Mazda has come
to visit Ariadne in the Archive of Myth. She
is not aware of his spirit looming in the room;

the dusty books and the olden memories speak
volumes from shelved moments, and the myths
are alone with themselves. The NeverEnder
archivist is on the road in Arizona, in a time

XVII.

where the snakes are talking, and the hurricanes
are spinning stories. There is much love hidden
like a thread in a thread, a pattern in a pattern.
One cannot see it from the outside, though the

sound of passeridae in a small wooden patch
may bring about a resting place for the mind.
The memory of the Archive provides a similar
service. Ariadne has accepted the nature of her

XVIII.

woe. It is not likely to leave her, there is a wee
burden of feeling and thought which sits like
a sphinx on one’s stomach. Ariadne can see it,
she acknowledges its presence, and carries on.

A great ability is like awkwardness, the Tao
descends onto Ariadne, and the echoes are heard
by Desert Storm, but she constantly updates her
social network, and her neurosis is spaced across

XIX.

a gap of three minutes’ worth. The waters of
autumn trace the freedom of intuition. Follow
the random mixing of the five colours. ‘But,
Krishna, if you consider the knowledge of

Brahman superior to any sort of action, why are
you telling me to do these terrible deeds?’ We
are entirely dependent on cooperation from
the unconscious. The very voices that Gawain

XX.

and Cecco are looking for, the songs of children
in the morning, or the dark purplish lights of
midnight in soft, warm nights before the rain.
Water flows continually into the ocean, but

the ocean is never disturbed. Ariadne takes
notes. She has faint memories of black sails,
and losing her way in a maze, and then the
swamps came in the form of concrete and steel.

XXI.

“As to artistic and scientific creation, I hold
with Schopenhauer that the strongest motive
is the desire to leave the rawness and monotony
of every day life, so as to take refuge in a world

crowded with images of our own creation.”
The ancient mariner quotes Einstein. Ariadne
is reading about the mariner’s gestures on
planet Verne, and the rosy-fingered moon.

V.

Chubby is alone on the titanic wasteland,
mourning the loss of a friend. ‘I saw him
on the hill, walking toward the zenith, day
after day; and then one day I saw him no

more.’ The light of the star is remote and
on Titan, the dunes and the streams of
methane shiver with changing winds, a
desire to be free of mental blockades.

VI.

Desert Storm has not used a self-esteem
injection for a long while, and while she
walks with the two half wits (her words)
toward Volterra, her thoughts are dark.

Gawain and Cecco are always fighting
for who is the smartest, the most poetic,
and the handsomest. They are competing
for Desert Storm’s attention, though she

VII.

does not care one bit about one or the
other. She has been studying the life of
Monkey, and has correspondence with
la belle dame sans merci, who she ad

mires. It is not a secret that the rich and
the powerful are an example, and so
the very mad. Monkey is also headed
toward Volterra. He is troubled, and

VIII.

he bounces off and on the clouds,
stomping them as if they were mush
rooms. talking of michelangelo, there
is a roomful of painters in Volterra,

all assembled for the Dance of the Arts,
a rare event which has been organised
to celebrate the conjunction of Venus
and Adonis. The name of the planet on

IX.

which these events take place is not
known to me, dearReader. I am just
reporting what is passing in the wind.
This mythical city seems so very far.

And to be honest, with the death of
John C I have grown weary of the
criticisms of some characters, who
claim to love the verses, but not follow

X.

the story, they kind of refuse to comply.
The same with readers, they are so busy
now listening to the whispers in the
galaxy that they cannot find the courage

to connect to the solar system wide web
and download the NeverEnder. The ship
is exhausted, so much exposure, and for
what (for Hecuba, or was it Hector).

XI.

There is a growing sense of discomfort
in the ubi-verse, as if the qualms of the
atoms are of no interest, and the deeds
of infamous people are to be celebrated.

Mousieur Mortlock and Mephisto are
still about, and so the Marketeers and
Profiteers with their Privateers. They
steal, and they coagulate, and then they

X.

steal again. A large assembly of Laputa
scientists has convened for a massive
brawl to establish who is the loudest,
and the most successful cockroach.

But there is a new addition to the host
of cockroaches, for JohnC is reincarnated,
and he comes back as a cockroach. Belly
up (of course), he tries to communicate

XI.

with Chubby who is very annoyed about
finding insects in her flat. I mean! In this
gentrified day and age! I mean! Cockroaches
in my house, and a toad in the wall (watch

out, John C) who slurps on them! Chubby
is extremely pissed off, and she squashes him
with no hesitation, even if he was trying to
tell her how much he has missed her. So

XII.

he dies again, though this time it’s not a
big deal. Of course, it’s only a bug. But
then, a bug with the consciousness of an
infotechnician. Anyway, as the narrator was

saying (I hope he does not have the voice
of Harrison Ford, we have enough on our
hands with replicant cats, let alone replicant
sheep). This digression is too long and the

XIII.

thought is cut short. Ah yes! Desert Storm
is very busy remembering her days on the
Swappinstan planet. There is new celebrity
TV program of Swappinsteinish origin.

The host is discussing why secularism
in the Peak Civilization (France, yo) is
to be criticised for its hypocrisy and a
hundred prophetic reasons why the Swap

XIV

pinsteinish crowd has the moral high
ground. Particularly interesting are the opi
nion of one Swappinsteinish lady, who cri
ticizes the Peak for their terrorism of ideas.

What laughtearable matters! Thanks to the X,
Creme-caramel is still free, and her poetry
is still creating holes in the wall, and she still
dreams of a better world. It is hard to forgive

XV.

your enemies, especially the ones who
put you in prison, Oscar Wilde. Your story
of Canterville is haunting the twice-dead
John C who is trying to find some light

in the cosmic darkness, a mixture of the
Tibetan Book of the Dead, and the beauty
of a young Julie Christie. Or was it her
ways. Actually, it’s her ways right now.

Chapter V

I.

Life after death is like a broken
while loop with no increment. John C
is caught in a web of fading lights;
his spirit survives the body, but

a tangle of emotions is scattered
after the leap, and memories whizz
and fizz like haunted fables. Some
where in the 16th century the earl

II.

of Canterville murdered his unfaith
ful wife. For that, he was ridiculed
relentlessly by a family of unbelieving
Yankees. But some times the very next

verse is nasty, and some times,
you’re just dead. After many a summer,
et cetera. The Lady of Ascalot docet.
Does your health insurer give you

III.

fifty percent off monthly gym fees
at screwballmonsterous dot com? Mine
does. But what good is that after
death. Light (satyrical, starlit?)

is the only problem, when choosing
among the lesser lights for a possible
reincarnation to be attracted to. All
energy is dissipated entropically into

IV.

the great hypergalactic emptiness.
Tune in, and listen to the logos,
or perhaps the grand overarching
silence. It slides across the wabe

like a slithy tove, and a mimsy
borogrove. Even if it’s not time
for tea, the Jabberwock comes biting
John C’s collected waves (or unconscious)

XLVII.

So censorship issues a dictum on imagined idiocies.
‘You are not allowed to draw, and I see what I wish
in your drawings, so my accusations will be holy.’
Fuck that. Switch on the Murakamian Well. The

Archive of Myth is leaking. John C has tinkered
his DNA to pick up sounds and accusations across
the ubi-verse. Artemis, meanwhile, is hunting in
the woods. Let her hunt, and let the moon shine.

XLVIII.

It’s not just a reflection. Satellites adjust the tilt
of our gravitational being. We are humans, we know
shit. The Murakamian liquid is spilling out, and
the seconds are being counted since the cat left.

Ah, don’t forget about the numenosity of the moon.
The cat clone, outside on the sands of Titan, on
the extensive aeolian dunes, is counting the stars.
This activity is popular elsewhere in the ubi-verse.

XLIX.

Some rotten fish imported from Borovoe lake
has made John C sick. Artemis is resting in the
Etruscan twilight. Cecco and Gawain have found
their way through the flatlands near the Tyrrenian

sea, labouring their way inland, toward the myth
ical lost city of Volterra. They are planting small
poem-seedlings, which require small attention.
A former Etruscan champion of reincarnation,

L.

an individual by the name of David Herbert
is trying to call John C’s number, but the ring
bounces back, John C is dreaming of cooking
spaghetti and does not hear the phone ringing.

His illness is advanced. Dance-zheimer, coupled
with DNA telomerisis, chromosome decay, and
single nucleotide subversion are adding up to
his malady, which is mental and cytoplasmic.

LI.

