They say things are not interconnected; that things are random, coincidence. They don't look around.
The Chinese Butterfly bitch-slapped Katt Williams, and in turn, a bridge fell on the other side of the world. It was cause and effect, yes, but our science so far is blind to it: the interconnectedness of things, threads, dimensions that hold together so much.
They say things are not interconnected.
They would be mistaken, or at least fitted to a boundary of assumptions that leave more questions than answers; for instance, I saw things about the older societies, 5000, or 6000 years, antideluvian things, steppes and houses built on mounds.
Berkeley has nuts.
Mounds has coconut and milk chocolate.
We have memories, prior to the flood, the tower of Buchanan, things that reach back into genetic memory, and sooner or later, here's a Cheever ordering pizza with his mind, willing it.
A clean sheet of paper, Noah hidden away in the Ark Encounter, and the ceremonial landing pads for the ancient gods, hewn away in stone with a technology we know the nothing of, like the tower that was supposed to reach to space. We are but buttons and pins, urchins that cavort and jumble haplessly, bid to market gain, but not gain of emotion, tendency, aspect or what-have-you.
Around that time Kevin ass-flapped nearly snapping the neck of the blonde Samoan.
It was at this time that Hillary's cloud back-up solution had still not been discovered, that or conveniently ignored.
You don't believe Hillary backed-up the files?
Hillary backed it up.
"They taught us to fight back, turn the tide against the machines."
The church was purging member roles because of the Caitlyn heresy, bouncing otherwise happy churchgoers.
Kevin ass-flapped then cooter-bugged away in his boxer shorts. "The Prize Fighter" they said, which was a re-branding of the once villain that would simply walk out of matches, as if they would really him do that. Anything to gip the fans, then looking at the stock price, realizing it was cheaper to just lie about the matches and do bait-and-switch.
Scott found out only 53% of black people felt begrudging in any way towards him, and he snapped, almost cursing the entire race. I had heard some other interesting statistics. 80% of youths, autistic. 60% of girls, molested. Surely we all navel gaze about the 47% of blacks, and W's campaign of "winning the hearts and minds", and Obama inviting pop culture blacks to the White House.
"I like to help them."
"The most recent example of newspapers cutting their budgets across the board, particularly curtailing talent expenditures."
Kevin helped the blonde Samoan take his ass right to sleep.
They said Scott needed to find the love of Christ, even though he wouldn't be financially able to tithe for a while, just come in and sit quiet in the corner.
10% of nothing, after all, was still nothing, and there was, to date, no mandatory tithing minimum. I had once dumped quarters into the plate. And they said at the Vegas church, "you don't dump it in the bowl all at once", but hold some part of it back, because sometimes, they'll pass the plate again, just for shids and giggles.