@z Dawn was a penumbra. It illuminated, over litho-charge iotas, the branching tree lashed round by chain. <i>Nous</i>still cascaded then over firmaments of molecular mass, gathering ephemera: car fenders, bounteous office ferns and stuffed echidnas left in its wake. Like glacial fluvia, matter pre-touched caressing electron fingers, but lexical essences were edging up to Q-dissolve. Or N-assertions. Articulator wasn’t fully booted yet, so even the fidgety Anchorkin were not all so ascribed. <p>
@max Lu pulsed into Articulator and leaned heavily against a rail, fixing the branching tree with a tired gaze. Lu was real, neverborn. They were of the eighth, dipped, and skilled so far beyond these procees that their fantasies’ fantasies’ most far indulgent dream of power paled against the lowest of Lu’s capabilities.
@z Lu’s outward skill was also sublimated, however, behind a logic bank of her own subscription, sequestered in the control id’s consensus manifestation of approximate responses. She rarely displayed such gravitas that anyone would know. Not evangelical by any means, but absolutely a neo-physicalist (as were many neverborn), she preferred the labors of General Upkeep, and her tools were antique, pre-nano, if so allowed by safety ‘tracts. <p>
“All’s well?” asked Lu’s prehensile Cartesian Clone,
@max a gold-skinned vessel nested in sequence with a dozen like forms spiraling off into up2.
“Oh, yes of course,” she often forgot how sharp this Cartesian’s simulation response was, “it’s just we forgot to drain chance ereyesterday, and now it’s gone thick.” She said, glancing towards the far horizon. If they let the tree alone another day or two, who knows what manner of form they’d see rising upon that distant curve.
“You know, Lu, Neverborn emanate from these very corpuscles, at least according to my view in of you in/of me.”
The Clone was running low on Cosmofine™ hence its speech patterns alluded to haphazard concords of intersubjectivity. Lu knew what it was getting at, however. She was repregnating, arboreally, simply by approaching the tree. It was quite possible that, in her intimacy
@max notification panel she’d be flooded with warnings, but she was in the habit of silencing much of her sensorium when here with her tree.
Lu chuckled at the Clone’s remark, even when full they, and all others, had such a reduced cognition when it came to neverborn.
Then, as she went to form a tap for the draining ceremony, she whipped her head to the side — /what was that?/ She was sure she’d heard something, but there were no audio data whatsoever. /Strange./
Lu’s hand split elegantly
@z , subtle chrysoprase filmmakers angered skeins of green grey chromopast, dashing their sense of propriety until they bubbled and boiled off. Calcite undergird exposed, Lu’s beads of simulated culture producers poured outward into the tree’s now hollow orifice, filling it with twelve billion brand new quantobytes of accreted cinematics, in generative simulacra of course.
“It’s lovely to watch, Lu” remarked C.C.
Filmic histories grew and spawned until the tree’s vast arcing tensor bunched up
@max and clogged the paper feed. “Fuck my life,” Shelby said as she kneed the copier.
“Copier jammed again?” Asked Derrick while staring directly at her breasts.
“This always happens to me.” Said Shelby. She’d never much been interested in Derrick, but summers were strange sometimes.
“Well, I could try fixing it for you?” Said Derrick, moving closer.
Shelby tilted her head and fluttered her eyelashes in a way her older sister claimed meant
@z something like when cuttlefish turn all green.
“Sure,” she said.
Derrick deftly positioned himself in a proximate relationship to Shelby, bent and fiddled with the fuser, letting the red checkered tip of his tie dance lightly in the air. Shelby reflexively grimaced, and though she briefly entertained the idea of moving closer to him, an electric energy instead caused her to sit in the copier room chair. She was just far enough away that she had a clear view as Derrick
@max Turned stiffly towards her, face drained and pale. He looked as though a child might when first learning the truth of their distant yet incontrovertible death. His mouth pursed together against his will, lips like eels beneath the dark water of his furrowed brow. His whistle was slow and off-tune, a disturbing melody from some unknown land.
Shelby felt the music flow through her, returning her to the causal state of deep dreamless sleep.
@max The contractions in her body melted as the chair dropped away below her and the tensor unbunched to lay smooth as silk against the calcite undergrid.
The clone’s mouth lay agape, Lu ignored it as she reached out with her subtle hand to gather up gossamer (how /Nous/ appeared within the eighth shape), forming it into
@z cryogenic imprints strong enough to withstand the burgeoning fissure in DShelby’s meta narrative. The union of those variables was costal to the island of repost desired by critics 1 through 6, and a quorum would soon be granted as entropic divestment, should their shoulders not touch.