In the Archive of Myth, Ariadne is alone with
the silence of timeless images. It is fine to be
alone with images, she tells herself. Shadows
across facelessness. Raffaello’s green is always

greener in someone else’s gallery. Tintoretto’s
Jesus, all piety as well as wet and sexy after
a football match, kneels to wash the feet of his
team mates. St George, like Perseus, is fighting

LII.

the timeless whale. John C is dying, drowning
in the Murakamian Well while his cellularity is
(to put it simply) completely fucked up. In the
stomach of the whale, Fortune Lobo is suffering

a similar destiny. He is being pushed toward the
intestine. That would be the end. Four stomachs
are already enough trouble, and there isn’t any
air in there. Breathing methane, like on Titan.

LIII.

Fortune Lobo and John C are seeing what Ariadne
is seeing in the Archive of Myth. A gallery of
images. The light of Carthago is still very delenda.
Perseus is very blue, a moody and firm expression.

The Gorgon doesn’t really look pretty at all. It is
so sad to be mistaken for krill, but then again you
wouldn’t expect whales on Poseidon to be normal
at all. After all, there is no such thing as normality.

LIV.

Or should we call it normalness, or normalosity.
Creatures of the ubi-verse at not concerned with
being normalous, unlike the Milky way prop-ups.
So let’s talk about what it means to be normal for

a (relatively) young lady, or a galaxy. Our friend
Andromeda, while waiting for Cetus, shows a
trend related to her stellar age (she is not that old,
still waiting to get married to Perseus or the Milky

LV.

way). In her spiralling beauty, the youngest stars
show a relatively ordered rotational motion. Fortune
Lobo dreams of kissing her around the centre of her
galaxy (he’s always been naughty). In her hair, older

stars display a much disordered motion. In her eyes,
stars are moving coherently, with nearly the same
velocity, whereas in her heart, stars are disorderly
showing a wider range of velocities (Cicciotta is

LVI.

taking notes), implying a greater spatial dispersion.
All of this is so very painful. As previously stated,
the Gorgon does not look pretty now, but once like all
of us, she might have counted the stars from the

gutter, thinking of Oscar. In a sudden rush of anger,
Ariadne shouts ‘the enemies of the Archive of Myth
are to be turned into stone.’ In her mind, there is some
delayed apoptosis. Half of the archive is under

LVII.

reconstruction. ‘Je suis Charlie’, sighs Ariadne.
She notices that Perseus is about to turn to face
her, perhaps to even speak to her. Would it not
be wonderful, dearReader, if our beloved myths

were to come back from the world of ideas
(where Plato first hid caves and chains) and
spoke to us with true passion, and radiating
with the knowledge and virtue of the immortals?

LVIII.

We could then feel a joyful blessing, timeless
and floating above all of our failings, and decayed
bodily functions (much before the genetic-tinkered
DNA decides to get fragmented and cancerous).

There is not much time left for Fortune Lobo.
He has almost made it to the rectum. He sees
the light at the end of the tunnel. At the end,
there is light. Monkey is long gone. John C

LIX.

sees him dying, thinking that Monkey, one
day, will regret having betrayed Fortune Lobo,
a young, and much loved cadet. His final
moments are dark, and very sorrowful.

John C himself is drowning in a sea of
Murakamian liquid. Cicciota is outside,
singing in the wind, unaware that her friend
is shuffling off this mortal coil. But Perseus

LX.

is still blue, and Raffaello is still green.
The tables are broken, the soldiers are toys,
and the enzymes and light wash the flesh
of all joy. John C’s final thought is devoted

(why oh why) to Hox genes. There must
be some plan to this body of galaxies. So
shanti shanti shanti. Fortune Lobo and John
C are no more. Good, let’s get some coffee.

LXI.

But wait! Desert Storm has been falling for
some time now, since the days of the black
hole (the good old days) and her location is
unknown. But she stumbles upon a new

dimension, and ends up into the lap of Cecco,
who instantly falls in love. ‘You, Becchina!
Beccanassa!’ Gawain is not interested. ‘ Yo,
we’ve got a Grail to catch. Or what was it.’

XXXVIII.

There is no greater sexism than love among
sexes. Monkey shape-shifts into a Wallyeean
beauty. Not so much of an attractive woman,
but a lovable profiteer with a heart of gold

who had so many issues as a child, as she was
abandoned by one parent, while the other
committed suicide. Impossible to resist. The
call for self-destruction is so very wicked. Once

XXXIX.

again, Fortune Lobo falls in lust, or tenderness,
or the two mixed together. At this point John C
is feeling exhausted with the emotional ups and
downs of all life. He has his own love interest,

a clonal organism called “la belle dame sans merci”
(for lack of originality), who is a real-world
profiteer (or should I say, present-day. But then
again, what is the present). He has some very

XL.

convoluted feelings for this money-potter, who
(according to his theory) honey-potted him while
he was travelling to the Archive of Myth many
eons ago (or was it days). At the same time, Ariadne

is left with the task of making sense of all imper
manence. She is carefully archiving the myths, and
the transient stories, so that the Neverender continues
to be fuelled. Many of the stinkiest myths relate

XL.

to abandonment, and betrayal, and the mythical
monster from neverEnder history, the “GuiltTripper”.
This beast is relentless, living in the deep folds of
planet Fear. It shapeshifts, and right now Monkey

transforms itself into this dragon. Fortune Lobo
strays from the path, as he starts to feel a kind of
empathy with the stomach of the whale, and wants
to let go. Cicciotta is feeding John C, who has lost

XLI.

all will to continue, and his comatose mind is being
driven by self-forming patterns of narrative anxiety.
The GuiltTripper rises in the stomach of the whale,
and in the electron pathways of his cerebrotony. The

monotonous tones of the GuiltTripper call are music
for John C’s hypotonia and poetic “let-go”ness. Monkey
has doubts about profiteering, and about his identity.
All this shapeshifting are so very confusing. In the

XLII.

bank, “la belle dame sans merci” is busy creating
self-aware products of mathematical destruction,
deriving knowledge from pseudo-knowledge and
predicting the future. She lives on one of the most

Coruscant-leaning planets of the ubi-verse, which
sounds so obscene that we shall avoid mentioning.
Thanks to Byronocular vision, John C has spotted
her with his mega carbolatic telescope and he spends

XLIII.

many a night pining away, trying to distract himself
from his advancing dance-zheimer, and the broken
codes of his DNA, the rumblings of his stomach, and
the woes of an increasingly lonely Ariadne, now steering

the NeverEnder alone, and with no help, as the cadets
have gone to sleep, and officer Flexa is freezing with
echoes of Planet Fear. In the interior design of the whale,
Fortune Lobo pledges his alliance and loyalty to the

XLIV.

profiteering myth, and god-mobile in the shadows
rubs his fins. Now that all is done, Monkey is not so
very sure about what has happened. She shapeshifts
back to a Turandot-like figure, and sits down. She

resolves to escape the mouth of the whale, and start
a journey in the ubi-verse search for the mythical
lost city of Volterra, in search for answers. But the
GuiltTripper on planet Fear has been awoken, and

XLV.

has been summoned in the presence of Fortune Lobo,
now incapacitated by the profiteering myth, as well
as the myth of advancing amour-rouseness. The same
malady has striken John C, who is increasingly sick

and increasingly disenchanted with following the story
of the sick thoughts of planets, though the download-
upload may come from a mutation from his very blood.
In their search for the unconsciousness while travelling

XLVI.

incognito during the Borovoe middle ages, Cecco
and Gawain have become good friends, and their
partnership is based on a common love for poetry,
so their have endevoured to build a new City of

Poetry in whichever land or planet they happen to
be, and watch it grow. As it is widely known, poetry
incantations are autotrophic, they just need a bit
of water and starlight, and they are good to go.

Chapter IV

I.

Fortune Lobo and Monkey are
travelling to the ubi-verse’s end;
they have forgotten their purpose
in search of a MacGuffin, but still

holding the talisman, just in case.
Monkey is particularly upset, he
spends his nights in panic. The wall
is painted with fiendish shadows.

II.

They have escaped Hades (the
black hole) without any second
act resolution, and their period
of struggle has been truncated.

In short, they have copped out.
Gawain has been obliterated in
the hole, along with many other
characters. The NeverEnder ship

III.

drifts. Its caravel credentials have
been put into question. Unconscious
ly, Monkey and Fortune Lobo have
set out to heal a raging imbalance.

the very purpose of neverending
poetry is to find a cure for the sick
thoughts of planets, but existing treat
ments only brought very transient

IV.

peace. Out of the abyss, a large
ship has sailed out from the depth
of the mediterranean. Its shape has
turned into a blue whale. It has

swallowed Fortune Lobo and
Monkey in a big gulp. In the belly
of the beast, they are playing cards,
gambling for mere compulsion.

V.

