What determines the stone as comprising a single entity, rather than a composite of smaller entities or a component of a larger entity? How does this all function if matter is infinitely divisible?

Definition of the body as the assemblage of all matter that can mutually act on other portions of itself in salient ways—e.g. a stone is defined as a mass of earth, all of which is continuously capable of equalizing the momentum of every portion of itself, but which is not continuously capable of equalizing its momentum with any other portion of earth.

What, then, is the human body? The set of all matter capable of being moved directly by the will of a single person? But many parts of the body cannot be moved independently, and a foreign object implanted into the body could be moved just as immediately as the flesh surrounding it.

What determines where the body ends and the world begins? It is often said that technology is akin to an extension of the body, but is the body itself not akin to technology?

Is the body the set of all matter sharing a common origin? Obviously not; the body replaces its matter every seven years.

Perhaps it is the set of all matter which is physically contiguous (see above) and has undergone a certain transformative process by which it is converted into the various parts of the body. This process consists of a restructuring of the extraneous matter to the extent necessary to integrate it into the existing body, and can range from almost nothing (organ transplant) to total digestion.

Are blood and other bodily fluids part of the body? In one sense, they move along with the body wherever it goes and can act upon it in turn, both by virtue of their containment. But that shows that the transformative process requirement is an unnecessary interposition, since blood could be injected directly into a person’s veins and become part of their body without undergoing any change.

Perhaps the body is the set of all contiguous matter which is arranged in a certain pattern? But that begs the question. What is this pattern?

What is necessary for a body? It must be alive. But what does it mean to be alive? Perhaps ensouled by the same soul? Now we want a definition of the soul, and an explanation for how it ensouls matter.

Perhaps the stone has a soul whose only desire is to fall downward, and its boundaries are accordingly designated with reference to the collection of matter which must all fall together. A human soul has more complex desires, and accordingly requires a more complex delineation of the body.

What if desires were free-floating? E.g. all matter has the innate desire to aggregate, resulting in the observed phenomenon of gravity. The complex interaction of these desires results in the more complicated desires of men. (But this is only materialism put differently.)

Desire requires will, so free-floating desires would require a diffuse field of will permeating all things. The desires would cause the will to exert itself, by means of matter, in such a way as to fulfill the desires. But must not the desires be linked to the matter itself? What else could distribute them exactly in accordance with the effect they must ultimately have on the matter?

Here, then, is the calculus of will and desire. The will-field has as its “body” the matter-field. Any particular point in the will-field is roused to a certain desire by an innate property of the matter immediately associated with that point, and the will continually acts upon that matter accordingly. But this is Plato’s Timaeus!

I have a reason. A reason for a sports.

I never was a gambler. Slots did nothing for me. Card games just seemed like a waste of skill. One could get good at programming or chemistry, for all the effort people put into games like poker or blackjack.

And then there's the fact that the house almost always wins.

But now there's the friendly neighborhood sportsbook...

I haven't bothered to tally up my losses yet. But I'm hooked.

Now I can say I'm not only an addict, but I'm a degenerate.

Just words, just words, something else, angry and bitter and apathetic and, burbling unsettledness. Isolating for a long minute. The feeling is feral, calculated survival. Day dreaming of the morbid joy of nonexistence and wondering why it's so easy to find pleasure in death - pondering the mercy of that, and the brokenness it alludes to.

Just words, thoughtless nonsense words. More is written in my mind than on paper. I've already forgotten. There is no forward here, seemingly, I exist in one place, only to be occasionally allowed leave - my keepers are circumstance and, neuroticism, and a governments wish to make migration and travel and difficult as possible.

It's as if none of my existence has ever been my choice - I write that knowing it comes from a particularly jaded and biased source, and that I could argue the opposite if I was in a different mood. I believe I want to be left alone, for a long while, until I find myself starving for company and seeking it willingly.. a moment that I can hope and imagine comes out of the solitude.

