Of Fidgets and Fugits; a dreamscape of quizzical phenomena.

We were talking of the usury of others; and we had hit a point of demarcation in which limitations existed in differing points.  I implied that they established, the "usee", what limits they were prepared to transgress, while I was reminded of yet a grander standard, as such, and one which I had observed in times of old, before falling waist-deep into a septic tank aboard a spaceliner.

There was a rumor that Bing had gone self-aware and Linux and Unix professionals had fought hard to stop the system from accessing nuclear capabilities against a kickball in mid spiral across the Iowa skies.

It was only a rumor in a dream, I had, and I talked to various parts of myself, literally, I asked one of them a question, they answered simply, as they do, and I awoke as on a mission of some kind.  We talk of shadow selves and other pieces of the person entire, pieces that may or may not remain dormant sometimes, but yet at others come out to play, if only, perhaps to make themselves, as summoning is an unknown phenomenon, or the impetus of the petitions of others through prayer and wishes for either success or destruction: it was dream, nonetheless.  Too much caffeine near bedtime leads to a kind of vivid quality in the dreams, sitting there as if in the puzzle house proper watching the inmates work at their business with that kind of odd, jerky insane energy, and that, all of that, in the province of the mind, between the walls of one's own skull.

Of usury, I asked myself some frankly fundamental questions.  I thought it quite proper to let others set their own limitations, but I had seen the dark side of that so much, for there are so many types of people, and willing to do the unsavory if for only a kind word in return.

People, people, people.

It was like the time my brother had rented a prostitute for an entire night, she thinking she'd have booze and plenty of sex, then sleep soundly after a time, all while on the clock.  Brother took it one step further and never even removed any clothes, asking her instead to clean the kitchen, living room, and the dungeon which served as his bathroom, where he shat fire darts and so forth.  He was a card.

This was a whole new form a usury, a kind of Metaverse foray that left river mud footprints, a kind of interactive form of gaming that made life the very objective, and he with grape gore on his chin; I'd say he sat in the sun, betimes, but truthfully he didn't unless someone else was: he'd follow them right outside into the sun just like a faithful pet cat.

To reassemble one's person.

To resemble one's person.

To demonstrate one's craft by faithfully failing every task, just as the prior assemblage had accomplished, just the same, unvarying, unwavering, crashing into the same barnsides and bedposts.



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