Sean X has tried to log on to the X,
he has hacked his own Thing, the
code that determines his identity.
In trying to modify it, he keeps

making mistakes. The rewrite is
a very slow process. You can’t
just hack a DNA sequence to
pieces or stick gold teeth into

VI.

it, or chew its methylation, or
compress its chromatin, or expand
its transcriptome. In short, the
technical review of this process is

the following: we don’t know
shit. The Pheistos disc is not
legible, the secrets are locked to
us, and Sean X still tries so hard

VII.

to unlock the Raven and the
pendulum. He is quite mad.
He hacks, he minces, he ambles
he lisps, he gambles. That’s it!

So the characters of this impro
vision are kept in the black hole
for a while, stewing like good
meat. What happened to the

VIII.

others, by the way? Fortune Lobo
is having stomach cramps. Monkey
is spending his money on TV ads.
They have forgotten their identity.

This is because Sean X is messing
with his own code; this echoes into
the ubi-versal archetype, creating new
fallacies: memories are modified.

IX.

In this way, some monsters are
created. Sean X is attempting to
transform himself into a Grendel
morph in order to slay the dragon.

He thinks that the X is a dragon.
Cicciotta can see that he is having
hallucinations. Of course, she slipped
out of the black hole. She is Beauty.

X.

Even if the blue whale is vegetarian,
Fortune Lobo and Monkey are slowly
being digested. They happen to be in
the ocean of strawberriness on planet

Poseidon. The view is very peachy:
stars and a wonderful balcony panorama
on Saturn and Titan. Cicciotta is looking
for the soap in order to wash Sean X.

XI.

He is driving himself mad, working
until late at (Saturnian) night, trying
to hack the codes. In the meantime,
there is a falling cadet. She has found

some bread floating in the black hole,
and so she decided to free fall (let us
ignore all we know about gravity).
Finally, there are showers on Titan.

XII.

These showers are composed of falling
cats and falling slices of bread buttered
with strawberry jam. That’s Cicciotta’s
notion of gravity. We have come to

the treatise of antigravitatory cats in
application of Murphy’s law. Spinning
forever, like the evolution of the interact
ome of DNA and all its attached sarabande.

XIII.

Thus, since there is a cat-toast equilibrium
point, we’d like to speculate that there is a
Pheistos disc / The Thing equilibrium point.
May I remind all remaining passengers that

when I say (write) Pheistos disc I mean to
say the code of the universe, meaning the
code that codifies the order of God or some
such. And when I say (write) The Thing

XIV.

I mean to say the whole complex biology
of DNA and its attached proteins, including
histones and the epigenetic modifications,
in sum all the stuff that codes for the genome

and its expression as a phenotype. Cicciotta
is so bored. So much biology in one page
makes the doctor go away and come back
with a bad stomach (like Fortune Lobo).

XV.

I tell you who has a bad tummy now.
The whale! Imagine being a vegetarian
and having swallowed two whole monkeys
(primates) complete with space suit and

helmet, and perhaps even some books
because Fortune Lobo does not go any
where without his copy of the Gita.
Where the whale actually is, remains

XVI.

to be established. dearReader, have you
got any suggestions? It was last seen in
an ocean on Poseidon. But, as a dutiful
reader might suggest, they are all in

John C’s memory, somehow lost to the
present and the past, especially as it
is being rewritten. The dearReader is
tired. We are going to be tired now.

XVII.

The past is the past, the future is not
told. Is that so. Yet for all the possible
spins of the multiverse narrative, we
are but slaves of death and fear, and

our little lives are rounded with a
wirelessness and a desire to cable.
Gawain fell into the hole, and all the
inverted fears came to surface, as an

XVIII.

assault. He lost faith in himself, and
woke up in the middle ages, on Earth.
No better time, the spiritual path for
to find. The mirror in the mirror may

be broken, but Cecco is still living,
breathing, and he also finds himself
back where he started, having a
choice of Guelfo or Ghibellino.

XIX.

Cecco and Gawain are united in their
quest for a token of civilization, which
a magical voice in their head tells them
to seek. Increased knowledge of the

unconscious brings a deeper experience
of life and greater consciousness. They
have arguments about what it is, this
thing called unconscious. Cecco usually

XX.

swears and fumes, while Gawain plays
it cool. He takes the moral high ground,
since he belongs to the bastard race of
the north. John C is still battling the

dance-zheimer disease, and his attempts
to hack his own code are increasingly
frustrated. He has slept little for a long
time. And you know what happens when

XXI.

you don’t sleep for long. Fuck-ups happen.
He keeps deleting the wrong strings, and
chopping off the wrong methyl ends, and
he keeps trimming the causality parameter

with the wrong scissors. ‘Art is no longer
the province of the artist, it is the domain
of the entrepreneur.’ His delirium is worrying
Chubby, who has brought him back to

XXII.

Titan after he went on crazy adventures
around the multi-verse, and he nearly got
himself killed. On planet Vashisht she found
him tripping on loneliness, convinced of

finding true shanti shanti shanti in the high
mountains, in the frozen lakes in winter,
luckily the local monkeys pissed in the right
direction, and pointed him to her, and so she

XXIII.

saved him from himself. He’s back to him
self. That is, he is back feeling low self worth,
he deluded himself of being Sean C or even
Sean X, but all this re-write left him codeless

and the epistasis of his being has suffered
greatly, he does not rest, he thinks only of
genomic-engineering himself to solve g.o.d.’s
algorithm, or answer the riddle of the sphinx

XXIV.

or even find a cure for the sick thoughts of
planets. But Monkey always said it, and John C
is struggling to admit it to himself, there is
no cure, as a matter of fact. Planets are sick,

and their bodies are brittle like glass beads.
Chubby is completely non-committal on the
issue. The Borovoe download has collapsed
onto a molten drive, and all data are now gas.

XXV.

John C insists on sniffing the download-upload
in search of the characters that made him laugh
tear, and all the rest. The molasses of the mid
life crisis are the period of the latent dream.

All the fantastical fire in the firmament, the
liquid luscious waves and the blue thought,
nothing can heal the mind that is raging and
painful. John C is hacking the code, he now

XXVI.

just deletes, and edits, and memorizes the
wrong sequences. Chubby picks up the pieces.
In the stomach of the whale, Fortune Lobo
and Monkey are playing poker. They are

oblivious to everything except the gambling
and the fun. They have switched on the telly,
and they listen to K-pop. What a lovely tune!
Please cut my veins vertically not horizontally.

XXVII.

Ariadne is steering the NeverEnder in an
asteroid field of faithlessness, and there is
such a hopeless vibrational energy there,
that all the members of the crew are freezing

with fear, and with despair. Officer Flexa
herself is losing hope. A vein of creativity
has burst inside her mind, and she now sees
all the cosmic beauty as echoes of suffering.

XXVIII.

Desert Storm and Tierra Madre, holding hands,
are looking at the falling stars of the ubi-verse
as the hurricane of materialism rages and the
blood of the prophets soaks the ether, and all

the midicloreans are bursting with entertainment,
the final selling out of all the myths, the reli-john
and all DorianGray imaging serving the cause
of the volcanic marketeers and the whoreshippers

XXIX.

of god-mobile. Unexpectedly, in a moment of
weakness, all the X’s energy flow momentum
has been wiped out, and the whale has stricken
the NeverEnder’s joy. Hyperconnectedness

means that information devours beauty, and
art is transformed into entertainment, and
entertainment is the instrument of repression.
Repression, in turn, eats the souls of humans.

XXX.

Voices of the ether. Cecco and Gawain are
listening to the voices. The latter, like visions,
are autonomous manifestations of the senses
caused by the activity of the unconscious.

Isn’t that ironic. The voices are telling them
to find the unconscious. A bit like two snakes
biting each other’s tail. Psyche, or Eros, accord
ing to a theory that Ahura Madza has been

XXXI.

trying to refute, are the only true forces of
anti-gravity. Eros being the son of Chaos, and
Psyche being a weightless deceiver (or deceived)
we are to recognize that our trouble is deep.

It is the time in the night when the whale
is snoring (do whales snore? That’d be fun).
If they do sleep like humans, they should
snore. Anyway. At this time, on Poseidon

XXXII.

the echo of the ancient mariner’s voice
wakes the soul of Fortune Lobo from his
slumber. Unfortunately, Monkey has been
listening to the advertisement campaign

of the mischevious marketeers for far too
long, he (she) now feels a kind of attraction
for the dark (dork) side. Monkey swears to
serve the profiteers, and become a profiteer

XXXIII.

himself (herself). Monkey sold out. ‘We all
do everyday, might as well be on the winning
team…’ But Fortune Lobo is resolute, and
he wishes to set it right (the world out of joint).

