Little monument.
Unfriendly, superstitious pygmy locals.
Gobekli Tepe.
"That which was written 'aforetime' were written for our understanding, and is profitable for edification, doctrine and reproof."
The fecund fields of Aberwaithe, not your "flowers for Algermon", not your Albert in the woodpile kind of thing, or Valhalle, Washington Square, the ancient Badoun burial mound of King Arturo.
They made these, perfect solid spheres, of some technology perfect and true and entirely unknown to modernity, not even a whisper in posterity, of about and underlining such a profound and perfect technology, made that out of the grice of outer space, and dropped nary a nut leaving the memento to befuddle centuries of loin-cloth wearing barbarian savages.
The Brits, you know? Or what passed for Britons in the day and time, the days of those lives. So called, "West-enders."
"The World, The Flesh and The Devil." (or "I still know what you did last summer.") I mean, its surrealist painting nonsense, you know, my cat in a tree, and I call Jennifer Love Hewitt.
One year I watched something like 159 regular season Braves games. I remember missing one during a three-day hospital stay, but I did get to watch one on the cheap institutional basic cable.
The extrastellar technology that made the headpiece of Narlhotep, and all them, them with the wing arms and all that, and the stuff, and the sideways one-eye faces like on playing cards, you know, deck of 52, and so forth, the Eye of Providence, and I have the PDF of Providence and all that, too, even today, in the shadow of post-modernity, the aftermath of history, and all of that.
Those spheres though. They left them for people of the time, you know, to some end, some kind of proto-jawbreakers or something, that or a galactic sales pitch or something of the kind, pitching the technology, meanwhile they chunked the perfect spheres amongst naturally occurring stones and so forth, as if they were part of the scenery, and you might wait for White Rabbit and all, to think there was some kind of glitch in the Matrix or something, but I don't know.
Like I told my therapist, you know, asking, "what's bothering you today?" and I think, this person, an hourly with a Master's Degree, expects me to do the improbable and nigh impossible, that which has never happened in all of human history, and that is:
on the spot, off the cuff, offer up an explanation, not an apology nor justification, but just an explanation of reality itself.
It would be funny, though, if an admittedly broken patient offered up a satisfactory thumbnail sketch of all reality, including the history and future of the whole thing, while the hourly sat there probably earning something like 11 dollars while I explained it all, my theory of everything.
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