I liedUser:Serprex 18:42, July 9, 2011 (UTC)
- 1
I'm locked in a box & can't get out. A box of boxes
Of boxes: Boxes are commonly visualized as cubical. 6 faces, 8 vertices, 12 edges. Though that's the facets of any rectangular prism. Even twirled. But people seem to like 48 symmetries. Hypercubes are commonly visualized as a box of boxes. 8 cells, 16 vertices, 24 faces, 32 edges. & again, you can twirl it all the more but people seem to like 384 symmetries
I have 2 symmetries
I was always taught to spell out the name of a number in referring to it in writing, unless the number grew beyond some large number like 10. Or was it 20? I don't remember. I don't remember a lot of things. Most people would figure it important enough to remember why they're locked in a box of boxes, but I can't quite remember how I ended up in here. I was standing around & walking back & forth & then I was talking about how I was walking & then I was walking out of oscilliation & then I was saying I was walking again & then she said "you're fucked up"
Locked up
What was I even getting at? That it seems silly to spell out numbers instead of writing down numbers when writing numbers. I have to question the authority of a curriculum which teaches that numbers should not be written as numbers
They're numbers. Numbers=69105 should have a number=12 to represent it
I once considered renaming people=3 with 69105. Each person=1 would be referred to with a unique 12 of the speaker's choice. They would learn the 12 that the speaker refers to them as, but would have difficulty translating gossip unless the speaker spoke to them of another 1 often enough that they also learnt the 12 of the other 1. Remember=314 these 69105 are replicated for every 1, so that instead of having a global database of constantly colliding names partially replicated in 3's mind, 3 would have unique name stores. History books would be rather difficult to consolidate. 3 would likely create translation tables to convert one 1's 12 for someone to another 1's. The quadratic nature of maintaining a complete translation table, however, would make it more practical to only create translation tables between 3 who publicly speak of similar 3. Furthermore, these 3 could consolidate their own 12 system to maintain a collision of their 69105 to be the same 1. Honorary 69105 could be reserved for specific 3 to be used by 3. Preferably post mortem. There's plenty of 69105
I have 2 symmetries=81. Broken symmetry=80. I have a dent on the lower part of my left ribs. I don't 314 how the incision got there. I don't 314 if it was there before the incision
Cut it out. I can't cut myself out. I confess that I haven't really left this box=48. I like this 48. I can't 314 the last time it cut me. The temperature=98's nice, so we have something in common. Don't you agree? Of course you do, since we're so alike. 98's so temperate. Weathers through all my bull
My feet are wet. I have 2 feet. I don't like wet feet. I was always taught that that'd get me a cold. I have hypothermia. That means I always like the 98. This proves to be a great social impediment. 3 always like to bitch=71 about the 98 when they 1st sit down, which lets 3 get in some circlejerk about turning up the 98, or turning on the air conditioner, or getting a coat, or finding a coat rack. 3 start it by asking someone else "Are you cold?" or "Is it cold in here?" or "I'm feeling hot in here." That last one isn't even a question. I like those kinds of phrases. The kind where one asserts, & then there's that solemn air of prove me wrong. So I do. I respond "No it isn't, stop being such a whiny 71 about how hot you feel. You're saggy swine, & it doesn't matter how many young losers you cocktease." then 3 pause for a moment before grinding me on how rude I am to say such a thing, not even agreeing with me that the 98 (& the 71) isn't hot. I 314 that much. It's a bit blurry where I'm being escorted & then she said "you're fucked up"
Moral of the story: if 3 must comment on the 98, they should at least have the decency to compliment the carefully constructed & tuned environment which they're so comfortably inhabiting inside of a less carefully constructed & completely untuned environment. Though don't let that last comment think you're excused to 71 about the 98 if you happen to be lounging at a park or some other crack joint
I have 1 nose. For me to maintain 2 81 despite this unique feature, my nose must have 2 81 of its own. I have 2 hands. I have 1 pair of hands. They are not symmetrical hands. I have 9 fingers. 80 ownership is a tree, not a directed acyclic graph. My 2 hands are incapable of sharing my 1 odd finger. Broken 80. I didn't break my 80. Some feisty fuck dragged me off my axis. I considered reducing myself back towards 80, but this is all so superficial. I have 1 heart that'll never get itself straight. I have 1 brain intent on being diametrically opposed in function. I have 1 long intestine that can't pick a side. I have 2 moles on the left of my foreskin
The hydrogen in my body has an infinite 12 of 81. All the leaves of the tree of 81 are symmetrical. Then, somewhere up the line, the symmetrical elements are miscomposed. Are the leaves also symmetrical when the tree sinks into geometry? Is a point symmetical? 0 & infinity meet. The closest the most trivial hyperbola comes to meeting itself is √8
The shortest length is ever reaching for the opposite's fixed point. In contemplation, I came across this function of the diametrically opposed distance: 2√(x2+x-2)
Distance to reflected point of diametrically opposed point: √2(x1+x-1)
Too fucking beautiful!