Unfortunately, Monkey stands in his way.
They start fighting in the stomach of the whale,
stumbling on a Pinocchio leg (ah, that was so
cheap). They both have magical powers.

XXXIV.

The ancient mariner’s spell gives Fortune
Lobo the power to shapeshift, but Monkey
was born with that gift. So the first thing he
transforms himself (herself) in, is a wolf.

Fortune Lobo is taken aback. He is like:
‘Wait a minute, that is me! I am supposed
to be the wolf from Scythia!! He took my
mojo.’ Monkey grins, he is picturing the

XXXV.

mayhem, and all the wonders of the MON(K)EY
he’s gonna make. Mon(k)ey, Monk-key, M’honey.
Our precious. We wants it, we needs it. First
thing, we needs a connection. Like a rabdomous

fire, they seek wirelessness as if it were water.
Russell Brand would say, ‘Monkey’s one of them’.
Yes, indeedy. ooh, I have an office at Canary
Wolf… gnam gnam gnam. GnamGnam style…

XXXVI.

Fortune Lobo is not such a great guy, he is just
a lad, and he is very confused. He likes pussy
a bit too much (I don’t mean cats and I do admit
that is a sexist statement, kill me). Anyway. He

does what he can, even from page three of a
certain tabloid. Fortune Lobo shapeshifts into
a sexist macho (you can picture it in your head,
what is the shape of a sexist macho, do tell).

XXXVII.

Suddenly, Monkey is scared. Then he recovers,
and he starts planning a way to make a buck out
of the sexism. For example, we coulds hooks him
this way or that way… by God, today I saw a

VietcomBank, I thought I read Vientcong Bank.
What is the world coming to. Fortune Lobo is
getting distracted, it must be all that testosterone
pumping up and down his Power and Glory.

Chapter III

I.

Eratosthenes is up, and Aristotle is down. Ahura
Mazda listens to Chubby’s love story. Her beloved
ancestor was called beta by his enemies. Aristotle
believed that the world was divided in Greeks and

barbarians, while the chief geographer’s belief is
that there is good and bad in every tribe. So Chubby
sets out to calculate the diameter of the ubi-verse
while listening to Ottorino Respighi mixed with

II.

Жар-птица. Perhaps I loved you, Athenian School.
Things fall. How? Finnegan, Adam, butter scraped
over too much bread, and of course… water. At the
interplay between night and day, across the river of

Hel, across the Abyss, over to you, Pato Donald. In
Hades, there is a gravitropism when Chubby falls
in the museyroom, all excited because it is the
place where ubiverse turns black hole. Well, not

III.

that mensch from the outside, but inside it’s got
“far other galaxies and other bacteria”. Chubby
knows that there is another place beside this
transient rainy (titanic) shadow-sand.

People roll purposeless. Cum, inside the paint
ings. Forever in action, there are heroines and
heroes from all ages who challenge the test of
hubris by defying the jokes and becoming im

IV.

mortal. All is portrayed doing something
sooper duper like sitting on the grass sipping
tea, or fighting the G-force or even smashing
a temple. The gallery is a place of the mind

and wave length. Paintings are glued to the wall
like heaven and hell. Noxious motions are ways
for that eternal leap. Pain Artists and Gods,

weavers of other worlds. Now open a window

VI.

on the past, the present, the immortal, the fuck
allure, and the archaic den of the human spirit.
Perseus (e.g.) is standing in grand embarassment
torn apart by pretty flowers. Fearless legs sore.

Heroic blue, he is the dude and the villain at the
same time. Fortune Lobo has come inside the
black hole himself, all comatose and merging with
Perseuswolf, preying on the listless soldiers,

VII.

waving the head of the Gorgon like a ghost in
pain, as if it was a memory card or one of those
work badges to wave around in the tube. Self
right, an artist of the soul. If (dearReader) you

dare fight your own putrified self, please find the
time to avert your face from the picture of your
insanity. This is the face that we show to other
people. Enemies are turned into stone in a strange

VIII.

strangulation of fear. A cross-fire of artistic
perspective and aggravation. Our weakest (and
strongest) enemy is the image of death. Courage
cost us our life. The rest is a muted entangle

ment of particles, writhing at the first hint of
eternal immobility. So blackhole vision of the
Temeraire is brutuality in approaching voices.
Yggdrasil tempered by the cool light of the night.

IX.

A pool of sunset in the ocean stream counterpoint
to white-crested billows, insinuating on the shores.
The moon is laugh-tearing the decaying sun. Ahura
Mazda, this is the end of the line. The ancient cons

truct is in ruin (due to bad debt). The new construct
seeks Antonio Gramsci’s memories in gaol. Inspired
motion, drawing from the eternal spiritual reservoir,
or the night’s tartly shadows. The orange steam states

X.

that a new order has taken place. Hope, symbolised
by a mild blue light, is compressed between two
worlds. This is the transition between the world
of waking and the world of dreams. Forgotten

dreams are watered down as the sun proceeds
in its funeral march, the city has swallowed it.
From the depth of the abyss, a white light
emerges, it is the reflection of the moon.

XI.

All is quiet in the world of surrender. Yet
the waves ripple and create quiet, Temeraire
is coming home. The dead soldier slithers.
Storm is gathering, the clouds are dense.

quartzgolden skull is uploaded memory for
the dead. The fits of Hel open up, the pitch is
broiling in the foreground. The light is still
pulsating, yet the body of painting sighs. A

XII.

yellowish skin is all that is left of heroism.
All for nothing, the flesh has fallen, and a bree
ze is putting a seal on it. The night of eternal
damnation is going to be long. Doctor, doctor,

doctor. Don’t save any one. I hate you.
Through these fountains of light I have
walked through dimensional gates, but now
just the door attendant. Firebird. The door is

XIII.

locked and don’t know what to do. If all of
this has a meaning, if someone has a key…
but right am torn by a whirlwind of images.
feel am different from the flames that sur

round. am burning alive yet do not feel pain.
can see the footsteps of an old vampire on the
beach. listen to the sound of footsteps of those
walking shadows who, like used to do, listen

XIV.

to the morning clarion holding a last
sceptre of silence. There are still people
trying to climb the earth, some get lost in the
cement pits that pave the streets. Hel is layer

ed with asphalt. Taken aback, find self trying
to rummage the memories, trying to find at
least one good reason to keep on living. have
left the land of stone, have left the bulrush

XV.

plagued city of marble. gave self completely
to a red rose who lied under the scorching sun.
It came back to life with blue petals. But right
then a dream. On a the deck of a ship life and

love been prophesied to be des’ Troyed. dream,
like others, beenfore telling the sunset to cum,
a tragedy so foretold, planned and then seen
again. room the women come and go .

XVI.

chapter one, one, segment one of the veil
nebula echoes with Don Giovanni being
sung. Rainbow-hued gas density shifts
and does not haunt her heart, Ariadne

cries. She knows that a discussion on
the sick thoughts of planets does nothing
for the ubi-verse. The Laconian school
docet. That’s a dying group of ideas.

XVII.

In Hades, in the black hole.

Δέδυκε μὲν ἀ σελάννα
καὶ Πληίαδες µέσαι δὲ
νύκτες, πάρα δ᾿ ἔρχετ ὤρα·
ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω

The moon has set. And
the Pleiades. It is the middle
of the night. Time passes,
time passes. And I lie alone.

XVIII.

cross the waterfall, seminal
idea in the stars. Premonition
of myth. Kerberos meets us.

A sweet protocol. A fellow
ship of characters cannot
go through fire. Burn, mother.

XIX.

Only the bravest poissonages
can withstand the petrifying
gaze of the headless sphix.

Ariadne leads the merry band
of black hole pirates through
the mouth of Ὠκεανός, the

XX.

divine personification of the
sea, an enormous river
encircling the world

strictly speaking a Titan
son of Uranus and Gaia
picture in the museyroom

XXI.

the upper body of a muscle
man with a long beard and
horn-claws of a crab and

the lower body of a Typhon
serpent. Due to lack of gravity
they all fall off the edge of the

XXII.

world into the missing
Rabbit roadrunning with Z.
Desert Storm fallows.

her crop is a young budrose
and a novel showmind

Fortune Lobo carries
the apparition of faces in
a crowd.

The Grim is doublebill
in broken mirror im spiegel.

Limping SeanC, Ahura
Mazda and Chubby complete.

XXIII.

Hel assembles the potion from
under the ash tree. Heimdall
cannot see. Gawain and Monkey
friend, seek life at the origin

of the black hole, studying
the curvature of light. So
Rabbit’s gone missing.

XXIV.

The ego boundary is an open
window. So much fear and

anger.