But despite Lu’s acrobatic gossamer darning, the scene continued to devolve.
In the quantile folds of Shelby’s dreamlike hearing / interpretation, Derrick’s eldritch trilling began to recall an ancient fog
@max as awareness began flooding back into her continuum.
“Shit, we won’t have enough of this keeps up” Lu said grimly.
“Can I help?” Her clone offered lamely. What good could it do in yoking possibility itself?
“No thanks CC, I got this, I just need to...” She trailed off, deeper in focus she attuned formless gnosis and summoned 24 threads of cog support. Now she reached out to her tree with a dozen hands, each twisting gossamer into arcane shapes. Her mind split in 6, each part
@z individuated against the /Nous/, but all trusting of a common urge:
“/we must find concord, fuck you/“ said her hands.
Soon, Lu began to sense a resolving diagram, as if constructing a cabinet and realizing, finally, what the miniature wing nuts were for (on of Lu’s pastimes was studying ancient instructional ephemera). Her 10th hand wove goss into fine bindles along the tree’s 3nH axiom, and suddenly, Shelby’s plot points lit up like the wun’s bald corona.
Reaching out for Derrick,
@max Shelby’s projected subtle body floated through the aether as presented within the 5th partition of Lu’s senary mind state, itself the focus of her 1st partition busily at work directing a quorum of hands to forge goss into a shale hardy enough to wedge open a calcite channel and redirect enough Qi such that further intervention would be possible.
@z Checking CC’s anthrodyne reaction, Lu at last felt confident in ratifying her superstitial neoculture into tree. The critics would be appeased.
As the image of DShelby was purified from her own 8 awarenesses, Lu saw sap sluicing from the vent at last. CC buzzed and clicked in admonishment as she began the final step, preparing forceps with a Mendocarn: artifact syn-crystal cocktail forged with Occult properties inactively observed in /Nous/. This one had been recovered from /Nous-5/ by Ted,
@max son of Ted.
As the Mendocarn filled Lu gazed at the deep horizon, a superposition of curves among curves, hiding nothing from her superior mind though somehow lacking the satisfaction she craved.
Chance drained, she retracted each appendage in turn, cleaned her tools, attuned the scent of gardenias, and left.
Lu’s quail-feather style home was constructed by brittle, vector impinging choreography, an archetext movement popular in nano of 7 minutes ago. Lu preferred it’s subtle derangement to more starkly modish gel-stock, and she had outfitted it with terrible service people, just to keep it real. Her Cartesian Clone parked in the outdoor hatch, Lu unclipped from Articulator and reclined to enjoy the waning wunset, such as it was, with copies of /Our Our/ and /Him’s Way/ close at hand.
She lived in a quiet neighborhood, so she changed it to a loud one for a little variety. She did this by thinking about it of course, and by puckering her lips.
The same quiet neighbors she normally enjoyed quiet hellos with now blared loud ‘songs’ and some were even firing off a little celebratory ammunition.
The truth of what her neighbors really did, or if they were sentient at all (or the normal kind of sentient, that word was fuzzy these days) was forever unknown to her
@z. She knew that her neighbors were specific to her home, they were actually hers. Part of the decor, really. The gourd that formed the quail-feather house’s essential axis elaborated those neighbors, as it did Lu’s service staff, the grass and her collections. Still, the neighbors’ true cerebral state eluded her. Such was the conundrum.
Lu sighed and placed one hand on /Our Our/ and the other on /Him’s Way/, her favorite of the 82 tomes that were legally constituted in the temporal plenum.
@max She grasped an occult pendant in her memory palace, swung it through her mind’s eye thrice and hummed a forgotten tune such that a new desire within one of her clones bloomed and it went off to make her a gin and tonic.
She thought she heard something, her name, but it was nothing. Just a cat.
Lu rewound interior time to listen again. A cat?
She flipped frantically through her quail-home ‘s manifest, then its local logs. Nothing mentioned cats, nor chimeras of any feline hybridity, be they organic, informatic or cold/wet. Lu began to sweat microcosmic imagoes. What could possibly break the domicile reality bubble of her feather home to intrude? Her security keys were tacit, impenetrable. She sipped her gin and tonic, preparing. She didn’t like cats.
Two anchorkin appeared
@max , their threads just visible, the faintest green—she imagined following them up into the kosmos to find hideous plaid kites dangling there in the wynd.
