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The Prose Factory

Writing well is damn hard.
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Reblogged from Eye of the Tornado Original: we're family

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HOW THE FUCK HASN’T TUMBLR FOUND THIS YET

OMFG

O H  M Y  G O D

O H  M Y  F U C K I N G  G O D

forever reblog.

I thought it was going to be a nice and mellow song but then it took a turn as soon as he started singing

FUCKING HELL

i cANT FUCINKGN BRTHEATHE SONEMOME HELEP 

you kids havent found this yet? wow

IT’S ON MY DASH AGAIN.

FUCK YEA.

(Source: queenbradbury)

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Pudd’nhead Kevin

I wish I owned half of my neighbor’s dog.

“Why?” you might ask.

Because I would kill my half.

text

The Field

They think they’ve found the Higgs. It’s only a matter of time.

Yes, I’ll leave tonight. Will you be OK?


She kept her words so…I’m not sure whether it’s that she thought it would be easier for me, making her sacrifice as calmly as if she were wiping my tears, or that she was eager, or even afraid, and determined not to show it, not even to herself, lest it end up on an auto-da-dísc and her lineage be mocked for millennia and blocked from the better schools and gyros canteens.

It means nothing. Let’s fly.

It’s my simulation. They can’t discover the field.

I often think it would be better if one of the simulations did exactly that.


She slid up to me and did wondrous things and later, after she had wiped over our prayer statues with disinfectant, she whispered her rebuke to my sternum: 

You know you have to take that back.

I knew. By the time I finished with the rites, her simulation was over and she was gone.

“The rules are and have been and will have beenalways and always already and always forevermore.”

That is the rule of law and infinity, carved in the lining of every infant’s soul. Not even God gets to break that one, or so She says. It’s all because of that field. The God Field. 

My she and I had once had a good laugh that a physicist in her simulation nicknamed the Higgs, “the God particle.” If he only knew.

The Higgs is trivial, not even acne on an angel’s ass. It’s only interesting to her lab rats, who haven’t fleshed out what they call “the Standard Model” yet. If you live in knowledge of all the rules, a few million GeV here or there is, well, nothing more than a bump on a supercollider’s data log, the bark of a lab rat’s toy.

But there is real danger if one of the simulations discovers the God Field. It’s the ultimate goo, the potential field spanning every multiverse, every infinity. If you let a simulation learn how to manipulate the field, how to perturb it just so, then even Chaos would be in chaos. 

It’s how we work our magic, after all. It’s how we tease fire from a vacuum, make a simulation inflate faster than its photons, store a galaxy in a singularity. It’s how we hop-scotch across multiverses and time and still make it home for evening ass play. It’s how we create Irony, for Her sake.

If one of our simulations should learn to shake a God particle loose from the aether…  

The problem is, it’s actually quite simple.

Always simulate.

This is the rule I hate the most. We’re always cooking. Always spinning and timing and measuring and writing it all down, as if we’d ever need to read about it. We know what’s going to happen, and still, there it is, written in bold on the back of our eyelids:

Always simulate.

And not a moment’s rest, it seems, without hearing the mega-bitch chiming, 

Clean as you go!

as if that were one of the rules. It’s not, but damn, She acts like it. And since She does, so must we all. For the last 3 bitchslaps, this has meant that when you wipe one of your simulations, you wipe yourself at the same time. To reduce the likelihood of contamination, etc., etc., and preserve the integrity of lab results, etc., fuck you, She!, etc.

And so my she is gone. I will see her tomorrow in the pool and she won’t know me from Adam.

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A Meditation

I.

In the end, he would begin with a fair-to-middling understanding that the central reason for the delays he endured time and again from false starts and false hopes was nonetheless, more or less, not to be mistaken for an indefinite pause of causation, anymore than it could mask itself as the final word on this or any other subject, eschatologically-, teleologically-, categorically- or any other icky ally of our designs, purposes, ends, and flourishing, shiny finishes-speaking bon mots from sinister mimes notwithstanding our inability to cross said (as well as any unsaid) finish line.

II.

Shit happens, he thought correctly.