XXV.

Sean C is settin’ up his computer,
wired into consciousness and memory,
which enables his terminal to log on
the ubi-verse mega galactic computadora

oploading electron microscopy
to the digital polymorphic frame;
his fooling idea is to rewrite the past.

XXVI.

Now Ariadne reclines her head,
she is very much like a cloud
and the sunset grows wider and
wider from nothingness to the

shape all space and time. Memories
laid to rest long ago come alive
lights are awakened to the east, the
whole ubi-verse hums and oscillates.

XXVII.

A cloud is like a flower, and time
comes to a stop (finally)
roses multiply, Ariadnes multiply.
the black hole is quiet, it is now.

from over the shore, the ebb flows
back, and the tide grows, Sea of Faith.

XXVIII.

This is a time in the past and the future
when (forgeddabout the egalitarian plateaux)
black hole lies bend all the possible dimensions.

At the same time, in a rewritten dimension,
the cursor blinks on Sean C’s black terminal
window, the shell of computer science’s disputes.

XXIX.

The flow is totally lost half way
if the dearReader cannot focus [ on it ]
what is it

log in for a head ache, log out for depression.
Sean C is setting up his computer, wired into
the ubiverse, memory and debateable data on
consciousness. Op-loading cellular activity to

XXX.

the digital polymorphic frame, he doesn’t
have a clue about what he is doing. He is
just messing around with his computer.
Still, very accidentally he found a code

(written in Etruscan) that enables his
colourful techno-painting program to
interact with his own cellular memory,
twisting and bending all that dioxyribo

XXXI

nucleic acid for download, exploration,
manipulation and absorption into the X.
It is highly debatable that there is a code.
That’s such an engineer thing to say. Any

way. This dioxyribonucleic acid (together
with all the interactoidome) is a mystified
code that supposedly was written by Poly
phemus (or was it his opponent), I forget

XXXII

his name. Ariadne spun it when she was
a spider (spider-weaving in Etruscan is
so much easier). There is no code, let’s
call it The Thing, in honour of Sean Carp

enter. Well The Thing is talked about in
the book ‘The Perennial Philosophy’. It
is perpetual (does that mean eternal?),
though it metamorphoses in an object-

XXXIII.

oriented manner as the ubi-verse evolves.
There is also another script (apparently
written by asynonymous, or was it Rifat)
which is the ubi-verse Pheistos disc. This

impermanent thing is protected (you wouldn’t
want to mess with God). Sean C doesn’t really
know what he is doing, but he lets his computer
take over and jerk off all those thoughts. There

XXXIV.

is a mental block setting (boundaries after
boundaries of imagined conventions) which
prevent half-humans like Sean C from access
ing the Pheistos code, which is ubi-versal and

grandiose. Once The Thing is understood
(i.e. why proteins are pretty and why RNA
dances and why DNA likes to metaphormose)
then the ubi-verse will open and Sean X

XXXV.

will get some cookie. There is a fractal setting
here in that the deeper Sean X looks at his own
code (the thing that we call The Thing) the more
he sees the code of the ubiverse. Everyday milli

ons of his cells apoptose and millions are created
in some controlled way through autophagy. Same
stuff happens with the ubiverse. Millions of stars
die and millions of supernovas are generated. So.

XXXVI.

The code for both The Thing and the Pheistos disc
is a function of time. The lowest level of code changes
the event handlers. The parameters that pass through
the event handlers change much like quantum physics.

This is the change that drives the morphosis or evolution
of the code both at the Sean X level and the ubiverse he
is (was) living in (before he fell into a black hole along
with almost all the other characters of this story). Now

XXXVII.

Sean X hacks into his own code and finds some left
over parameters from the past, coz some are corrupted
due to bad coding procedures (hence God invented the
Republicans). Sean X tries to correct the code but at

times his whole being crashes as the bad code is so
embedded into his being that the change has to be slow.
This is all so very bad aesthetics. Look dearReader, this
is very novel idea, it is not matrix and not tron. It is

XXXVIII.

actually how we and the universe maintain entropy.
There has to be a program in this and for our own
sanity maybe the created put a level of protection on
the code so you can only access or understand the

higher code once you understand your own code.
But the code keeps changing over time so if you
can use that concept and dig deep into your past
you can have some very novel idea here. Because

XXXIX.

in ten years time more genetic data will be avail
able but people will have no idea what it means.
Renunciation through knowledge. A novel algo
dance for the precise calculation of the maximal

information coefficient. We’d like to know every
thing, and we would like to manipulate everything.
Cicciotta disapproves. So does Ahura Mazda and
Artemis. Let the sleeping dogs lie, dirty sciensticks.

XL.

Inside the black hole, there is peace. Ab initio
molecular orbital theory. We’d like to orbit what
ever possible, and the characters are compressed
into gravitational desire, fear and anger, and all

the other demotions. Mainstream chemists have
now embraced computation. Potential energy
surfaces, torsion of angel, two minima of this
story. There is a plot of energy vs narrative torsion.

XLI.

That sucks. Cecco is screaming inside the mirror
inside the mirror inside the black hole inside the
story that is being re-written as Sean C has become
Sean X that is now recoding his own DNA and

making a mess of it while Cicciotta looks on
in amazement. Total electron density is a function
of coordinates and the number of poetics inside
a small volume which we call NeverEnder. That

XLII.

is absolute cheekiness. I thought the NeverEnder
was a space sheep, exploring the void, the power
of imagination fuels her. She is a she like the moon.
I don’t need to quote Walt Whitman to state that

(asynonymous) am tired of astronomy, and that
do declare that poetry is a beefier soup than Yin
Yang. The Laconian school is nearly dead. The
last bastion of iffy thought has been conquered

XLIII.

by the ravenousness of the Athenian school.
Scholars memorian and oblivian from all corners
of the ubi-verse gather to honour the casket of
Miyazakisan, and the incredible tide. If you don’t

get all the references (says Umberto Eco, famous
for his humility), it is because (he or I) respect
the reader so much that (he or I) half-expects him
or her to catch all the narrative breadcrums and

XLIV.

swallow. Gulp. There is so much to swallow in
this ubi-verse. So much shit is force-fed into our
half-human mouths. ‘Give us the shit, mangia,
mangia’. ‘Hark, fast by the window The rushing

winds go, To the ice-cumber’d gorges, The vast
seas of snow.’ I refuse to de-code the dioxyribose
Thing. Sorry. Sean X has his computer plug pulled
by Cicciotta. She is a Goddess of Egypt and Greece.

XLV.

Tragedy is a celebration of the Truth. It is not
a victory, but a resignation. “Not milder is the
general lot Because our spirits have forgot, In
action’s dizzying eddy whirl’d The something

that infects the world.” Shiva brings dissolution
to the black hole. So we are all going back to
God. So there is entropy, nothing is destroyed.
When remedy is exhausted, so is grief.

XLVI.

Sean X is looking for a MacGuffin, and
only finds empty air, the dramatic goal
cannot be more generic than this. Please
fill in this black with your problem: ___

(A bit more space if you need it: ____
______________________________).
Sorry, that is about it. The power of the
dramatist is in the ability of not standing

XLVII.

in the way of the problem. Whachyoogot?
In the black hole, we find lots of colour.
There, the aqua permanens, which in 16th
century alchemia stood for the quinta essentia.

Hence solutio is either chemical or problematic.
Pneuma is the water of philosophers, and so
we listen to Carl, whose animistic archetype
narrates of a volatile liquid, of disappearance

XLVIII.

and reappearance, and of “the soul that
becomes water”, the invisible pneuma of
Heraclitus. In the black hole, this principle
has become pluralized by being multiplica

ted. Here, the alchemy seeks to “free
the soul in chains”. So where did it
spring from, this creature of the abyss
that scatters the hope of dancing souls?

XLIX.

Then it feeds on their sloth, it foments
their fears. Over the blue sea, shining
with the ebullient eyes. It is veiled
with a hazy notion of brazen youth.

Breathing fire, we see her through the gauze
of the waters, brimming with anger, singing
ferocious chants. So it splits you in two.

L.

Silence on the inert blue, the wave always
rising on the table of the mediterranean.
the hole is open, and a still born child is

image in a mirror with a green mouth,
gurgling in breathlessness and stupor.
innocence at the mouth of hell, a vortex of

LI.

limblessness; on the ship whose prow is
embroidering the abyssal rocks, the sound of
a hissing voice. it is the lure of the chain, a
desire to explore the lower realm. Enchanting

in its mocking dance. Its folds and echoes
linger. Some bewitching spell for a
perennial nocturnal walk, celebrating
some kind of awakening stuck in the throat.

LII.