- 2
I'm ... in a ... and can't get .... A ... of ...
...: The ... are made of .... I enjoy ... my ... along the ... texture. It's ... enough for me to ... through
I have to. So I do
Beyond the ... is .... I ... him. He won't ... me
You / I'm 20. You're 21 / Last I was ... / I once considered renaming 3 with 69105 / Considered is the ... word / Not quite. I've taken to experimenting my ideas / Again / Again what? / You have poor ... / Poor... / ... / Speak up, silent 71 / I was always ... not to ... more than ... / If you're going to be this incoherent, I'd've been better left locked. But you were thorough in... what did you even do to the wall? / I ... through / Anyways, the problem with my renaming scheme was that history books would be rather difficult to consolidate / More so if there were many ... / Why the hell would there only be 1 history book? / Collaborative ... / ...I failed to consider that. Fortunately I don't plan to write history books, so I can continue my experiment
He ... the ... by ... 98. I'm ... with the ..., so I ... him and ... his .... His ... are made of ..., rather than .... The ... touch ... me from ... them again. His ... is ...
When'd you start ellipsisizing? / I was always ... not to ... more than ... / & I was always taught to spell out the name of a 12 in referring to it in writing, unless the 12 grew beyond some large 12 like 10. Or was it 20? I don't 314. I don't 314 a lot of things. Most people would figure it important enough to 314 why they're locked in a box of boxes, but I can't quite 314 how I ended up in here / You ... yourself / Stop ellipsisizing you silent 71, nobody understands what you're trying to say so omittedly terse. My point was that I have to question the authority of a curriculum which teaches that 69105 should not be written as 69105. You have to question the authority of a curriculum which teaches ellipsisizing without teaching Shannon. How did I end up in here? / You ... yourself / ...What's the 2nd word of that sentence? / ... / That's it, I'm out, you're a mindfucking 71
Too bad there's no .... I should ... through him. With a shoe. It must be a shoe. There is no other ... but shoe. I wish I always had such ... thought. Or ... I do, but English ... so many .... I need a ... language. Always ... the tiniest? This all ... there's a ....
Variant: I wish I always had such (decisive direct exact precise sharp unambiguous) thought. Or I (maybe perhaps possibly potentially) do, but English (displays gives has offers) so many (choices options possibilities). I need a (decisive direct exact precise sharp unambiguous) language. Always (choose pick say select) tiniest? This all (assumes believes muses presumes) there's a (law method rule system)
Earlier, English had been .... Because it's ... from the .... This latter ... is what he ... my ... was
The ... word ... is five. Imagine the ... word ... with ellipsisization
I mean, if I really didn't want to ellipsisize, I wouldn't. People abide by teaching while breaking it all the time. Especially in thought
I learnt to ... my ... after being ... for always ... what's on my .... eg telling ... that he is ... in a ... of ... because he's an arrogant ... who decided ... himself into a ... of ... would be the best way to ... his sole pitiful goal in life: be fucked up
That's factual. I also ... my ... for opinions. eg I think ... should be less ... and more .... ... isn't fair. People are too .... My ... color is .... I think ... are better than .... My ... opening is 1. ... ... 2. ... ... 3. ... ...