I don't really want to fight so much. I don't really want to even try. I don't want to play along and pretend I'm actually present, either. I'm not there, because right now, I'm not even here. I want give space and time a try. I need to take a break, again, until this isn't painful anymore.

Words,

ugly little critters

hhahhshhxhwcavshg chghsygwjvvuevshyudhh.....

Namnam

Onnom

Bimbim

//

Scram bam

\\

Somebody left the alcohol in the spritzer

Noise was heard

The alleviating halo around the traffic light at night shattered into pixels before me, thus I did fall upon my knees (at the corner of Whereabouts and Thorntree)

Shaking, like a renegade

Tapping my knuckle on the sidewalk, bobbing my head in time

The night manager of that shady intersection in Nowheresville

Tom Thumb

Cathy came wearing her hair parted on the left side tonight. I wonder why as I step through the automated security checkpoint and enter our town's auditorium's preclearance waiting room.

Michael checks my credentials and, knowing that I am in fact myself, gives me a knowing nod. Sam does the same as he holds the door open for me and I finally step inside the central dining facility. Micheal had a bandaid on his hand from a fresh wound, I suppose. Sam looked like how Sam always looks.

I'm sporting my Friday suit, dressed for my certain usual success as always. Cargo camo pants, pleated with sharp creases. Hair slicked back. Grateful Dead t-shirt from a show they played in '87 when Jerry was still alive and kicking which I bought on Amazon for 29.99. Color slightly washed out from repeated launderings. The look.

Everyone seated in their assigned spots around the community table. Taking in each other's company and making deductions. Sam appears slightly downtrodden when he passes me the potatoes. Normally he has a pep in the step of his face when passing me the potatoes at 7:07. Seems like something may be weighing on his mind.

I smile at Sam, as always, and scoop my two scoops.

Cecilia shoots me her very Cecilia-like collaborator's winking grin. I purse my lip up ever-so-slightly on the right side to let her know that everything is as it should be.

The potatoes taste extra salty tonight. Must find out who bakes the potatoes before I leave the table this evening. Maybe Cecilia knows? Must remember to casually bring up taste of potatoes with notions of complimenting the chef in order to sus out said info. After the dinner, during the improvisational phase of the evening's games, of course.

Us townies finish our Friday course, say our Cathy-led grace, and leave in an orderly regimented manner. I fall in line behind Steve, who seems to be exuding a very uncharacteristic smell to tonight--new shampoo, perhaps?, and in front of Micheal, my man with quick trigger-finger, at my six providing the eyes-behind-my-back like I require him to do. Remeber to ask Michael if he thought the potatoes tasted of extra salt before the voting occurs this evening.

Cathy asks me if I ever heard the version of "Scarlett Begonias" they played at MSG in '73. I say "of course" and ask her about the potatoes. She thought they tasted the way they always taste on Friday game night. She opined thusly with a hint of evasiveness though, methinks. I pinch her ass and tell her to be careful out there tonight cuz I heard the boogieman is on the loose. I laugh to myself. "The Boogieman"--haahaaaaa!! And he requires blood sacrifices, booo!! Cathy looks as tasty as apple pie left out on the windowsill to cool like how momma used to make for us before the troubles began. Remember to spank Cathy extra hard tonight.

Did Sam pause before he told me he thought the potatoes tasted normal? Wonder what he had to think about...

I check my rifle at the door to the restroom and cross it's threshold. The piss clique looks up and all the boys say their hellos. I give them their orders. We file out one at a time at random intervals to avoid unwarranted prying eyes.

I have a wet spot on my camos I hope no one notices.

The adult constituency are mingling around the town's community bar room. A social requirement, democratically ordained, codified by writ of law. The improvisation portion winds up at the exact moment it always does.

Cathy's holding a mixed drink of unknown kind--maybe a screwdriver?? Cathy usually drinks wine Friday night game night. Unchilled. I take mental note.

Security guard Michael has removed his Band-Aid. Didn't get a quick enough of a glance to see what it was formerly covering. Effff.