The prow of the ship rising from the blue
tells me from this particular side of the
black hole that ‘the unconscious can
no longer be treated as if it were causally

dependent on consciousness’ (hence
Sean X is spending pointless time trying
to hack the code of the code to get the
Code). Unconsciousness possesses

LIII.

qualities which are not under conscious
control. The rounded wholeness of the
mandala comes shining down on Ilford
Golders Green and Penge in the shape

of the NeverEnder, newly built in
cavorite, controlled by its own
intelligence, very eager to continue
exploring the ubi-verse and ignoring

LIV.

the slings and arrows of outrageous
waterways. Cosmic affinities. A
particle of the world soul (cosmos)
and hence a microcosm, a reflection

of the macrocosm (hence Sean X
is struggling with the fractal parameter)
Leibniz’s Monadology (not to be
confused with Mona-logoues) is

LV.

very much like this. Sunset over
Jung’s bright yellow. Destiny of
temptation. Switch over to tragedy,
and the long lost brain circuit

where the action potential collectively
describes the prow of the sunk ship
and falls behind the sun on the hori
zon. The Helios God is so miserable,

LVI.

so sad, so tired. From here to there
is a distance far too long, even as we
like to spin in and around this black
hole. The journey is the essence of

the chromoflower, which shall never
be revealed. In this moment of sorrow,
the swallows fly high and low in the
dramatic azure sky. The celestial folds

LVII.

are like wrinkles of old age. Darker,
redder dunes in the atmosphere.
Opaque, thick destiny is swarming.
Such mystery can only be hinted to,

if understood at all, but not known.
Hubris is upon us. My life is brief.
Two swallows fly parallel, east-bound.

LVIII.

the sun (like the ship) has sunk.
Cicciotta looks on, immobile. Half
way under the broiling waves the
star has collapsed onto the southern

sea. I can still see its white dwarf
status, and the black hole memory
of this sunset will be remembered
in a dream on ufos, and analysed

LIX.

by Doctor QuackSilver, Mr Hg,
and our old friend Carl. The purpose
of my trip is over. I am home,
bound.

LX.

I smell this air again, I
breathe.

LXI.

I am nobody, who
are you? are you
nobody too?

the sick rose has
flown away in the
crimson night.

LXII.

Sean X has deconstructed
his own code, and the cell
lies open like a chinese box.

inside, the cat is alive and
dead, and there is no end
to our suffering. For this

LXIII.

reason, Chubby is considering
a further rewrite, and a further
slip into the black hole, and
a further waterphilosophical

debate with Ahura Mazda
about the nature of division,
and why the Caterpillar is
always right. The electrons

LXIV.

have been counted. There
is little energy left. The code
of the Etruscans can only
be read in Volterra, and that

is a settlement far and away
on the planet Fear or was it
planet Carnuntum.

LXV.

Fortune Lobo exits the
black hole and meets Monkey;
the two are Andromeda-bound.

They are still searching for the
MacGuffin, that thing which
gives them the right to resist.

LXVI.

That is not to say that they
do not carry the talisman still.
They do. Their purpose in this
narrative has been preserved.

Chapter II
I.

Effect, Franz Fanon. Causation, Edward Said.
Warning, a journey to the East swallows up
dreams, Baku-wise. What is Jerusalem?
Sri Krishna: “Who cares to seek for that

perfect freedom?” Einstein asserts that the
strongest and noblest driving force for
scientific enterprise is a cosmic religious
experience. But Fortune Lobo and Desert

II.

Storm have doubt. Ariadne (being a Goddess)
is in the league with Cicciotta-Chubby-Bastet.
They sit and watch, we play and weep. So,

While the vynil of the story is being scratched,
and new etchings are marring the past, which
is being re-written as a Sean C monologue, and
the NeverEnder is a ship which is travelling back

III.

wards, then the thread of the story (which is a
yellow ribbon) is being unravelled non-linearly
and duality is talked about in the form of a
conventional truth (worldly and Nagarjunesque)

and an ultimate truth (some of those Huxley
Island kites would do). A daily cup of maggots,
that is the nature of samsara. Yum yum! So
before you used to eat cockroaches, now you

IV.

have graduated to maggots. Monkey is eating
his breakfast on planet Pain, and he has a bad
tummy. Gawain is taking a break on the other
side, while the Ancient Mariner is taking que

stions. “So,” quotes the naive Fortune Lobo,
eager to understand “what is the Middle Way?
I have always wanted to know. Is it half way
between Pad Thai and Papaya Salad ?” Now

V.

Planet Poseidon coughs up the perfect storm,
and the youthful adventurer is catapulted half
way across the ubi-verse, as way to punish
him for his cheeky remarks. Pad Thai, indeed.

Doubt is a flat spot on a greasy lake, like a
small fisherman’s boat, floating by with nets
of Guilt, and fishing Fear. Entropy is the juice
which pumps the heart of Planet Pain, and

VI.

Gawain is mining its jewel-caves for more
amorous feeling, a bit like Montecristo (the
count, not the island). Entropy is the juice,
and I fear the other half of the equation may

be that tremendous heat that we all feel when
pressure is applied to the system (we may ass
ume that the system is a closed one, and that
your mother may decide further laws of ther-

VII.

-mother-dynamics. Cognitive Bee-hivioral Thera
Py. This, in mid-slump with Piezo2 and β-catenin.
Acute depletion redefines division of labour. Other
wise known as, sunset in the afternoon with biscuits.

Gawain has a mouse, like his father before him. But
“Somewhere, parently [..] the copyist must have fled
with his scroll.” The name of the mouse is DumbBill
Silly. “Cull me ere I wilt to thee!” Laughtears. β-cate

VIII.

nin mediates stress resilience (or else we let the bullies
bully us, and steal, and nibble, and feed off our blood).
The stronger mouse bullies the smaller mouse (or possi
bly, the less hungry). The ravenous mice are feeding, so

father sets out for his crusade againt all evil (what a more
on) by sticking the glue on the ground to capture the ene
mies. Pathological states are scattering across the ubi
verse like the well-known Cassiopeia dis-ease. Sudden

IX.

ly a gizillion (at least five) Moody’s Dicks (S’ i’ fosse
foco, arderei ‘l…), also known as scien’wist shmucks,
are swimming in the mercury sea of ab reductio, and
the bodies of the slain are burnt on the pyre. Mammals,

insinuations, forced allegiances to the murderers. Micro
RNA regulation up the ass, Mr Dicer. Fortune Lobo
(floating as the snow at the peaks, echoing as the sound
of the foothills, watchful as Heimdall, flying as the

X.

water of spring) resolves himself to catch the passing
boat of RightMindedness. There. So what are the forces
which hold protons and neutrons together in the nucleus?
What is the journey of the electron? We shall follow that.

When the field jiggles, it behaves like a particle. So nuc
lear forces command the will of Fortune Lobo, Steppen
Wolf of Scythia. Who commands the nuclear forces? It’s
turtles all the way down, apparently. But downstream

XI.

microRNA is commanded by the brain-less pseudo-thera
pist to vectorise the brain. How does the brain-less act on
the brain? Just wait and see. How will Fortune Lobo, while
spinning like the versus of an electron in the space between

particles, using the knife in part one of the story, preparing
himself for the fall… how will Fortune Lobo counter the
farces of canonical Wnt signalling coupled with the doctor’s
false oath? Now before we follow the electron, let it be known

XII.

that the Director of the Human Nation (Dux Ubi-Versal),
he that sees the gnat atop the pile of Jurassic dumping,
while sprawled across the ubi-verse, feeling poetic, he
lines up the ants, the mice, and the leading pine apples,

and declares the ten (mind you) tenets of Desired Behaviour.
But first, he enumerates the long-term benefits, then he asks
a few tough questions, and then he answers his tough questions
with a few tough answers. The White Plague has instructed

XIII.

him. But Fortune Lobo hears not, he is still spinning,
voiceless, in the unknown backyard of your mind, dear
Reader. But before we delve in the harmonics of
particle travelling, I should like to note that not all

scientists are born from the blood of Uranus when
he was castrated by Cronos. The child of the night,
with a broader portfolio than the Furies, operates as
a counter to the capricious Tyche. Now, I am not sure

XIV.

about Mr Tycho, but Fortuna does not come down
heavy on the man that declares that science and religion
are compatible. In reading the words of Mr Albert
Einstein, one is struck by the melody, the mellowness,

and the unshakeable empathy. A mind of thought and
beauty. Nemesis may have driven Narcissus mad,
Fortuna is still revered in Italy and in the shades. But
if there is no overweening pride, if there is no hubris, then

XV.

the mind is gentle like the relativity of simultaneity,
and the reference-body for the budding mind is like a
firefly in the night when the howling storm is far and
away, and Feynman’s path integral becomes certain.

