The Unseen Great

The man that had no job filled his nights with work, building something of immense value. It was one of the greatest sculptures that had ever been created in the history of art, cast in iron and standing high above him as he laboured beneath, working the form real with his hands, his thoughts obsessed onto the subject. It seemed to have grown inside him, it's vines clawing behind his eyes and lying heavy in his belly, spearing his heart, lacerating his insides, killing him. And still he worked. The nights would turn into mornings and this would continue before he slept on a broken mattress by the window, his biorhythms and instincts replaced with working on the thing. He had become a slave to the idea. Even in his dreams he would continue sculpting, cursing himself on waking. He looked as if he had drowned, skin almost translucent white beneath the stained, filthy clothes that hung to his weakening body like dark flags. Hour after hour he worked, getting closer and closer to perfection. But as it neared completion the man choked on a famous brand of butter candy and died, alone except for the sculpture.

Decomposition had set in and the man was slowly melting. The cells that made up his body had began to rot, membranes disintegrated against a sea of cold enzymes and putrid blood. His landlord let himself in after a few weeks of unpaid rent. At the back of his mind he was aware that there was a corpse on the floor, though all of his attention had been drawn to the iron sculpture in the centre of the room, surrounded by various tools and materials. The sculpture set him into a trance that last for the next two hours and when asked about the experience later he said that it was 'the most beautiful moment in his life'. The sculpture was taken away by tree cops and melted down, though it's after image remains burned into their retinas like sun spots. The public doubts the sculpture had ever existed, though some of them do and they like the idea so why not let them think that as it's more interesting than if it didn't actually happen.

Weighs Like Stone, Feels Like Shit

seven kilos of electronic jelly walking round in seventy kilos of blood and tubes and bone and hair numbering seven billion and yet here we are. only four hundred films get made a year. perhaps another hundred times that with books and a million times that for music. the last total number representing culture yet of what percentile of humanity are involved in the making of it? and what further percentile of it is any good? ideas. What's worth recording in any manner? By thinking about something you aren't necessarily fully enjoying it's actuality.

Monks in solitude delicately piecing together codices, whispering to themselves in Latin. A child watches a re-enactment of this in the next millenium, laughing and squirting virtual shit across the universe like some primordial gull. Allergies. Fat wrists. Delicateness. Nose bleeds. Cataracts. Baldness. All by the age of ten.

Another twenty million dollars is thrown in the face of an actor as he sits naked in bed surrounded by prostitutes, all are tanned and have perfect sets of filed down teeth. A phone rings. It's a studio executive pitching a t.v series set in the past. The actor accepts, his laughter almost blows the cocaine away as it's rubbed in his face via arse. The finest white wine in California is opened and all settle down to watch a blu-ray. Ninety minutes pass. And nothing has changed.

Holopocalypse

Schedule

And suddenly I noticed the space between the lines. As if I had side-stepped slightly and my perspective looked as if forever before it had been wrong, hiding the substance beyond each thing. Colours moved and I watched, amazed, as the fabric of reality began to unravel and giving way to what was actually going on. Almost forth dimensionally, each thing seemed to transform between points, the inner workings moving at small alternative angles on each plane. The separation of universes as each potential atomic state leapt from the current version of reality along with a cosmos of particles detaching themselves from the atoms in the current universe as if they were a bacteria, multiplying exponentially in a quantum state. I see Armitage Shanks making his way down the side of the house, it looked as if his muscles were the brush-strokes of some crude painting.

I then notice something.

In his left hand he is holding a sheet of paper that is proof of mankind's entire struggle against several reptilian style gorgons occupying the bodies of the people who run the internet, the evidence clearly showing a report of a secret confrontation between two powerful psychics in the Trafford Centre at exactly fifty eight minutes past six on a Sunday afternoon. I cursed myself for my own stupidity. My first mission was communicated through me by phrases spoken by other agents undercover in public, often on bus routes, though this eventually would lead to the discovery of myself crouched inside a drain, my clothes discarded and various colouring books folded so that new shapes appeared, symbols for a form of mathematics that I didn't understand.