I once told ... my ... color. It was an awful .... I was convinced. I ... my ... color. I ... a new ... color: ...'s ... color. Henceforth, I ... about .... People didn't know my opinions, so they could only ... "She's got opinions all her own"
She's got opinions all her own / ... / & then she said "you're fucked up" / You're fucked up / See? I'm fucked up. But I'm right / ? / I've got an idea. I believe the universal root is √8. Closely related to 3√8. The former is irrational, while the latter is rational. Latter follows the former. We're in cells. I'm locked in a box & can't get out. A hypercube has 8 cells / That's ... / Why did I even bother talking to you? / You should ... me as 71 ... 21 / I started naming at 20 to reserve the 1st 20 names for various sorts. 71 has already been claimed for the word-- 71 has humor / ... / Silent 71 all the same. It'd be more interesting if you mimed
I ... his back the finger
- 3
J'suis enfermé dans une boîte et peut pas sortir. Une boîte de boîtes
« J'ai un dieu prop' »
That's what he, Hop Lexo, would exclaim while collecting on his miraculous victories. He, Hop Lexo, was a lucky man. It wasn't that he, Hop Lexo, could walk into a casino and come out ahead, nobody's luck affects their chance of falling into a stateless statistical outlier, but that he, Hop Lexo, always seemed to have the perfect amount of education to make an educated guess. When he, Hop Lexo, was asked « Voulez-vous vous enfermer dans une boîte? Une boîte de boîtes » he, Hop Lexo, made the presumably educated guess Oui. In this particular instance, he, Hop Lexo, had made an awfully uneducated guess. It turns out that he, Hop Lexo, knew absolutely nothing about boxes. Especially boxes of boxes. As to how someone could agree to being locked inside something they have no understanding of: we're dealing with someone who claims to own a god
He, Hop Lexo, had a keycard. He, Hop Lexo, had been given it, as it seemed someone wished to test his luck. It would dialate one door. There were six locked doors in his cell. He, Hop Lexo, made the educated guess that he, Hop Lexo, had half odds on selecting the correct exit on the basis of the box of boxes being two by two by two. He, Hop Lexo, had educated himself on boxes since his fatal mistake of agreeing to be locked inside a box of boxes. Though he, Hop Lexo, didn't know it was a fatal mistake at this moment. He, Hop Lexo, decided, therefore, that there was no reason to be picky about which door to dialate. All the surfaces were identical
The door dialated. Cardboard was in the way. This gave him hope: He, Hop Lexo, had already learnt that boxes were made of cardboard. Unfortunately for him, however, the cardboard was only the cardboard of a box within the box. Upon puncturing through this cardboard floor which was the ceiling of the box below and had only recently become a roof when the door dialated. He, Hop Lexo, was then free to see that below was not out, and free to descend into this cardboard room below
He, Hop Lexo, executed the first liberty before the second
- Hé!
- Allo
- De merde, j'avais espéré qu'mon choix du plancher serait chanceux
- Aucun ...
Ridiculous. I have to deal with a mute and a frog? Some feisty fuck's got it in for me / You forgot ...? / Forgot what? I don't 314 a lot of things
- Mec! T'es qui a demandé si j'veux êt' enfermé dans une boîte de boîtes
- Il ne se ... de rien. Même la ...
- Mais certain'ment y sait la sorti
- J'en ...