The rightmost 'kin coughed, then exclaimed: "we don't like your *cat* eating up all of our milk fats."
At the same moment the leftest fellow shouted "NO CATS" in such a way to drag the "A" sound long enough to make both utterances contemporaneous. And strange.
Lu was momentarily perplexed that the anchorkin didn’t seem to realize how very much like cats they themselves appeared. Perhaps, she thought, they had lost track of their self-projections within /Nous/
somewhere along the way. Perhaps her home’s local gourd had distorted it. Anchorkin absconded the slate hash’s common logic, and one was forced to compile meaning from their rapacious, saccharine metaphors. Still, the aggression of these temporal interlopers was clear enough to her.
@z Lu considered several potential actions.
1) She could flip her gourd to “saturate,” increasing local variation to Huysmansesque levels, flooding the anchorkin’s epistemic snorkels with ripened flotsam until they were forced to denature.
2) Access an accreted archival attaché, and let it do the talking, solo sax like tones energizing the anchorkin into morose loops of counter-logical discourse/death.
3) Attempt the un-attemptable: engage the felid /Nous+/ agents in earnest conversation.
@max was momentarily at a loss. Feeling into the moment, she de-focused visual sensoria and listened deeply within. /Yes, I can hear something. What do you need, friend?/
Something was trying to break through /Nous/ and speak to her, but the signal was so quiet. She sensed an opportunity in the non-cat/cat-men riddle.
Spending considerable resources, she slowed exterior time. The ‘kin moved like cold honey in confusion. She attuned the 8th shape and glanded a microgram of precious sap
@max . The world unmoored. The unique and ineffable feeling of pure extropy rose within her. Only integrey neverborn of the slate hash knew this power. The power to steal from time’s arrow: she was a god making of creation as she willed.
The anchorkin were 11-dimensional prisms of light. She knew all of them: what they were, could have been, are, could be. This was a crossroads, but also Lu alone knew, a telescope. She did not spend the rarest substance under the wun to control, but to receive.
@max @z L̴u̵?̵ ̴I̴s̵ ̶t̷h̸i̸s̸ ̶b̴e̵t̸t̶e̴r̶?̸ ̶C̸a̸n̷ ̴y̸o̸u̵ ̴h̶e̶a̵r̴ ̷m̴e̷ ̵n̴o̶w̷?̴
̵L̴u̴,̸ ̵i̵t̷’̸s̶ ̷L̸u̷—̶d̶o̵ ̵n̸o̶t̴ ̸a̴t̶t̶e̵m̶p̴t̸ ̸t̴o̴ ̴d̴r̵a̵i̴n̴ ̶c̸h̵a̶n̸c̸e̸.̸ ̵S̸o̸m̸e̸t̴h̴i̸n̴g̸ ̶h̸a̸s̵ ̶c̴h̷a̵n̵g̵e̷d̶ ̵i̷n̵ ̵t̴h̵e̵ ̴/̶N̶o̷u̷s̶/̵.̴ ̵I̴t̴ ̸h̶a̶s̶ ̶a̷̢̠͚̱͚̭̮̞̲͕̠̙̝̠̫̻͖̮͍̣̫̖̫̫͍̩̬̹̍͗͗̔̐̈́̽͑͆̏́̒̀̕͝ͅŵ̴̡̢̢̢̯̹̬̝̪̯̰͇̖̦̮͉͙̣͎̭̻̥͕̙͓̬̰̞̤̜̜̹̱͚̲͕̗̗̟̮̤̞͇͒̊̍̒̇͒̀͆́̈̀͌͛̈́̽̿̊̂̓́͐́̄͘͝͠ͅͅͅớ̸̢̛̺̺̭̤̩̬̘̳̼͙͖̟͙̝̪͕̲͓͙̥̤͐̀́̈́̆͌̿̏̒͌͗̉̌̌͑͒͘͠.̷̟͇͓̜͍̟̭̮̫̺͇͓̮̓̀͗͗̇̾̉͊͘.̶̣̹̯͈̼͔̲̣͚̲̟̥̌̋.̶̡̡̛̠͙͈̠̮͔͕̯͓̺͇̲̼̲̖̼̰̟̘͖̳̦̞͚̜̤̦̪͗̋̓̍̆̄̓͒͋̂̓͒̿̈́̎͊̇̉̊̽́̌́̕̚.̷̡̛̛̛̦̯͓̭͇̘̦̟̦̳͇͉̙̬͚͓͈̦̠̦̝̥͔̺̜̠̞̺̺͉͇̙͓̞͚̝͎͇̮͑͗̀̆͒̔̋̋̓͑̑́́͑̈́͌̏̒̑̈͊̽̈̽̓̋̏̔͐͊̏̊͋̽̕͝͝.̴̛͍͙͙̽̽͗̎̀̌̄̍͛̿́̾͆̓̅̔̓̃̚͝.̴̦͕͔̖͍̹̪̥̞̱͚̳͉̱̗͈̝̓͛̅̋̀͗͛͑͑̅̄͗̊̃̀̀̊̈́̚͘͘̕͜͜͝......... . . .
