KGS (Go server ( http://www.gokgs.com) ): mabblebrox
Openings: Is there an order to the universe, or a chaos held unto its own demise: Promulgation, a secret beheld yet unknown, and this not spoken but into the wind -
We listen to music, yet cannot grasp its meaning - what is this, a resonant frequency, elusive as it is felt, deeply, here to be more than a harmony invoking what - the Eternal Soul? I do not know, more than I know what a stone has seen, landed upon the beach from the sea.
A river, speaking breath to the land.
A hot dog, or a cold piece? I bought a hot watch, but I got burned.
Definition: 'hot potato:' a stolen spud
--- ... After which, returning to the point of origin (being the source of the sandwich), n(x^y) was presumed by its nature to be an offer for pickles; promptly, said condiment was applied. But, it had not been considered that were y to be the constant -1 the possibility of untreated cucumbers arose, even anti-pickles, and so, proceeding carefully to remove the offending exponent, the mathematician discovered in its absence that in fact, n(y^x) proceeded in its course to produce not only tomatoes, but in its derivation, perhaps even ketchup, and with this epiphany ran mad through the streets, exclaming 'X and Y and Y and X, I've discovered it!"
And, the townspeople staring oddly at him, began throwing tomatoes, which he received with relish, piling them in his coat, his hat, even his socks, and once nearly every accesory of attire was packed full of tomatoes he sat down, right in the middle of the street, began eating them, and produced from his knapsack a notebook, upon which he inscribed the new theory, so simple yet so elusive - the Sandwich Theorem had been solved. ---
Entelechy, by which unknown an encephalous meander, had behind its becoming known if-of or not the other, and therefore, was.
Well, I try to write.
Okay so apparently I exist. Yes, I know that much. Beyond that ...
I'm a poet, a dreamer, a thinker, sometimes a cynic, sometimes a whimsical fool. I write and play music.
Windswept, the notions of an impermanent presence betwixt this, that and yonder, presuming upon beds of latent alleatory bliss, remembered, having once chanced to find in allegory a meaning: this itself but a hazy recollection, for I have often lost myself in thought.
What is it to be alive? One wonders, fleetingly, as clouds or a storm pass by, and even the sun hides behind the trees until one enters a meadow and can bask in its aura, warm, familiar the way one might wear an old coat, with a memory of its own, once new and unimagined, yet now feeling a part of you.
I have no answer, though perhaps a glimpse at times, I still wonder, and, as we all do, lose myself to the daily rhythm of habit, coffee, tea, the work of the day, and in habit perhaps a reminder of solitude, though one might desire to share these motions.
In the infinite span of time I find comfort, that all cannot be lost, for were it the case, might the sun extinguish and in a blazing nova explode, surely there must be a reason, a cause, some intelligence beyond which my own, or anyone's, could scarcely comprehend.
// This next section was written several years ago.
I am an indeterminate particle in an asymmetric orbit relative to the spin of an otherwise normal planet which seems may or may not be doomed due to the failure of human evolution.
I'm not always a serious person. I can write endless pages of ranting about the problems of society but ultimately, when it comes down to it, I often just want to laugh about really stupid things such as those Martian squeezy toys whose eyes and ears pop out when squeezed.
Randomly, I am interested in this thing ASMR, or Autonomous sensory meridian response, which is basically this weird feeling you get while for instance, watching somebody write, or tap a book, it's hard to explain.