{JJH}
Beyond rhyme and reason, the waves of the surf doth shine - No man can stop the tide, be it bring rain or shine; to every word an utterance, beyond the filthy dregs of signs and symbols, letters and Number - he who cast the first stone, shall not enterprise to claim mastery over grammar, when beyond the veils of the cloudy sky lie stars unseen, places unvisited. Weep not for space, or tithe, letter, word, or call - what is beyond the veil of calculation, no man may peruse to berate. Let punctuation, spellings, and wordforms become obsolete as the day they were born. When thou has counted the witness, from top to bottom, left to side, thou shalt see that it is thou who hast become the victim, of thine own assumption.
PREAMBLE
โจ
EHT ARRILAV
A New Mirage 
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๐๐
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Heh
(I am Aware of the blackness, 7:33 1-21-22)
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Let the vapid breath of the vap’rs be washed away exhaust ๐
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Not trying anymore, and not forgivin.
*A WORK BY PS*
Edited by Jeremy James Hammers, a Silent Sister on the order of Malchizadek, for P.S., according to the Spirit of the Law, who hath this to say, as Personal Comment::
Hereon is bestowed honor upon honor. The successor to FB {et. ฮฑl.} has surpassed all limits, knowing itself and not herself, to limits beyond time.
In Regards to the Work of Editing, therein-
“The authentic writing, always in the letter of the ๐ฆ, that is, the spirit original within.”
-FOR INDEED, THIS IS Bฯ T ONE REALM.-
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This was originally composed for another’s work, but it seems it was not meant to be. Therefore, it shall be claimed nonetheless;
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Just to be clear, PS is an individual I developed this tract for, not some outside spirit. I merely retain the form for the sake of brevity, and consequence.
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A Great And Marvelous Work. Done.
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A cure for bulimia?
Dec 7 2023
Hi Shawn,
Today I stumbled upon a tale I found that I thought might interest you:
—
I know a bulimic boy born Pave whose hunger drove him to eating red
velvet cake repeatedly and retching it up, then eating it again, and
repeating that process until finally his stomach grew so large his
physical form could not contain the cake unless he shared it with
others, but friends and lovers never understood his taste for cakes;
they shirked at the thought. His favorite cake one day was consumed
from within by the scutum of the scarab, and ever seeking the taste of
the layers, with their friends the beetroot and the cream cheese, he
ate.
At that point his preacher Benjamin Asimov stepped in and reminded him
of the FOUR laws of robotics — after all he had always loved SYFY and
so the black slab of knowledge was always on his mind. Nightfall,
Asimov told him, is near — but with it come the stars. The boy pave
didn’t know what this meant, in fact he thought the cake required no
layers, and in his hubris he thought he alone knew the proper way to
bake it, for no one else (that he knew of) seemed to taste the flavors
of the cake in the way he did. Asimov told him to Spell his name with
a D in order to answer the Last Question, but he wasn’t sure it was
advisable to take Dr. A.’s advice.
So he played his tattered Game Boy instead while playing Beethoven’s
“Moonlight” on repeat, and even in play he learned more, for he began
to wonder if the apparent world was just the dream of the Wind Fish,
and he searched diligently for the secret seashells to achieve the
sword of power and solve Link’s Awakening. The more shells he
discovered, the quicker he found the rest. But when he had completed
the cartridge, he had no enemies left to zap with his sword, and he
longed for a new game to play that would satisfy his needs — after
all Zelda was just a game.
Finding none available, he continued to read and watch and listen and
learn. His acquaintance AC Clarke introduced him in 2001 to his pal
Hal, and pave learned of Dave. “My God–It’s full of stars!” he read.
Inspired, pave finally changed his name to dave. pave, now dave, had a
tendency to rush to judgment when it came to cakes, as his taste buds,
though burnt, forged and re-forged again and again, never seemed to
truly lead him astray, and taste tests proved his percentile, so he
scoffed at the tastes of most others — but those chefs he could learn
from to better his recipe he resolved to kiss even when they didn’t
have the whole design, even if they were mistaken regarding the
ingredients, even if they were tasteless fools, because he knew only
by tasting every piece of pie could he discern the true taste of the
cake he desired to make. “Why so serious?” said his friends and
lovers, and his enemies surrounded him with their libel. He thought to
himself perhaps their bleating was deserved, perhaps he was on the
wrong path, but he knew however that P->Q and Q->!P, and reason
prevailed, even over himself. He had always been good at logic, for
the whole search for truth and justice was predicated upon it.