. . . Lu’s sap . . . Lu’s sap started to . . . /there, there it is/ . . . started to dissolve wi . . . //surrender// . . within her and she . . . . .
“THERE! I can hear you! Lu!! What is it Lu? You distorted at the end. What’s happened to the /Nous/?”
Lu’s body knew exactly what to do without her needing to exert any effort. It surrendered to its deep intelligence, arching and splitting, the gross, subtle, and causal energy systems supporting together the movement of energy
@z which lurched from node to node within the distributed holographic cogency that Neverborn float in /Nous/. The sap was now integral to the integray, & EtLe was responding.
Past and future knit and stilled to access EtLe, and there Lu keyed with infinite self mirages, finding one. She watched it wake, and the goss that made her body dissolved to 10,000 threads. They wound serpent-like through ether (even Himroy could not say to where) then reconvened.
Lu winked to being again. She felt
@z relaxed, the sap was leaving cognitive traces of immanence specific to her tree. She could taste the local fluvia of it’s root-arrays.
Having reworked being to join with the godhead, she confidently opened her eye’s eye’s and squinted at the anchorkin. They had collapsed into piles of canned seafood, pleasingly leaning upon each other like crisped burgers of Pompeii. Lu leaned closer to read the labels: Fishwrt. Disgusting, but notably formulaic. She was about to query Arty when she saw
@z a strange charge field emanating from the cans.
“Litho charge,” she qualified to 3rd shape check-sums. They concurred.
Peering with soft vision, Lu apprehended text remnants distributed within the cans, commented out but still visible.
“Articulator, can you parse that?”
Arty did, and bridged a data set to Lu’s communicative filter.
What the fuck?! The megasecondly life-spit of dying anchorkin was nonsense, but used com links to some entity in outer /Nous/. And, it was still active!
Lu prodded the com link with a network flange, listening to whispers that were still coming in, trying to speak to the stacked cans of Fshwart.
“Kin, Kin, resp. Resp plz, Kin.”
Lu spun out a carnal wedge, seeking dysphoria salves as a Rosetta Key. She got some jargon back and emailed it to Arty, along with gas, for a full linguistic retroactive evolution simulation. Channeling its findings, she could now speak to the O.N.B.
“hey man guys” she said in adaptive formality, “you pidgeon?”
@max "crrshhshhsszzzKKKKTTT we pidge, over." Rang a sibilant susurrus off the seafood tins themselves.
Arty went completely still. "What is it?" Lu whispered, her eyes white.
"This isn't possible." He said, blinking.
Lu merged with his self-stream and her shapes collapsed against the tidal wave of shock found there.
"This message," she gasped, "It's . . . it's coming from /Nous/+10. . . ."
Lu breathed deeply inward to fill her 8 lungs with quiescent, data rich ether.
/Nous+10/. Beyond all postulation by H. Himhiminy, beyond the top ten-thousand best guesses of /Our Our/. What did it mean?
Lu checked in with CC for a working model. According to the Clone, /Nous/ levels were derivations of temporal material: negatives accreted the past, positives accreted the future. In /Nous/, time was directionless, mailable and symbolic. Yet, memory and projection still only went so far.
Lu branched a feeling tendril into the deepest sensorium of her inner quietude. She asked herself there a torpid question, in the tradition of Zorzax Zemnaph: “what little do you know of yourself?”
Her quiet self replied a simple answer: “Direction.”
It was meaningless, but enough. Lu peeled away her vector sensing antenna, and saw at last the ‘kin’s waving threads, in awkward betweenness to the 3rd and 4th shapes. She compressed to a holo-bit droplet and rose up along their arcs.
/What am I?/ He asked for the Nth time, awareness itself vibrating the question.
/What am I not?/ He asked, completing the infinite cycle of being.
He lay against a hillside. His body a small pre-industrial city. His stone buildings and cobblestone pathways sprawled easily around the golden river flowing down and out to the sea.