Fortuna, you need not fret about the pebbles moved by
the wicked and the child-abusers, the Furies will have
them. Echoes in time, as Echo cannot love, and the
host of daffodils is dancing in the wind, not recollected.

XVI.

But as Matthew Arnold reminds us, the world in which
we are living defies death.
“In the pines the thrush is waking —
Lo, yon orient hill in flames :
Scores of true love knots are breaking
At divorce which it proclaims.
When the lamps are pal’d at morning,
Heart quits heart, and hand quits hand.
—Cold in that unlovely dawning,
Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand.”

XVII.

Scientists, pale maidens, the sirens of this age.
The orient hill is in flames with nanopores and
anti-gravity, and with delusions of monopoly. So
if science, liberty and peace are not the subject

of political debate, but relegated by doubtful
self-appointed chair-people of false compassion
to the vague notion of “poetry”, if the charity
workers are slaves of the marketeers, if the wo

XVIII.

men of science and the men of engineeering
are driven not by motion but by greed and ambi
valent ambition, then the understanding will
be nil, and the conquistadores will claim the

land, and the politicians will come with bare
hands to squeeze the juice of missiles, the forces
of the atoms unleashed at the whim of Cleopatra.
So after this disclaimer, I should like to discuss

XIX.

the path of particles, of cakes in caves, and
while we hide, waiting for the televised apo
calypso, we can test our hypotheses with the
Galileo method; let’s drop a plume and a rock

and see which particles fall on the other side of
Pinocchio. Disclaimer, disclaimer. More poetic!
So we wish the electron a merry Saturnian holy
day. Saturn is spinning while Titan is at rest. Lo

XX.

and behold. When Nemesis was turned into a wild
goose, the motion of all matter was first described
in terms of waves. The x-component of Nemesis’s
momentum is calculated with uncertainty Δhelen.

You cannot, at the same time, know its x-position
more accurately than Poseidon’s smelly bum. These
days, the God of the Sea is particularly polluted.

XXI.

“Is this the cycle of life story or the Ego boundary?
That’s tenderly. The moon talks to the universe, isn’t
it?” Kroo Pienkit hits the nail on the head. The study
of poetry’s recombination frequency is measured in

centimorgans. As previously stated, philosophically
we are completely wrong if we stick to the approxi
mate law, or the law of the conventional (buddhist)
truth. Nevertheless the sentence is passed on and

XXII.

the next generation of creatures observes the
particles jiggling and bouncing like jelly or
possibly pudding. At the level of the body of
liquid water, we have another source of vari

ation, the production of new alleles (which
are versions of a unit of knowledge) by mute
action. γνῶθι σεαυτόν. One of the first tasks
is to establish a correspondence between the

XXIII.

deoxyribonucleic acid and the map of knowl
edge. Gnostic and agnostic markers have ap
proximate distances calculated with electron
pointers, which contain the address of Apollo.

Particular combinations of andrewpaulmurphyc
narratives are termed nefas-rious and can allow
the restructuralization of the evolutionary history
of a popularized information set. Let us begin

XXIV

with a simplified picture of how memory is
organized. A typical machine has an array of
consecutively numbered or addressed mem
ory cells: Apollo, Apollo, Artemis, Artemis,

Artemis, Artemis. 110000. Over a large time
scale, business per usuals may shuffle the gnōscō
map of Here Comes Everybody. HCE, “an
imposing everybody he always indeed looked”

XXV

Information storage and transmission. One or
two angstroms will do. If an apple grows the
size of planet Earth, then the atoms of the big
apple are the size of the original little apple.

Information flows in cells, either as a 32-bit
float or a RNA interference machinery, with
a bit of Neo (or Don Juan), a pinch of Ahura
Madza and lots and lots of kinesthesis.“All

XXVI.

art is at once surface and symbol. Those who
go beneath the surface do so at their peril.” Sean
C has started a session of navel grazing in front
of the dark-pooled mirror on Planet Vashisht.

White, white… down. From the river of the past
comes a reflection of a story, the laughtears of
forgotten words. The Vashisht mirror throws up
images of delight and sorrow. Sean C listens.

XXVII.

Rain falls violently on every thing. Look, a
monastery, high up in the mountains, shrunk to
the size of Sean C’s mind set. The himmel-
laya are prostrating as tiny stones, much like a

chorus. Clouds burst like rotten eggs and the
jelly of heaven pours down. The gate of the
monk-place rises like an ogre. Giant statuary
shabbiness split between the perfect roof, the

XXVIII.

bulky wooden columns (tense like the nostrils
of a cheeky dragon) and the ruins of the night.
Beams are projected in mid-air like daggers.
So much chiaroscuro. Sean C marvels at the

crippled Aphrodite (vagina times), whose
beauty is enhanced by the concave parts.
The left side of the gate is griffin-paragon
in its full supermajestic slant. The opening

XXIX.

of phoenix wings against the Russian gloom.
In the middle of the gate, buttressed against a
colossal column, whose red-stained wood has
been ravaged by time and termites, a heavily

framed mirror looks on. There is a mirror in the
reflection of the mirror on Planet Vashisht. Sean
C is tripping. The Caivano glass is cracked,
venom’d with blackish veins. Silence enfolding.

XXX.

Deafening noise of falling snow. Roar roar roar.
Sunlight quickly vanishing behind the facing
mountain, engulfed by an army of massive snows.
The monastery sits on the east side of the valley,
perched on a platform of rock, cast between the
dark-hued slope, studded with huge sharp rocks,
and a wall of stone behind it, marking the impene
trability of the Earth. The sun rises from behind

XXXI.

the wall, touching the crests of the high mountains.
Opposite, west and north-west, burning their snowy
fingers, licking the sunsetty furnace red. A magenta
portal of the mountain deep, wide as a quadrangle.

In the middle of its inneryard there sleeps a temple
like a golden and shining gekko, a well-kept coil.
The high mountains form a narrow valley, frozen

XXXII.

in snow. North and south, a riverruns, bending way
through the marooned ice. One can witness the
advancing tread of icicles, a little tighter every day.
The cold, dry air is speechless, no warbling of birds.

The valley has halted in an echoing stillness, with
only the lone murmur of the river to emphasize the
silence. The reflection of the mirror is dark. There,

XXXIII.

the light is not thrown back. A black pond, in ripples.
Branches of trees murmur from it, though it casts no
image. Single drops echo in its mercury liquid glow,
and footsteps are heard. Sean C is mesmerized. The

shadow of a man flashes intermittently across the watery
wall of silence. Melancholy, a burning innuendo; the
figure emerges from the lizard shadows with an
expression of pain across the canvas. He comes and

XXXIV.

goes from the screen of the reflection, much like the vomit
of a Caravaggio picture. The dark waves in the mirror are
balanced by the late afternoon wintry light. There are no
leaves on trees, and yet Sean C hears the rustle of autumn.

In a brief enchanting second, light flicks in the mirror,
and Sean C is forced to witness the passing of a flock of
starlings in a pale blue sky, before the image of the Grim
homes in again. In an irony of pain, the Grim holds out

XXXV.

his hand. ‘I can’t get out,’ he says. “Becchin’,
amor!’. Sean C listens to the Grim. He is talking
to his non-angelified girl-friend. Then the lass
answers with humour: ‘Che vuo’, falso tradito?’.

Whaddayawant, that is. ‘Che mi perdoni’.
Forgive me. ‘Tu non ne se’ degno.’ Piss off.
The translation is liberal, ‘coz the Grim is heavy.
He used to be a poet of the throat, a clericus

XXXVI

vagans, and a goliardus (or goliard). After
many years of peregrinatio academica, he
is rather weary, especially as he has become
trapped in the mirror in the mirror (oh dear,

Mr Ende would have said “what a prison of
freedom”). On the subject, I advise reading
the Daily Spiegel (im spiegel). In this leit
motiv, there is a wanderer in the fog during

XXXVII.

a strange old winter, in the Ghetto of Venice.
So. Be moderate in sleep and wakefulness. The
sun does arise, and make happy the chlorophyll.
And hence on the electron transport pathway

we slide along with the ancient mariner (fabbro
like his son Thomas Stearn). Discontinuous lite
rary quantities measured by elementary quanta
of negative electricity (electrons). Poetry,

XXXVIII.

awakening, raindrops in the gravitational field
of Planet Freedom. Along with the many lost
and undead crawling across London Bridge,
together with Master Stetson, we find seekers

of Planet Carnuntum, people who remember
that pressure is proportional to density. The
job of the goliard physicist is to understand
why things want what they want. The Grim

XXXIX.

does not remember his true name, and lensing
gravitational, red shifts and expanding constants
all complicate his self appreciation. Sean C
talks to him through the mirror in the mirror.
“I believe in intuition and inspiration. When
the eclipse of 1919 happened, I was not in the
least surprised.” The Rashomon-Heisenberg

XL.

effect is a deity which is planted in thyself,
which has detached itself from the persuation
of sense, and has submitted itself to the gods,
and cares for mankind… the molecular motion

of the soul is like a hot gas (hence the hot-air
baloons), and in certain cases the heat can be
so enormous that it generates light in the form
of flames. For this reason, HCE (who we know

XLI.

as the Grim) is well worthy of any and all such
universalization… a bit like Fortune Lobo is an
unwanted Byronic hero with lots of reluctance,
and Desert Storm is a Sheherazade in the making.

