this pestilential putrid putrescence of the populace, and so yes, yes, yessir he hacked, hooded and holy, and replaced with Marxist debates, with techniques of water desalination, with that man sitting in a black box studio reading the dictionary, some people think that man Bachy Soletanche, but no, no. Bachy Soletanche not that stupid to show his face. Not me neither, though I volunteered.
And the augmented reality. Oh the genius! The slight sly slipstreaming somnolence of the little bits, the binary of quality/non-quality invading iSpex over the entire population, Haru, spicy and speculative, avatar architect autonomous apotheosis and aggregate of information feed and overlay. No more the GPS directioneering, no more the instant access to the stringy vibrations of knowledge, but instead the compulsion to volunteer, to raise the poor, to serve community as “mandate” by the gahmen, gah man, heh, hah, a whole society putting down the shackles of more and new and shiny, putting aside the love thyself for love thy neighbor, doing for the meek, helping the helpless, homeless, heh heh, oh such gracious gratifying goodness gifted from the “gahmen” til the real gahmen re-established the iSpex links, rebooted the moral/ethical, replugged into the commercial buy buy buy you aren’t good enough and forget about those sleeping on park benches and under train station awnings, why aren’t you spending ? But the seed, the seed of involvement, they couldn’t quash that, no.
But the best time, the best time, the very very best time was that one morning. Oh, that morning! You know, you know the one I mean, yes, yes you do, we all do, the morning all the Members of Parliament awoke molecularly bonded to the ceiling of the chambers by their buttocks. Ah! Ah! The raucous religious range of refrigerated revisioning that came after, but we knew, we knew . Minds foggy still druggy they awoke, they realized, they screamed shrieked shriked shanked but then all fell silent as the PM, their man, their leader, descending denuded downstairs donning nothing but his shoes, naked on that staircase into the chambers as the day of his birth and singing the meme-virus planted by Bachy Soletanche that infected the rest, songs of protest of solidarity of false flippancy. Of course, of course , they should, the song told them, put aside power, protect the population, encourage dissonant dissident deductive debate, allow a multiplicity of political parties, party on, rather than unicameral unitary unilateralism. Them, them, oh them , were it to be but no, no, not all susceptible, and those meme-immune managed to masterfully manipulate monsterish montages of mental mopery that halted the song and brought them back to themselves.
But Bachy, Bachy Soletanche, vanish after that, him can’t bring about such humiliation without retaliation, and the death warrant, the bounty, turned the man of smoke to dissipation, scattering to the winds but he still, still out there, a unique form of continuity in space. The city rises with abstract speed and sound, and falls with text fixed in type, in electrons. His name everywhere, his being everywhen, on the side of construction cranes, spread all over sites of recalcitrant regulatory renovation even. In your head, in your head, zombie. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche.
Kopi Luwak
It took two hours from the resort in Nusa Dua, two hours in a cramped minivan—Troy couldn’t believe how uncomfortable, he’d paid enough money for this fucking trip, they couldn’t have brought a town car?—listening to the expressive Balinese tour guide go on and on about the cultural heritage of his island and all of the things tourists could do, blah blah blah, Troy only grunting acknowledgment as Sudra pointed out the carved stone statues at each traffic junction or roundabout, garuda birds or demonic warriors or gentle buddhas, their
And the augmented reality. Oh the genius! The slight sly slipstreaming somnolence of the little bits, the binary of quality/non-quality invading iSpex over the entire population, Haru, spicy and speculative, avatar architect autonomous apotheosis and aggregate of information feed and overlay. No more the GPS directioneering, no more the instant access to the stringy vibrations of knowledge, but instead the compulsion to volunteer, to raise the poor, to serve community as “mandate” by the gahmen, gah man, heh, hah, a whole society putting down the shackles of more and new and shiny, putting aside the love thyself for love thy neighbor, doing for the meek, helping the helpless, homeless, heh heh, oh such gracious gratifying goodness gifted from the “gahmen” til the real gahmen re-established the iSpex links, rebooted the moral/ethical, replugged into the commercial buy buy buy you aren’t good enough and forget about those sleeping on park benches and under train station awnings, why aren’t you spending ? But the seed, the seed of involvement, they couldn’t quash that, no.
But the best time, the best time, the very very best time was that one morning. Oh, that morning! You know, you know the one I mean, yes, yes you do, we all do, the morning all the Members of Parliament awoke molecularly bonded to the ceiling of the chambers by their buttocks. Ah! Ah! The raucous religious range of refrigerated revisioning that came after, but we knew, we knew . Minds foggy still druggy they awoke, they realized, they screamed shrieked shriked shanked but then all fell silent as the PM, their man, their leader, descending denuded downstairs donning nothing but his shoes, naked on that staircase into the chambers as the day of his birth and singing the meme-virus planted by Bachy Soletanche that infected the rest, songs of protest of solidarity of false flippancy. Of course, of course , they should, the song told them, put aside power, protect the population, encourage dissonant dissident deductive debate, allow a multiplicity of political parties, party on, rather than unicameral unitary unilateralism. Them, them, oh them , were it to be but no, no, not all susceptible, and those meme-immune managed to masterfully manipulate monsterish montages of mental mopery that halted the song and brought them back to themselves.
But Bachy, Bachy Soletanche, vanish after that, him can’t bring about such humiliation without retaliation, and the death warrant, the bounty, turned the man of smoke to dissipation, scattering to the winds but he still, still out there, a unique form of continuity in space. The city rises with abstract speed and sound, and falls with text fixed in type, in electrons. His name everywhere, his being everywhen, on the side of construction cranes, spread all over sites of recalcitrant regulatory renovation even. In your head, in your head, zombie. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche. Bachy Soletanche.
Kopi Luwak
It took two hours from the resort in Nusa Dua, two hours in a cramped minivan—Troy couldn’t believe how uncomfortable, he’d paid enough money for this fucking trip, they couldn’t have brought a town car?—listening to the expressive Balinese tour guide go on and on about the cultural heritage of his island and all of the things tourists could do, blah blah blah, Troy only grunting acknowledgment as Sudra pointed out the carved stone statues at each traffic junction or roundabout, garuda birds or demonic warriors or gentle buddhas, their
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