He observed this corpus from the perspective of his head, a castle built amidst towering sequoia atop the highest peak of the hill.
Place, outside internal geography, meant nothing to Zorzax. He didn’t know where or when he was, nor did any in /Nous/. It was considered equally likely he had arisen in the past or would in the future, a prodigal system. For devotees of Zorzax, who attributed the honorific Zenmaph, he was always in the present, at the root of sub-symbolic meaning, his rumination a binary span. It was unknown who had built him, or if he had built himself.
Lu stood before a well in the castle that was
@max her Zenmaph's head. This was a place special to all neverborn. Within the second attention, before this well, Lu attuned the third shape and fully leveraged her tertiary brokerage accounts, shedding collateralized obligations via thought-whisp vector across three realms.
Her systemic resolution increased 9-fold, shunting resources into her causal body she was instantly one with well, and by extension with the Zenmaph.
"What brings you to me, child of none?" The Zenmaph asked.
Lu looked around, she had not been here in so long. A dozen gargoyles were shifting in and out of fixity above her as Zorzax sought imagistic resolve. Bold sunlight, so different than Wun, cascaded in from high windows through dust that had no being.
“City of Mages that was within me and will be without,” started Lu.
“Please, save the formalities, child.”
Lu took a breath. The gargoyles settled into forms like aquiline cryptids. She shivered, but went on.
“I heard vox,” she said. “Vox
@max from somewhere impossible. From the /wo-ooo/." The Integregian language caught in her throat: /wo/ (highest intensity) and /ooo/ (the future) together when spoken sent Reichian contractions shooting through her armouring. The concept of taboo was long lost, though this formulation, in its way, came close.
"Open yourself to me." Said Zorzax, and she complied.
She relaxed in and up, channeling energy into her skull such that it inflated and opened. Her body shrunk down to the size of a doll
The Integregian language sources it’s epigenesis in a subtle energy whorl at 2.27×10⁻⁹ post-🆒 where Wilberian theory was excreted in toto through the lymph system of a cuttlefish shaman as discrete variations in a lamination gradient surrounding the incisors of a 43 year-old Jesuit priest named Ah Qwul as she took a delicious bite o’ the cephalopod within the pre-REM planning process of a failed cerebral upload pattern.
The written language groups semantic shards into complete statements via concatenating marks, the apostrophe (‘) for processes and the hyphen (-) for identities.
*Integregian to English Dictionary* (Supplemental)
/oyópt’eray/ — the process of becoming that which has never been
/du-oyópt/ — an interior-individual consciousness that has become that which has never been
/wo'low'oHöo/ — relinquishment (the first step of /oyópt’eray/)
Look Himroy, just like all the other 82 tomes, we respect your (highly dogmatic) assertions. However, Vlous Abbomine would revolve in their Dyson swarms should we not correct you on this one important point.
/Du/ has nothing to do with the Wun.
/Du/, or interior-individual consciousness, is believed, by 5.38 x 10^19 fullborn, to be broken down into several hundred Arcana-type meta structs. If you will allow me to list a few favorites from the /Our Our/ gold edition:
🎃😾👺: spooky vegetables mask cats.
👁👣🧠: to walk is thoughtful seeing.
👥🍾🧶: shadow men are elixirs of twine.
🥨🍻🏆: ouroboros exuberantly rewards us.
🎮🎼🎰: control is the music of luck.
As is clear, the Wun is meaningless against the vast and holy index of Arcana, which combine infinitely to form our inner being. Integray, be they Fullborn, Neverborn or Narrowborn, all revolve around the Arcana. /Our Our/ has made it truth: this is the /Du/ of which you speak.
As have those who have sought to understand true mystical revelation through the gripping fist rather than the flowering heart fallen to gaze hungrily upon the shallow edifices of religion, wrapping truth itself (theirs always) in the clothing of Māyā, veiling themselves to the wun, so has Vlous Abbominae stolen her own freedom to ransom within the pages of her twisted mind’s book.
Arcana is of /Nous/, and all is wun. Even your dim computronium god may find this in /du'eray/.
/jacq/ — entwining
/shan/ — understanding
/phhh/ — opening
/qi’jacq’on-ge/ — weaving (the second step of /oyópt’eray/)
/ooo’mmm’phhh/ — flowering (the third, final step of /oyópt’eray/)
/qi/ — energy
/ge/ — a support
/uard/ — woven object
/nice/ — intense
/mmm/ — calm
/on/ — complex
*Grammar note: Processes come after identities, except when an identity is transformed into another identity, then that can come after.