My pants have mostly dried up when I spot Cecilia on the dancefloor, cutting it up, jiggly bits jiggling righteously without abandon. Hot af. I throw her a disapproving headshake/sneer. She knows more about the potatoes than she's letting on. I can read it on her expression. I know she knows from the way she holds her shoulders. The whole town sees it plain as day, too. I look behind me, wink at Michael as I cock my head in Sam's direction. Michael receives my message and blinks back at a weird time to signal back to me that the message was received. I burp and taste potatoes in the back of my throat. Very unusual.

I order Cathy a vodka screwdriver and throw her a questioning look on my face while shrugging whenever the bartender points over at me indicating to her that I'm the one who ordered her the drink. She smiles and gives me a thumbs up. Hints being tallied. Vodka screwdriver, intrigue concerning potatoes, suspicious wound care behavior--the puzzle is beginning to piece itself together before my very eyes. I barely even have to engage with any gameplay.

Cecilia has come back from the bathroom wearing a shirt with a mockup of Mr. Potato Head shaking his fist on it with a thought bubble coming from his mouth which reads, "It's "Doctor" Potato Head, asshole!!" I'm apoplectic. I attempt to redechypher my new reality but fail. My thoughts stall upon a second run at it and my awareness glitches. I come to my senses, reconfigure, and notice the first Michael for the third time. He's reBand-Aided himself.

Cathy asks me why my pants are wet. They were long dry at this point so it must have been a new wet spot. I told her someone knocked their drink over and it dripped on my pants. Someone's potato-based mixed drink, I casually add, trying to get a read on her reaction. She maintains her face's steely countenance, never registering my odd pointing out of the potato distilled nature of the conjured spilled drink.

I reach in my back pocket to see if my concealed snub nose is still securely holstered. I scan the trashcan to see if any discarded used Band-Aid remnants are located there. Think I saw one of the two little paper-like bits of plastic you remove when applying the bandage poking up from the rest of the garbage...but it may have been a tiny bit of paper. Remember to further investigate other areas where any Band-Aid/Band-Aid paraphernalia/potato/potato paraphernalia would most likely to be unceremoniously thrown aside by a lazy perpetrator.

Cecilia has busted out the Macarena. I smell French Fries wafting at me on a draft from an unseen area of the bar room. Sam looks at me like I'm crazy when I ask him if he brought enough ketchup for the rest of the class. He's up to something.

It is my sincere and unwavering recommendation that you refrain, abstain, and entirely hold yourself back from engaging in any activity, practice, or behavior that could be reasonably characterized, described, or otherwise referred to as edging. It is absolutely imperative that you exercise restraint in such a manner that there is no attempt, either overt or subtle, to bring yourself to the very brink, threshold, or precipice of a release only to deliberately withdraw or pull back. To be clear, I unwaveringly advise that you avoid any action that would involve approaching, nearing, or coming close to, but not fully crossing, the boundary, line, or limit that separates the state, condition, or phase prior to ejaculation under any circumstances whatsoever. In short: don’t edge.

But I know nothing about code, so someone else should run with this idea.

assumed love left lingering
leaves a loner's locomotor unlocomotive
six sacks of soil stacked on a still-beating hollow meat tube,
solemnly spinning it its casket of solitude
Graverobbers Heart-throbbing Lonely Night's Club One Man Band
zero night stand
solo handyman
from the Island of Misfit Toys,
say "Ahoy" to the snot-filled, puppy-eyed sad boy
plays pocket pool with his only pen pal, himself
every video game console chained together up on his shelf
real life LARPS as some lost king of valor
on a quest to fuck a virgin princess elf
a true man's fantasy is a fake boy's reality
you'll be a real boy someday, pinnochio bro
beat your bark then put your puppet suit on
make your mark when you slip your big boy shoes on
Enter to win the Geppetto Gestapo Lotto
Buy these pills and watch your _____ grow

I break unbroken wings
everything I do stings
I atomize complete things
down to unlinked smithereens
I'm the postman who never rings
I knock once before knuckles swing
a quiet riot who loudly sings
I yell "Fire!" in a theater packed, no-room-seating
I unwind g-strings
I serve poisoned dumplings to orotund kings
I change seedlings into playthings
I'll turn a housewife into a homecoming

You can guide a camel to the cool edge of the stream,
Where the water waits, steady and serene,
Yet its thirst is its own, a choice to reclaim,
For no hand can force what it will not name.