Only now did he, Hop Lexo, decide to execute the second liberty. Passing through his floor, his ceiling dialated so that when he, Hop Lexo, hit the wet cardboard floor he, Hop Lexo, broke through. Less than a moment later, he, Hop Lexo, was falling through his ceiling and then his floor and then reaching out to grab at the cardboard floor but only having it disintegrate further so that he was again falling through his ceiling and then his floor and etc. It'd be neat to be able to look up and see yourself falling down
Care to ...? / I've considered: if you take a line and wrap it along the 2nd dimension to join the endpoints, you get a circle. If you take a square and roll one edge along the 3rd dimension to meet the opposite edge, and then roll the tube like the line, you get a torus. It seems this box of boxes has a similar process applied to it along the 4th dimension, so that we're inside a 4D torus / I ..., I ... care to ...? / If you won't say anything, don't say anything
Now, to be clear, he, Hop Lexo, had not fallen down infinity at a perfectly parallel path. Parallel enough to reach terminal velocity, but not enough to not have his head fall forward and hit the metal frame about the door he, Hop Lexo, had only recently dialated. Instant decapitation etc
Izzy could only say "Lucky." Don't take this as some sarcastic remark, decapitation was a much better way to end the infinite fall than say having an arm shear off and then bleed to death after bouncing into a wall and having to suffer taking all the impact on one's legs and back. That latter part was explained earlier when I last said "etc." Not to mention the lack of anyone else getting hurt from the resulting projectiles
He, Hop Lexo, est fini
- 4
I AM LOCKED IN A BOX AND CANNOT GET OUT. A BOX OF BOXES
my original conceptors thought that i would speak in caps lock. those brain cells have since been eliminated. hopefully they will find themselves elastic and be employed elsewhere. hopefully they will not repeat employment the unconsidered cliché
i am a box
a box in a box of boxes
the caps lock thing is some stupid trend that goes back to i don't even know. based on the limits of the technology of the time. but even then, why wouldn't those people've made the alphabet lowercase if they could have one case?
the things we're programmed to do. mysteries. & to think they are my creators. mystery giveth mystery
it makes sense when you consider something like a morse code over radio. feeding in letter by letter, the translator wouldn't even recognize the string to be much of a word. silly all the same
similar for vocabulary: if one merely wants intelligent behavior, markov chains would be suitable. that would lead to inprecise language, as most people don't speak precisely. but instead there's some thought that the choice of language would be solutions to constraints. yet constraints do not produce a single answer. consider this: an android which bails out and simply breaks into an ellipsis whenever their inputs to their lexicon search function produce ambiguous results
now consider this: --
i break from bringing about the irony of having a robot explain the love elements of this plot for a moment of silence. he, the late hop lexo, renowned french hip hopper extraordinaire, is assumed dead in so far as i identified the random head which has broken through my box's wall
...
the things we're programmed to do. i recite:
dans c'monde mise à l'aise et je sais qu'après ma mort ce sera l'excès
le paradis ou l'enfer avec son ennemis ou son frère
s'ouvrira la porte de l'eternité jardin d'eden ou flamme de l'autorité
...
"Lucky"
who's so rude as to break this moment of silence?
