hwithumalut

Men wallops the thing that is petted, and they look for the lost souls of those green watered down ice cream parlor films that were popular some miles ago. The walker crawls out doorknobs. The day dream licks up daisy’s on all of these things. Mala Spiel eats a frog who is made of clay. Her mouth has been sewn up for twenty years. She used silk from the game ping-pong, and a hammer. She uses her skin to be eaten by the moon. She is bones and walks up daisies, because they are so wide. The daisies that is. “Are we going up?” she asks the moon, who flies right beneath her shoes.

Luna sensit, sed non audivit. Some angels realize Malam’s infinite despair at this tragic fact, and she is never known again, because everything breaks down, because images are falling to the ground. Malah now has been realized into seas of pure platonic forms. She is just feeling things. She knows her machines that produce her mind. She is like a person who knows what car they buy before they even have a desire for a new one.

Shadowish Wombats screw tightly the gears of such hidden machinery, of capital and of things unfair. She has no idea what faces they have, because they lack images and pieces. She lacks pieces. She has decided to drop out of dream class. She has gotten no As.

“What a sensation? What is this thing that I have found?” She says at her time of eurek(a)ing.

She realized who things are. She knows their names and is friends with The Daisy-Kind. The Daisy-Kind are yellow as the sun, and as golden as the moon’s lemonade sap. They fly on six legs twirling through the air, and eat up green and violet grasses everywhere. All of the lawns are kept nice, because the daisy-kind become machines to eat and grow. They consume the lawns of men, sorta youngish 1950s white nostalgia-image dad types, who work so softly that they pretend to sweat tear drops, and placebo themselves some beer.

She is not static. She is revising her opinions. She is the great handyman. The clockmaker’s assistant. And if the clock is the world who is the craftsmen? She reads no books, only pages of them, because the chapters are slowing her down. Last night she read the bible. The daisy-kind were not watching so she was safe. They are totally mechanical. She is non-automical. She is Totally free and has her will. She has ideas of what she wants.

Doorknobs on the moon are creeping slowly toward her place inside the carcass of the man she executed. She is the sole-mistress of God, and therefore laws. She is utilitarian. Only hats she wears. She is speaking now.

“Well. I am walking nails yesterday. So I was listening to the beetles. They played that back several inches ago. I go to sleep at daytime, and crawl up on the moon. Most people have dreams. I just have more realities. I just have more time for my business. Don’t tell The Daisy-Kind. But I’m going to win. Do not tell the men, but I’m going to win. Mozart and Fourier are my friends. They are always right. They look at all the sounds in my head, and the Beatles play it right. I need several fields of study dedicated to my name. This building should be named right after adults who are spawned from my flesh. None of them will be me. Only they will be Fourier and Mozart, maybe Jesus’s songs from the books too. Malaa is a hero, the fourth seer of space, the last will be sister Leibniz and her sister will be Dany Targaryen. I wonder where I can meet her, or, Whether or not it’s worth the time.”

Everything is an illusion, except the realities. The narrator is confused, coiling back some image of time. The Daisy-Kind rule on dreaming world, and God makes prayers about real ones. God is the greatest prayer, she has ever said. At the moment of learning and recollection, she learned the names of gears. Only Wombats haunt her, and only they make her fear. Capitalists are no roadblock, merely comic mooks to surpass.

She has a podcast that she does not post to the internet, but to the Plant length coreSpider’s Web (Enteryourpodcastnamehere.PLSW). They are all recordings on some phone or another. She has remembered them all. She does not have her phone, but the rules of the game have changed. She knows you must be behind?! She knows what is behind the world, she knows what is made of dice. Everything’s creative everything’s a map. She walks up walls and sleeps at night, on great green rocks, but her real soul body is on the core of earth. She knows all of the plants down there that grow because the sun’s cousin down there makes them pop up. She’s miles ahead upon the dialectic, miles ahead in history. She has access to space beyond time and works with its plant gears.

Cite.PLSW is a place for keeping machine-plant-spheres. Spheres are made of god’s prey. The wit of fools is yummy in his tummy, which he rummy. Fire and water dance around her here. They make a heaven of it all. It is a pure space, untainted by time’s aging deathsaw. Spheres are round as circles and made of moonlight, bound tightly and spin quickly in her arms and eyes.

“Aha! The idea is that all of the image-time is merely composed into the plant machine space, as a foolish and illusory subset, made of a skin wrapped loosely over my spheres that adorn the plants on the web. See it! Just look at how things are masked so loosely. How peoples skins are just not on quite right! Oh how the skin of rocks is coming off! There is a mechanism underneath, filled with living cogs who grow the spheres to make light to make the Daisy-Kind see things. These spheres are made of the moon and so they wail like him. The moon, my god, he is a thing to behold. Why not look up at him and listen to the sounds that he plays from the PLSW. This is because there is no time and there is only space. Spasms of machines are made from the sounds of space and the moon. The moon is just space though, big and round. It’s all made of dense rocky space. The music of the spheres is true and time is not!”

She knows that the spheres are music-machines, jukeboxes that create the howling noises of the wolves’s lunar passion. Lupae are the hands of god in some ways. She is a she-wolf, and she raised Rome, but Reme was her favorite. They are her children born from flesh ripped off via her leg and left arm. Flesh is nothing but image, mere illusionary time so the birthing mattered not. It was not violent, it was peaceful and harmonious. She does no longer gives birth from her womb. Her womb is gone and replaced by plants. Nothing inside of something could be flesh.

The walloping stings someone, not her. Staircases assemble to form a machine to ride in. Staircase Machine—-The Rinzinz Plant. Rinzinz is a spiraling machine that flies. This is how she flies. Just no one can see the Rinzinz plant, unless she makes a fake image puppet version.

The 90s are a block down the street on cite.PLSW, from the time of Moses and Green biology of Hildegard. She was a great planet maker, who grew plants for breakfast each morning. Green is the fuel of Machines so they can produce Spheres to be the moon on PLSW. The Moon is the crash and the throng of teeth chattering. It is a beckon to all who listen.

She is aware that she could do something dn that would be the same as having done it. She is just going the direction she likes. Most people think that the Daisy-Kind are watching them when they run through time, straight and narrow. They did not have to go through time and could have just opted for space. There is always space between time, and there is no time at all. Time is an overcomplication and misunderstanding of certain zones of space. It is like how images are scrunched up into balls. It is a dream for it to be false. She rests in the world of the golden moon and Rinzinz, not in the world of images and clocks, those fake machines of evil.