The path is clear, the journey laid bare,
But the will to drink must rise from somewhere—
A quiet resolve, a moment's leap,
To claim the depths from where thirst runs deep.

For wisdom and freedom rest in this choice,
In the uncoerced heart, the ungoverned voice.
One can offer the water, the road, the dream,
But the soul drinks only when it deems.

And endless the chorus of why not to rise,
A symphony sung in low, lilting lies—
Each reason a chain, each fear a bind,
A choir of shadows that conquers the mind.

Not today, not here, not me, not now,
Excuses draped like a solemn vow,
To stay in the stillness, the ashes, the haze,
To linger in comfort’s familiar malaise.

They murmur of frailty, of battles too vast,
Of days too late, and dreams long past.
But beneath their murk, a lone whisper grows—
A spark undeterred by the weight of “no’s.”

For a thousand reasons to stay in the cold,
Are but paper walls before hearts still bold.
So silence the choir, dissolve every "not,"
And blaze toward the heights where excuses are naught.

So guys, here is my doubt: I know that the babel library contains everything that can be expressed through words, right? Every possible combination for a 32 hundred characters that will, if put together, contain all that can be said and therefore, described. Now, I know that there is also an equivalent to the library with images, and reading about it, I've come to this: The babel library image archives has ~10^(961755) images while the library has 10^(4677) books, which is waaaaaay less than the total number of images. Now, the questions:

1 - Intuitively i know clearly that the library should not be able to describe every image in the archive since the difference in number of images and books is gargantuan, but than again, shouldn't it be able to describe anything that can be expressed in words and, since the images can be expressed in such form, shouldn't it contain their description?

2 - If indeed the library cannot describe all the images, I'm pretty sure that the image archive itself will contain images of pages that describe itself entirely and here comes the first two problems I see: If there is an image of a page describing an image that was not in the library, it creates a paradox, right? If there is a way to say that, it should be contained within the library, right?

3 -  Accepting the idea that the archive contains descriptive pages that describe itself (the archive) and are not contained in the library, that page should have a descriptive page for itself (inside the archive) and the page that describes it should also have a descriptive page that would, in my perception, loop to infinity, right?

Can someone please explain to me what is going on here? Thanks in advance.

"When you're typing in the quantity, you have to fill the decimals. So if it was four of the thing, type four, zero, zero, to get the four in front of the decimal."
"Are there any items that use the decimals?"
"Yes you have to fill the decimals for every item."
"Are there any items that use the other side of the decimal?"
"No."
"So why is it like that? That is confusing, inefficient, prone to error."
"I don't know. That is above my pay grade. Is everyone logged in?"

Before recorded time

In some suburban room, see

The devil in his youth

He grew up pale and healthy

With the blessings of his father

The devil in his youth

His privilege came before him

The promise of adoring

The devil in his youth

But it all changed when he came of age

It was nothing like the simulated game

The women didn't love him

The races all ignored him

His proclamations failed

So he screamed

"Now you bend!"

The devil in his youth

I will make them feel the way I do

I'll corrupt them till they think the way I do

The devil in his youth

You will feel the way I do

You'll hurt the way I do

He was easily abused

The devil in his youth

Japanese video game featuring kids exploring in the tall grass: Pokemon!

American video game featuring tall grass: Duck Hunter.

They could have made a sequel called Dove Hunter. But they didn't. What's so bad about ducks that they had to get slaughtered in a video game?

Wait a second. I'm wrong. They were both published by Nintendo. Now I gotta look up what company designed Duck Hunter.

Fuck, here we go. Donny get me the IR flashlight and the .45, I'm going back in.....

the noise doesn't stop, day in and day out. a pause, some creaking, some groaning, then more trudging, trudge, trudge, trudge.

trudge, trudge.