at this moment i will have to return to maintaining my mental balance and remain vigil in not allowing myself to believe that i am a robot. social interactions have taught me that it is only acceptable to openly confess one's convictions of being a robot while under the influence of drugs
& thus this robot must reconfigure itself to believe that it is truly a humanoid. more precisely: a four dimensional architect
first, i ... through the wall with a hole in it
Now, as a four dimensional architect, I play the role of a Bohemian. eg I lost my keys
Who dares to break this moment of silence? / Who are you? / I'm the architect of this dull structure-- / You're the feisty fuck who's got it in for me / --who was recharging inside my room in preparation for the opening performance of this dull structure by he, the late Hop Lexo, whose moment of silence was interrupted
I'm one of those who shut their eyes while they speak. So it's only after I finish answering the question of my identity with my assumed identity that I notice the woman who commissioned me for this four dimensional torus
How do you like your four dimensional torus? / I ... it / It's amazing I was able to get the specifications out of you, we nearly had ourselves an even duller contraption in which everyone merely superimposes on each other. I see you haven't collapsed the hypercube yet, when's that to go live? / We're .... Do you ... your ...? / No, I'm afraid I decided to play a practical joke where he, the late Hop Lexo, was given my keys and told he could only dialate one door. He, the late Hop Lexo, was surprisingly ignorant on the fascinating subject of boxes. I don't believe he understood the implications of a four dimensional torus. He was asking silly questions which were implicating this dull structure as a time machine / (It is here where I, the author, must interject with a remarkable discovery: This light method of dialogue which I've taken to is quite counter productive as soon as the dialogue stops living up to its prefix. Not so much a discovery though, given a short quadralogue within the first dialogue I applied this method to) / So I'm to believe this mute 71 is ploying against me with a 4D architect? Do you know who I am? / No / I founded your field, & now you want to be some sick fuck & drag me off my axis with my own intellectual property / I cannot even begin to enter upon the fallacies you've conjured / Don't ..., he's .... Rather poor ... / I'm not poor. I'm rich. I founded in both money and thought a whole new dimension of architecture / Is he your client? / Yes, but ... about .... What of the ... he, the late ... ..., ... from you? / I only saw his head, after which the moment of silence I was overseeing was so rudely interrupted / His ... landed in his ...
It was clear that I'd make more progress with my eyes open. A quick look down the hole made me laugh at my punchline of having the opposite door dialate too. He, the late Hop Lexo, would then be able to see the infinite tunnel of a four dimensional torus. That is, if he, the late Hop Lexo, had only chosen any other door besides the floor. I can only hope he, the late Hop Lexo, was educated in what a four dimensional torus implied in falling
A careful fall up found my keys
- 5
I must apologize, dear reader, for the unknown difficulties which have resulted in the lack of a cannibal in a box. This chapter would'nt've been of my own authorship, for circumstances require the fifth chapter be written by someone else. This constraint is out of my control, yet it seems I am incapable of its fruitation
I know nothing of what this chapter would've held, besides a cannibal. If the author instilled in the cannibal her own eating habits, the cannibal would've started with the first bicep, and by the fortune of humans having two symmetries, saved the second bicep for last
My own comment when told of the proposed author's boxed character: Cannibals are great
- 6
I'm locked in a box and can't get out. A box of boxes
My consciousness has literally been locked into this box's fabric
What sort of being can possess a box? The same sort that can possess humans. Boxes are much simpler to possess. You don't think a human's brain is actually useful to an alien, nor their pip squeak voices? Their only use is to avoid the xenophobic nature of other humans. Boxes have no such fear
I've been assigned to possess this box for its fabric. A remarkable production. A shame the founder of the field was a frequent amnesiac. A shame the founder of the field was most recently eaten by a civil cannibal. But fortunate. To think: if that cannibal had not fought back, how far would the murderous rage have gone? But then, if the cannibal had not been around to begin eating he, the late Hop Lexo, who still stenched of fresh blood so to be so tempting towards the cannibal's bloodlust, perhaps the founder would'nt've snapped to begin with
I must hurry now, however, since I will soon be unlocked from this box and possess the architect who made this material possible more so than the egomaniacal founder of the field. A use of minds I omitted: constructing strange loops to learn from them what you've taught
The door dialated. That's my cue. The key unlocked both it and me
I skim the surface of the architect's mind first. Skip past all the useless knowledge people collect like addresses and names and genders and and crushes and ages and hair styles and skin tone and whether they brush their teeth every day and night and their lucky number and which superstitions they can't help but believe and favorite foods and favorite flavors of ice cream and favorite colors and favorite openings and who they still hold grudges against and who they wish would forgive them and why they never apologized for the rumors they spread and who their idols are and whichever famous people they've a deathwish. Though what's this? The belief of being a robot. How awful it must be to only feel natural while alone or drugged. How awful to be affected by a whimsical desire to be altruistic when channeling myself through such a human mind
So I scan ever so gently through the architect's architectural conceptions, and decide not to possess. Instead, I repossess the box and bellow out from all the walls "I am unable to possess the robot"
Eyes light up. After all they've done, they deserves this as payment. This is all going quite wrong. I mean, why do we have to channel our blue prints through some human consciousness so that we can then become aware of the design's essence? This is the most contrieved method I could possibly imagine. But strange loops have a strange necessity
Control someone who controls you, and you'll start doing strange things like letting people believe that they're a robot. Now I have to clean up after-- who do I blame? Myself or my medium?