Fortune Lobo is spinning in the semi-empty
space, his electron journey to Andromeda is
a bit of headache. A zero gravity sense of humour
is all we need. The NeverEnder, in a command

XLII.

performance, running strong since creation
(and destruction) is gossiping about all sorts
with Vishnu, Shiva and Hanuman. The self
aware ship is filtering through an asteroid

field in the manner of chromatin immuno
precipitation. Desert Storm and Ariadne
are having tea on Uranus while being logged
on the Archive of Myth. Gawain and Monkey

XLIII.

are ju-dancing softly softly with brother Yermek,
founder of the Borovoe mountain trekking club.
The ju-dance is a physical property of humans,
these strange particles coming off the skin of the

odd-verse. Last year, they were in quatrains.
This year, sonnets or nonsensical coupling.
The connection between truth (as a gravitational
force) and all energy is a very weak interaction.

XLIV.

“The things which are external to my mind
have no relation at all to my mind.” Fortune
Lobo is spinning (much like a spider on a
mystical trip) very close to planet Carnuntum.

In the ju-dance, Gawain subject-weathers the
qi while Monkey spaces at very high speed.
Their movements are poetic, a bit like a muffin
(duly fought over in Earnest). From within the

XLV.

mirror in the mirror, the Grim discusses the
theory of shadows to the minutest detail,
putting Ahura Mazda and Chubby to sleep.
From over the short sea, mountains are rising

on Titan. Planet Pain is orbiting a flavonoid
star, and hormone signalling echoes are
discharged in the form of anger management.
On this very day of oscillations, when the light

XLVI.

is just for show, and the children of the Earth
are screaming on top of their lungs, counters
and geometeors are numerizing the algo-dances
all busy on this side of the galaxy. According

to the NeverEnder timing, all legends are
currently sleeping, and the white architecture
of mythilation is slowly unpeeled by the Grim.
“turns out, I am scribbler. I used to populate

XLVII.

narratives with words, so you could say that
I am a popularizer. I used to squeeze a friend,
but she went all oportet aqua on me. Her name
is Becchina, that much I can say. Kawaaaai.

I spent many a day in the shadows since then,
looking for Sapphic Wisdom. As I was walking
in the orange grove, I began to wonder what
secrets were hidden on the other side of the

XLVIII.

wall. I had often heard from the Tiger Tiger
that great beauty was to be found on the other
side. I went through the door and found
a desert. I closed my eyes and saw feelies.

In the wild, a rock and a piss, an old
friend was spinning a wheel, opening
and closing nematode holes for little
threads to fall in. Everything was so

XLIX.

interconnected. And so while skirting
around a hole, I fell in, and by St Louis,
there I was inside a painting, much
like a purple rose, St Matthew was

being slaughtered in a French Church,
on the other side of this page. While
stuck in crimson hue, I stumbled and
catapulted myself onto the screen of

L.

an ipad, hand-held by a Japanese comic
stripper, and so I came to the realization
of guilt. What are these narrative threads?
What is the relative amount of truth to

each little statement? This is why I am
now palely loitering from mirror to mirror.
I still think of the high mountain, and
the last time that I sang the song of

LI.

Becchina. My contemporaries might
know her by her nick name: Beccanassa.
In my time in the shadow I had much
sandwich to peruse the meaning of things.

The number of my issues may have
been complex, but I resigned myself
to live in a world of floats. Presently,
Mr Sean C (nice to meet you), I should

LIII.

like to elaborate on the following
subjects. The number 2, the behaviour
of an electron (sometimes a particle,
sometimes a wave) and the idea of

Romanticism. Let us start from the
latter. Romantic is that cavorite thing
which grows with thigmo, and then gravi
tropism. The painter of plate 2 summons

LIV.

up the courage to admit the existence of
uni-versal fear and sticks it in his art, a passion
worthy of Herostratus. Now Artemis is extremely
pissed off. Was there ever a planet Artemis?

Was it ever meant to be mis-en-Arte? That’s
a bad pun. Umberto Eco talks of unfinished
symphony. Kafka never finished a sentence.
‘That we must feign a bliss of doubtful future

LV.

date’. Kimmerians, living in the land beyond
the ocean stream (or on the scythian steppe)
are covered in mist and cloud, fog and dark
ness. There, the cloud somersault idea of

rom antic is quick-sand defined by the
legendary Odysseus, on his quest toward
home. That a Greek should define Rome…
is the ultimate joke of the Hades, a territory

LVI.

which we now must enter with caution
(there is a lot of traffic, a bit like Sathorn
road on a Freia’s day evening). This is
the Z80 CPU register which is available

to the misadventure befalling in the year
of the Incarnation of Jesus Christ, twelve
hundred and seven. Figure 2 (data not
shown) shows the 208 bits of read/write

LVII.

memory which are misused here. In this
study, we shall analyse the space between
cells, in the manner of biocommunication
capability, romantic emotion, soul or

in vitro leukocytes. Further more, we
shall elaborate on primary perception
in plant life. Lady betrayal says ‘more
meaningless impro-visions.’ Visions and

LVIII.

re-visions. At the gates of hell, some
French scientistics (Peak civilization
memorians) calculate the complete
knowledge of a quantum state, the

prediction of hullaballoney, a critiqual
step in quantum interfero-mechanics.
We’d like to split electrons in half or
we’d like to determine wavelengths

LIX.

with a knife. ‘I am from the government
and I am here to help’. Oh dear oh dear.
Itinerant electrons are being murdered,
the number 2 is so very square, and this

narrative is superconducted. But to the
matter. Hades. Lady Betrayal, Duchess
of the underworld goes by the name of
Hel (dweller under the tree). She’s got

LX.

balls. So to speak. The yoga of mysticism
is needed when crossing the river of hell
(somewhere between the ox-ford and the
camp-bridge). Devotion to the supreme

spirit. Prince Fortune Lobo has come to
rescue the antagonist (a certain dragon,
son of Troy). The spin has ceased, and
all the versi of all particles are pointed

LXI.

toward the exploration of malign destiny,
sought and found and defeated in the depths
of Hel. ‘How did you, still alive, come to
be in this murky darkness?’ Questions are

to be answered. Desert Storm has run out
of ink. In her plight-search for written word
she has dug out the curious feeling of
danger and of awk. Or was it awe. Cut it

LXII.

out. ‘There is more to life than this’, cries
out the infantile cadet, while her infantile
sister is digging deeper into depression
and anger. Planet Pain is unmeasured well

of justification and of regret. In this root,
the waters are divided, and the poetry has
run dry. Monkey has set out to find all the

LXIII.

other characters, now all confused and lost
in the expanding dimension of galactic Hades.
The dark energy may have been a blip, but
emotion-devotion is very real, and the judge

ment that each soul is calling upon itself
is so very real, it is almost artistic. Of the
number 2, electrons and more soul acoustics
we shall elaborate while journeying pod-palia

LXIV.

(a bad Russian translitteration of memories
from under-grown). The Olympian Gods
behave oh so capriciously, almost like the
biological signals of epi-mechanics (which

Sean C observes in the paintings described
by the Grim, who is currently thinking about
the best way to get out of the mirror in the
mirror). Recapitulation: all characters have

LXV.

collapsed in a state of coma inside a thing
much like a black hole which we writer-scientists
would like to call Hades (which stands for
Harmonics of Adenine Decency and Electrical

Speranza). The latter word means hope in a
now dead language, or language of the dead.
And this is why the Grim, suddenly oblivious
is now memorious of his true name: he comes

LXVI.

from somewhere across the water, and down
the valley of redoubtable Celtic sorceresses,
across the elephant mountains and on to the
maritime pine trees, the odour of cicadas, and

the ‘ramingo and esule in suol straniero…’
We now remember! Sean C understands, from
broken downloads that the Grim’s true name
is Cecco, and that he used to be a poet or at least