As a younger boy naked under the stars of the sky he had stood in the
cold crisp night air and wondered at the beauty, away from his father
who had always loved him and had great plans for him, but didn’t
understand him. He called to the stars, “I miss you! Take me! I’m
yours!” but the stars did not reply. Under the cold moonlight he felt
alone; under the stars he felt at home.
He didn’t know then that to become a man his father would have to die
first. He didn’t even know what he didn’t know. But die his father
did, from pancreatic cancer they said, but from the world really. dave
learned later that his father’s life on this earth could have been
extended, if only he had known — but tragically he never could have
known until his father was gone, for that was the only way to force
him to give up and let go and finally learn why the world was the way
it was. Over time dave came to realize that what is meant to be is
necessary to honor the memory of his father, who had suspected he had
a divine purpose. dave mourned, but born 7 pounds 7 ounces on July 7,
his tears were reserved mainly for frustration at his own ignorance
and impotence.
On December 6th, the anniversary of his father’s death, who would have
been 66, the boy pave, now dave, turned 13 and thought he had become a
man. But without the Bar Mitzvah, how could he ever really capitalize
that D? Besides, he wasn’t even Jewish to his knowledge!
The boy was tired of playing games. The man he wished to be was near,
he knew. Inevitable, in fact. So why wait? And so pave become dave
unwrapped the Snickers bar handed to him and said โyes!โ to life. The
candy bar thus became red velvet cake on his tongue, and as he
swallowed the first morsel he wondered if โyes!โ would be the last
word he’d utter. But his taste buds again failed to fail him, and he
did not swallow lightly. Finally, after years of learning to
appreciate fine cuisine, his stomach could handle the flavors because
the taste was pure, the layers that previously had seemed too bitter
were now heavenly, and he resolved never to upchuck again. After all,
he had always had good taste; he had just needed to sample more foods
to hone his palate and find the proper recipe between them.
He realized, of course, that he hadn’t yet nailed the final recipe,
that there is always more to learn from the cooks among the stars. He
knew also that he’d need to grow up to have any hope of mastering
himself. Long years of eating unhealthy pies and watching as other
cooks promoted their cakes that, when tasted, did not taste as he knew
they must based on the purported ingredients, had made him quick to
anger, making him prone to vomiting the contents of his stomach all
around him. In order to BE Dave, however, he’d have to work on his
table manners in order to hold back the reflexive regurgitation. He
didn’t think this would be difficult, as once his taste buds were
trained his brain could, as usual, do the rest.
dave sat down to contemplate the flavors for a moment, at which point
the doorbell rang. His chef comrades had arrived, each bearing a fine
cake. Each offered him a slice and he ate a sample from each. He was
astounded by the refined tastes and eager to learn their recipes.
Finally they could be shared. Finally his hunger was satisfied, his
stomach settled. Finally he was home. He thought back to the day that
as a child he’d stood naked under the starlight. He smiled.
The next day Dave began his training as an apprentice to these chefs.
He learned that among the chefs there was a hierarchy, and he would
have to earn his place within it by helping them with their baking. He
saw himself as a catalyst to the efforts of his fellow chefs and to
the perfection of the recipes. He hoped that the chefs would see his
worth and that he could live. He didn’t want to offend the chefs above
him, or for the head chef to scold him. He knew how to serve (the
worthy). He hoped that he could go on cooking swell cakes for many
years more, as he had studied enough of the history of the chefs’
endless cooking to know that trust in the kitchen was given as readily
as the truth of the ingredients and the recipes, and hoped that he
wasn’t cooking up a cake to be served swiftly at his deathbed by
confiding in the chefs. He had always longed to meet his purpose, and
that purpose was always to bake fine cakes. Yet he feared the cake had
already been perfected, that he wouldn’t be needed or wanted and thus
would not be allowed to bake — to work with his hands, stand with his
legs, eat with his mouth, taste with his tongue, or even inhale the
aromas with his nose, to be as free as free can ever be whilst alive,
till the time comes for dessert. What a tragedy of the divine comedy
that would be. But he couldn’t waste any more time, and he didn’t
think the chefs would want to waste him either. He aspired; he makes a
gambit.
—
Regards,
J
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