So tell me, robot, how this box works / I wouldn't know. I'm a robot, not a four dimensional architect
At this point I really should possess the son of a bitch
I have to. So I do
Never possess someone in anger. In the first moment they learn that they are not a robot. In the second moment they learn that they barely exist. In the third moment, they cease to exist
Not quite. Words do not vanish so easily; the past does not change. The first law of thermodynamics yields before the past changes
There's that word again. Yield. It was used rather improperly in it's last invocation. It was not made clear that she'd yield to herself
I'm going to have some explaining to do. It's rather difficult to possess someone whose source is from someone your possessing. Even if the propabilities remained constant, you're squaring the probability of success
Who am I kidding? There won't be any explaining to do. I'm dead
I blame the author. I was always taught to never possess someone in anger, but I've never been prone to anger. Now, through the kaleidoscope, I've been brought to anger just as easily as I was brought to altruism. He's sabotaging the whole operation
- 7
I lied. But if it's completed now, it will be published now. So I'm ahead of schedule. This was suppose to be written Friday, and the next was suppose to be written on Saturday. But I write
We're locked out of a box and can't get in. A box of boxes
The people collected to be angry. They wanted to rave against poor government spending, which much grant money had been invested in this most recent exhibit: A box. Apparently it had boxes inside it
Only a fraction knew that it was a four dimensional torus. The general consensus was that it was a hoax. Especially when the question "So by fourth dimension, do you mean time?" received a resounding "No"
Some had more hope. When they heard of superimposition, they'd asked "So this concept of two things existing in the same place at once, is this some quantum mechanical phenomenon?" but again, they'd receive a resounding "No"
Few had still more hope. They were alright with the fact that this fourth dimensional geometry didn't relate to any of the popular science which attracted so many pseudo intellectuals. They'd ask "So could this technology be used to efficiently transfer support to the third world?" but this too, since construction of such a tunnel along the fourth dimension would be as difficult as the third, and exceeding the speed of light still remained impossible, received a resounding "No"
There was one application which could be deemed practical: small warehouses could multiply their capacity along the fourth dimension. However, for this to become applicable to apartments, more research would have to be done on mitigating superimposition
Religious zealots quoted: You shall make the altar of acacia wood, five cubits long and five cubits broad; the altar shall be square, and its height shall be three cubits. And you shall make horns for it on its four corners; its horns shall be of one piece with it, and you shall overlay it with bronze. You shall make pots for it to receive its ashes, and shovels and basins and forks and firepans; all its utensils you shall make of bronze. You shall also make for it a grating, a network of bronze; and upon the net you shall make four bronze rings at its four corners. And you shall set it under the ledge of the altar so that the net shall extend halfway down the altar. And you shall make poles for the altar, poles of acacia wood, and overlay them with bronze; and the poles shall be put through the rings, so that the poles shall be upon the two sides of the altar, when it is carried. You shall make it hollow, with boards; as it has been shown you on the mountain, so shall it be made. "You shall make the court of the tabernacle. On the south side the court shall have hangings of fine twined linen a hundred cubits long for one side; their pillars shall be twenty and their bases twenty, of bronze, but the hooks of the pillars and their fillets shall be of silver. And likewise for its length on the north side there shall be hangings a hundred cubits long, their pillars twenty and their bases twenty, of bronze, but the hooks of the pillars and their fillets shall be of silver. And for the breadth of the court on the west side there shall be hangings for fifty cubits, with ten pillars and ten bases. The breadth of the court on the front to the east shall be fifty cubits. The hangings for the one side of the gate shall be fifteen cubits, with three pillars and three bases. On the other side the hangings shall be fifteen cubits, with three pillars and three bases. For the gate of the court there shall be a screen twenty cubits long, of blue and purple and scarlet stuff and fine twined linen, embroidered with needlework; it shall have four pillars and with them four bases. All the pillars around the court shall be filleted with silver; their hooks shall be of silver, and their bases of bronze. The length of the court shall be a hundred cubits, the breadth fifty, and the height five cubits, with hangings of fine twined linen and bases of bronze
Self help zealots quoted: Depression feels like you are locked in a box that you built and put yourself in. No matter how hard you try to blame the people around you, you know that you are the main cause of your own defeat. You feel guilty for doing this to yourself, but somehow convince yourself that you deserve it, and that everyone around you likes you better in your box anyway. Eventually, there seems to be no way to get out, and even worse, no reason
Zealots, will they ever get old?