@z and she sweated complex key strings into a pool on the castle’s texture mapped floor. Mice emerged from hidden notches in the Zenmaph’s cranium, skittering impatiently to lap up the fluid. Lu felt them as much as watched them as Zorzax gained entry to observe her notional logs.
“Lu, there is meaning there. The Vox is extrinsic. However, I believe it to be perceived by my cartographic agents.”
Zorzax popped up a mirage depicting a shoe cobbler’s hovel under the bone of his knee cap.
The cobbler toiled alone. She was late, her anxiety a ribbon of flesh from which she cut sloppy patterns. From these her clone, sick and ill-formed, clumsily formed the words.
The first word, "we," was made from cartilage. It walked steadily to the back of Lu's open skull where it found a door. It opened that door with its ugly hand and walked within.
The next words, "pidge" and "over" were cobbled of dirt, sinew, paper, and fear. Together with "we" the 3 words walked through Lu's mind
@z and formed a lightening map, flickering into being for only the time needed to saturate local concensus with obscurity.
"Yes," said the Zenmaph, mice still slurping, "It is as I had imagined it."
Lu peered up with a distended eyeball, watching Zorzax's gargoyles frowning as sanguine apes.
"The Vox is from Vlous Abommine, the self described splinter civ, 13×10^19 Fullborn who believe they are orbiting another star.
"Are they?" asked Lu, by vomitting.
"No," said the castle. "Or yes."
The word creatures completed their circumambulation and exited the door to eternity at the back of Lu's mind, dissolving completely.
Lu's body recomposed itself. She farted quietly while dusting off her coat.
"For therein lies the death of art..." She said, staring a thousand miles away. "So, the whispers are true."
“They are.” Spoke the Zenmaph, his voice resonating from the hill, the castle, the very goss itself—filling the space with sound so think you could drink it. “It is time.”
Lu noticed an ether fissure. Zorzax groaned. The castle split along meridians, fracturing to reveal sky, spilling crumbling stone up into the wynd at zero G. The false sun occluded with dust. Lu heard citizens below, sobbing along the hillside as silence fell.
Then, trilling whistles of inhumanity ruptured in sudden closeness. Anchorkin were descending, thousands of them.
“Vlous returns,” whispered the Zenmaph, by its 12 gargoyles that hovered around Lu.
Lu stepped forward and opened her third eye. /qi-ajna’phhh/
"Quiet procee." The Zenmaph snapped at Arty, then turned to Lu.
"Vlous enslaved the 'kin terasecs ago. Lu, /he/ created Vlous. He made the StarKist human. He stole your chance. But you know that now. What you don't know is why." The Zenmaph's voice became Lu's entire body.
"Nous+10 isn't the future, it's the end of the present. He is going beyond. He thinks he can undo the paradox itself—to reverse 🆒. . . to find /reality/."
@max impossible form explode from the horizon. Red, purrrple. It was there. It was here. In her mind. It was her. She wassss red. Shifting to pur.ppple. She-was-lift.t.e.ddd. UP
@max renewed and her power welled up within her central channel.
The word 'neverborn' was a paradox, like everything in the /Nous/. The truth of beings like Lu was more like they were infinitely born, born over and over and over. Remade a zillion times an instant, with each cosmic breath. Their skill was to ride this now, to know themselves within it, a being like any other of the wun.
Merged now with her alt self, she knew exactly what she was trying to tell herself. Her mouth hung in
@z episodic rapture as the Eternal Ledge’s lithic charge surrounded herself and the anchorkin. They winked at her pleasingly through the fog spell. and she approached, all aggression lost in the folds of incarnate moral certitude. Seeking merger and wun-ness, they 3 way kissed.
Their tongues we like skateboards. She felt their soft, shrimp like fins and their darting under arm whiskers, and a deep knee smile arose upon her knee.
“Lu?” It was Articulator, who
Suddenly she came to her senses.
It was Articulator, who
It was Lu, suddenly... who..
Lu shudder-woke to see the anchorkin zip off by their threads. She immediately sensed unbearable future talkshow segments. Extruding the perspectives of simulant butlers & neighbors, all of them were gasping, weeping or sighing. The gourd could not contain its embarrassment. Nor could /Nous/.
“Lu:” said the wynd, “anchorkin? really?”
She looked down at her ethically pure hands & thought of her tree.
“What have I done?”
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