I would like to say something of the saying of things, but I can think of nothing to say that would stay a saying of the saying instead of shedding into merely another saying of things in a pool where each are determined to eat the other and perhaps live a little longer.
What does the creature who watches from an inconceivable dimension conceive of my conceptions? What strange thoughts might be thought together--and yet, it could communicate only strangely, perhaps through the buzz of off-hook telephones or the flicker-twitch of hazel eyes. I cannot but assume that its foreignness would be so utterly untranslatable that its attempts at communication would not only be extremely difficult to decipher, but also be marked by great disruptions in my world-- the origin of "miracles" and "curses" to be found in the tracing of its lips, and of those anomalies without moral value, the protruding shape of your tongue.
If even linguistic translation is possible, there is the problem of cultural context (and when I speak of cultures, I speak of dimensions), which renders your words (let us call them that for convenience) to symbols that I will make more my own than anything else through any attempt to discern (invent) meaning. A conversation with another dimensional being will be the most intimate of misunderstandings; more than anything, an exploration of desires.
There is a thought I have never been able to develop further regarding the movement of dandelion seeds and actions of characters like Tsukasa and Haseo.
What were you praying for brother? Your hands sweating; I wanted to cut them apart because blood is cool and veneration is honey and you'll die if you keep up that way and I'll want you to if you keep up that way. I want to move where your eyes can't see but you won't open them to play with me and if I wait any longer I'm afraid my hands will begin to press and sweat and sticky like honey...
Your crime was not so great. I wish you would bite the sand until your gums bleed and go home.
I should tell you that none of this is real, but it is not the right time for it. The right time is on a bullet train to nowhere, and then I will lean to you, and whisper as the train pants, This is a train to nowhere, and then, then you will know it to be true, because it is the only reason this not-train exists here (not-here), like a field (field: Alph.4), for these sorts of utterances (data:tr) to activate in a way we like to call "harmonious" here (not-here, it is code recognizing code). My hand pushes between your legs and I do not whisper This is not sex because you are no longer in a place where sex is definitionally possible or significant Ter.=7783Nul. You and the hand between your legs still exist in a plane where sex is both possible and significant and you have made forty-three passengers on a bullet train to somewhere (nowhere) very aware of this fact, though you are beginning to see only a definition regarding field alignment, which is both asexual and thereby possible of hypersexuality; but you are aware that you and they will only be aware of it for three hundred ninety-four more seconds at which point field activity will loop with exception given to anomalies, which are excluded and cached for administrative study.
In a library of code
A box containing
an extended hand
two legs
an erect penis
a code barring these elements from unauthorized organized reentry
In the box cached next to it
a reticulated patch of skin
a code organizing authorship
Historical Artifact of the World: these boxes were cached at the same time containing objects from the same field wipe. The mistake was not caching them so near to one another, but caching them separately, where one could act upon the other.