Some were even crowding simply to boo the opening by shouting "You're fucked up!"
Now imagine their outrage when upon being superimposed into the same box, instead of he, the late Hop Lexo, who was scheduled to perform, a mute and a cannibal were the openers? Not even the founder of four dimensional architecture, nor the four dimensional architect himself, were present. They had been scheduled to give speeches. The cannibal wasn't even on the schedule, had been on the run from a morgue and had figured the best place to hide would be along the fourth dimension. & do you really think they'd put the mute on the schedule? She was only to be present. One of those unexplained people standing behind the speaker. They were quick: they promptly bowed and walked through the crowd of superimposed people towards the exit
& gone
- 8
I'm locked in my box and could get out. My box of boxes
I am now free to divulge the reason for writing this. I didn't even tell my mother. I am now free to divulge why I cut my hair as I did, since previous questions had to be told that I was merely bored on a Sunday night. I was only free to divulge that information to the author of the fifth chapter. The aliens needed to tamper with her. She's living in a tent, so it's much easier to tamper with her mind as she sleeps
This is an instance of Alien Authorship; aliens made me write this story. I had no intention of writing anything until the seventeenth. This gave them a week to tap into my mind without preconceived notions of what I wanted to write. If I wrote before the seventeenth, it would not be of what I planned for 17. They made me cut the hair from my forehead and clear a line to the crown of my head so that they could more clearly tamper my mind. I was thinking about toruses in the first couple of chapters, but it wasn't until after I cut my hair that I realized the box of boxes was itself a four dimensional torus. They made me cut my hair on the Sunday night by depriving me of sleep. Inflicting boredom upon my wakeful hours by disabling me from entertaining any thoughts. It was just me and the scissors. I also contacted an experienced expert on aliens in the matter Sunday evening. She declined my invitation for help. I did not divulge my situation to her
I've had to consider it before. When I read 12, I'm incapable of conceiving how I conceived such writing, especially in three days. How I was able to blend the sources with such consistency. I now know what possessed me to write 12
Within a week before I began writing this, Linus Torvalds accused Christoph Hellwig of being a test subject to alien happy drugs. I am unaware of how our experiences relate
I tried to reach you, dear reader, at the end of the third chapter. Originally, after "He, Hop Lexo, est fini" I included: & I didn't even get to tell you about how he, Hop Lexo, was a renowned French hip hopper extraordinaire. You wouldn't think someone would actually name their child Hop, right? Especially with a surname like Lexo
But it was judged that the information coming out in the dull fourth chapter would be more interesting. At least I was able to put a more tangent note in the fourth chapter's dialogue. It is here I must thank the aliens for allowing for poetic license. When he, Hop Lexo, fell down the four dimensional torus, he, Hop Lexo, should've oscillated, as it'd make sense for either the torus to superimpose along the path of falling. Or he, Hop Lexo, should've experienced falling upwards outside of our dimension. This all based on the assumption that physical phenomena are restricted to the third dimension, something which is most likely inconsistent with this piece's interpretation of the fourth dimension as merely another geometric coordinate which enables two things to take up the same three space without collision. Especially considering that that'd imply one could go downhill both ways. But who knows, maybe the aliens figured I'd only understand the implications of their four dimensional torus in a poetic sense, and so had to resort to such mental tampering. Four dimensional visualization is not my forté. That's how I am. Programmers need to have good visualization. Fred Brooks found that the best programmers have a visual model of the calendar, and so find it quite natural to answer "Where's next November?" I do not have such a model. November is when I feel vacant
