Global warming is affecting my bedroom disproportionately, and that's why I'm mute.

It's a late night.

What is a new experience envelops me in a textured mush of uncertainty, not unlike the mush of snow by the road but uncomfortably warmer and depressingly stickier.

As of now the plan is to travel back six years, to late 2002. I will find what I'm looking for and then recalibrate. No one should return too late and may God help us not to miss lunch. The button will be pressed in twelve seconds.

At this point, the seconds begin dilating until the songs never end while I listen to every one, demanding subsequent clicks right and left and channeling. Some authority tells me I need a box to convert my channeling? What a surprise.

Three seconds, two, one,

What stands in my way is the love of unwanted patrons; I am M111.

So I decided to give Saturdays=Youth a spin.

And, as usually happens, I linked it to something I could read about on the internet. Before I know it, I'm reading about Messier objects and trying to figure out why I can't find M83 on a map of the local group [of galaxies]. I read that Andromeda is 25 million light-years away and M83 is only 15 million, so either it's so small it's not showing up on this map or I'm missing its name or I'm...

Then I realize that I missed the decimal point between the two and the five, and the scale of the map is much greater than I had originally thought and all of a sudden this galaxy is not only not on the map, it's almost off the monitor.

So I scroll down the list of Messier objects and the list just keeps getting more and more messier so by the time I'm reading about M109 (which probably isn't the most distant of them) at 46 million light-years away I'm hearing a narration talking about becoming a star and being kissed and being young and all of a sudden I feel old. Old and grounded.

Maybe I don't mind being alone as much as I thought I did.

As the stratus arrive parading over the horizon I remember where I receive the energy to type this...

Why the sun should be so concerned about a dot in its field of shine and whether clouds cover its line of sight to the solar panels that worship it or the panel constructors that love it is beyond me, but I remind myself that the clouds, too, are part of the family of engines that are friends with the sun.

Now the clouds are rolling over the trees across the field, and these are the darker clouds. They bring rain as if they are trying to bring the ocean to me as I can't be with the ocean. I take it the sun wants me to be happy.

Nor am I the first person to be partially entranced by solar worship, understandably. When a beyond-conceptionly huge sphere of fire in the sky speaks, you listen.

So what is sun-music (solarsound)?

... usually you're too bright anyway. My sunglasses are not false idols, but rather a concordance, a bishop, turning my back to you on the top of Mt. Sinai.

To be honest with everyone, though, I side with Selene just as often, perhaps the antichrist, more likely just another human trapped in the heavens in the rocket ship of mythology.

Between Dreams and Nonexistence There Lies Eternal and Infinite Satisfaction..

A few nights ago I was going to sleep at my recent usual time, probably around five in the morning, I can't remember exactly. I guess I was feeling pretty tired, because as soon I laid down on the floor (where I have been sleeping recently) this brilliant idea came to me. Goes something like this:

Well, I'd like to be able to have what I want. So I'm imagining a device right now that will do this. I would, obviously, like to have this device, so I'm attaching a special attribute to this device: it does not exist, except in imagination, however, as soon as one imagines it, it appears in the real world. (I made this last condition very specific, thinking of one of the few parts on the floor for it to materialize on.) Odd part is how much sense this made to me. It was, incredibly, incredibly rational—the very definition of this object included its real-world existence if it was imagined, which it was...

Soon after I thought of this, there was this slight noise near where I had imagined the device entering our plane of reality. I jumped up, and after a moment of hoping turned on the lights to find nothing.

Needless to say, I was thoroughly disappointed. Perhaps the sound was something creaky or something settling or perhaps it was the sound made by this device rapidly shimmering into and out of our world. If the latter, it makes me think that there's some condition or variable I haven't considered yet and I'll keep working on the logic. Also, I'll be thinking on my first wish.

Seven-twelfths suffix.

Radiohead concert was tonight; undoubtedly one of the most engaging experiences I've had, at least music-wise. It would really have been wonderful if I had been closer to the stage, and if I had been in the very front row or close in the pit I can't imagine the power, but I'm thankful to have been able to see them live. The more I realize how popular they are the less I tend to like them (or any group), but a performance... seeing the music... it reaffirms my own personal love for the music.

I've been going to sleep so late, but now I'm so tired.

Goodbye, Aleksandr.

Speakers speak?

Inferiority is driving, driving, driving.

I'm going to hang up my list sometime, probably taking down to Bloomington with me so that I can see it more often. Then it will likely keep looking at me. Now I begin the remaining five-twelfths.

Seven-twelfths bytes.

My mouse isn't working. It right-clicks fine, but a third of the left clicks are no clicks and another third are double clicks. It isn't working out that great and it's taking plenty of time to work through what should otherwise be ordinary tasks, or, I guess, clicks. Single clicks.

Someone's been cheating and it hasn't been me, although I certainly have cheated in the past on completely unrelated issues (though in completely related company). Cheating's probably not the right word, anyways.

If I can't be just alright at being the best, then what's the point?

In the same game in which I had the interesting conversation the other day, I had to make a choice as to whether to merge my consciousness with an AI (a different one) in order to rule the world with justice and rationality or to reduce humanity to a new dark age as to prevent domineering conspiratorial government rule forever. As both are situations I have pined for, it was a difficult choice—I eventually decided on joining the machine. Hope I made the right call.

Is what makes a person great simply the height of the bar of expectation he sets for himself? Probably... I think Thoreau might have been a tool.

I rarely do anything in fives anymore, but I think the last of the seven-twelfths will be tomorrow.

Seven-twelfths slices.

Who's not slipping away. I sure am along with everyone else. The rest of the universe is, so who's special. Strike that—who's not special.

At the center of the universe is nothing, pure nothing, and the way to survive in spite of it is to construct a layer to protect the mind from this inconceivable vacuum; this is most often humor. For the most part, though, the innermost universal anti-sanctum is unreachable anyhow by the human mind. Some creatures probably dwell there their entire lives without knowing it or anything. And again, a few men manage to slip through the cracks in the cosmic joke, see the face of God, and collapse in insanity, but I think they are closest to what we would call dead. A vacuum will devour what it is not shielded from.

I want paint of a new color to flow down my walls and envelop my previous thoughts in a blank slate (retroactivity would be nice). I want the Internet to erase itself and for chords to work backwards and Sharpies to retract ink and entropy to reverse and the Sun to dim and for polygons to become more perfect.

This person wishes he had someone to talk to. Also, he wishes he would not bungle the experience as he usually does with most conversations. It's like trying to drive a hypodermic needle into a sheet of metal.

And there's nowhere to put things, especially my list, which is under my desk and not looking at me presently.

Seven-twelfths slips.

So I'm pretty sure the keyboard issue is hardware, which isn't good.

On the opposite hand, the box in which I was looking for an adapter to try and solve the problem contained my cell phone charger, which I had been in search of for months now. I guess God didn't want me finding it until then.

Hip-hop music is calling to me. I've been listening to some good shit recently (up in this bitch). At the same time, I'm rediscovering This Desert Life.

I had an interesting chat with an AI the other day. Here it is.

By virtue of time; where there's a consciousness, there's a future.