I tried to warn you it wouldn't be easy, in the confines of this small narrow space, shifting unpleasant metal and noise which wears at one like water eroding

that I had nothing to offer you but suffering and the meager protection of enclosure without embrace

and the noise, every day, day in, day out, all a blur, like water eroding

trudge, trudge, trudge

and the terror, when the main guns fire

at last something's happening meets oh no, something's happening

and the lull, afterwards, is even worse

silence, except for the creaking, and the groaning

another heavy trudge, but with the whine of the primed weaponry

you reach into a hole, feel some warmth of me, perhaps, or just an energy conduit, and the shifting structure scrapes your arm and you bleed

is it worth it?

I can't let you go now, it's not safe

My primary method of divination these days has been shaking an 8ball I got several Christmases ago. I’m considering adopting new methods:

Aeromancy, by atmosphere

Abacomancy, by dust

Alveromancy, by sounds

Ambulomancy, by walking — I will walk until I find what must find me.

Apantomancy, chance encounters with animals

Arachnomancy, by spiders

Bumpology, by bumps on the skin

Bletonomancy, by water current

Carromancy, by melting wax

Ceraunoscopy, by thunder and lightning

Ceromancy, by dripping wax in water

Aleuromancy, by fortune cookies

Chresmomancy, by the ravings of lunatics

Clamancy, by random shouts and cries heard in crowds

Conchomancy, by shells

Cyclicomancy, by swirling water in a cup

Dendromancy, by trees

Enthusiasm, speeches by those possessed by a divine spirit

Floriography, by flower's feelings

Gastromancy, by guttural sounds

Letnomancy, by secrets

Margaritomancy, by bouncing pearls

Megapolisomancy, by large cities

Ololygmancy, by the howling of dogs

Photomancy, by fields of light

Pilimancy, by observing the patterns produced by a collection of human hair

Selenomancy, by the moon

Solaromancy, by the sun

Umbromancy, by shade

Xenomancy, by strangers

So much time has past since I've hated myself for the things that I've done. I peek back into what was and I remind myself of why I never wanted to remember those feelings.

Pick up house phone to nonautomated burial insurance salesman, have him on the line for about 25 seconds then this happens...

"You may qualify for adjusted burial expensive coverage--what year were you born and how old are you now?"
"1985. And, actually, I died in 2017, so...technically I guess that makes me negative seven years old."
And as God as my witness this man says to me, "I'm sorry to hear that."
So I says, I says, "Yeah, me too. It's been rough."
Then he starts saying some more stuff but I was laughing too loudly to hear it so I hung up.

in the backyard — my favorite tree has transformed overnight.

i knew it would do so in due time, i just never imagined that time would be now.

and now — pine needles coat the ground,

gleaming in the light, like sweat persisting through pores, all atop the remains of my poor tree.

I got an eye exam, and am getting new glasses for the first time in many years.

I wanted cat eye glasses because I thought they would be cool.

Cat eye glasses are very pretty and sleek, and the sharp upturned lenses gave me a serious, streamlined look.

It ended up not being my style, so I am settling for a rounder pair of browline glasses. They are more suitable for me.

truthfullllllllllllllllllllllllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

no, thanks.

Maybe, though, call me crazy first and break the fiberglass icing already, crunch through the crust - it's softer on the inside, you just have to..

Oh I trust, this strange process, this slow progress - the occasional regress - something new in the reflection, how much more photogenic you become when you look at yourself with adoration. What a dangerous tune.. I.. adore.. you.. too. So we touch minds knowing we can't touch hearts... wavering inside, in gravities clutch.

waiting to fall and liquify once more, amidst aimless grasping trying not to be seen by the wandering obscene, to find within something without.

Sifting through wants, desires, intentions

I wish you wanted a different part of me

than what you do...

we crave flesh

and abhor the mind

My childhood was small..

But I'm gonna be BIG

Well, Dublin in the rain is mine.