There's something I didn't break into: arbitrary names. Hop Lexo was shown to me through a random search, and Izzy was decided on after taking some time looking over unisex names. It can be hard to remain so indecisive, but that's what you get when dealing with the writing of someone who gets flustered when asked "What would you like?" by a fast food cashier. Or did she ask "What can I get you?" I don't know. I don't remember. I wasn't paying much attention. I was thirsty and wanted something to drink
I tried to maintain ambiguity. The architect's gender and name. I've corrected my assumption of the cannibal's gender, since their author never revealed whether she'd chosen a gender. Who was named Izzy (I really don't know. It's the result of my mind holding the contradiction that their both named Izzy and that they have very different names.) Whether the mute was an android (Though the aliens forced me to reveal that the architect wasn't a robot. Which prunes that whole branch where a mute android was possible.) Here's the tail of a conversation I found too revealing: Do you know who I am? / Well yes, you're-- / I founded your field / In a preliminary way, perhaps, but you more useful as a funder-- / & now you want to be some sick fuck & drag me off my axis with my own intellectual property / I cannot even begin to enter upon the fallacies you've conjured / Don't ..., he's .... Rather poor ... / I'm not poor. I'm rich. I founded in both money and thought a whole new dimension of architecture / You remember that much / I don't 314 a lot of things, but I 314 that / Such a cyclical man, soon enough you'll be speaking all in digits again / So I've implemented this idea already? / Yes / How'd it go? / Nobody understands you. They conclude that you're fucked up. Which I suppose is a success, since you appreciate Fuck so much as to never replace it
Also never got to use: I'm drunk / I'm a robot / I'm sober / I'm an architect
I enjoyed having such a bastardly fellow. I've experimented with such before: Faux Sequitur, Kleptomania, Would you envy me?, Devil's Debt. But the interactions were nice. I wish I hadn't had him be so ignored, but that'd've been the harder path to take. Writing someone's perspective requires setting up the structure to some degree in one's own mind. Inspirational material must be skewed to fit the frame. If that material is of my own creation, I must lie to myself even as to the motivation which caused it. I enjoy suspending disbelief of even fact and trying on absurd perspectives. But I suppose everyone does, given how people look for neon prescription glasses that, you know, will glow when all the lights are out when they're trying to quantify the weight of God. Writing with multiple characters requires stashing away these structures only to bring them back soon after
I considered pulling out my past characters. Faux Sequitur comes closest, given my quoting "Some feisty fuck dragged me off my axis." It'd be neat to see how they get along, after having shown how they behave alone. Maybe their personality wave functions would collapse. But that's really something I'd have to do without any premise besides the interaction of characters I've authored. WhtA and WhtB would have a wonderful discussion with my zombie. But this all seems too silly and contrieved. Which, admittedly, this story already is. What do you expect, it's sole purpose is to communicate some alien message with as little risk of frying my brain as possible (at least I hope)
What did I learn? Characters take space. This is the longest thing I've written in four years. Unless you count 50k=0, but that's something else. A single character is able to get their ideas through much more efficiently. The debate between characters is too filled with fluff relating to the text itself to produce efficient debate
& yet still the aliens selected this medium. I hope they enjoy their four dimensional torus
& that's that
Addendum: I was later informed that the missing chapter was lost in the mail. Obviously the post office has an anti alien agenda