Augenblick by r.g. vasicek vs. kenji siratori (excerpt)

"What the fuck is this? What is this? I don't know. Maybe that is okay, not knowing, and maybe it isn't. These words, these phrases, these assaulting passages that strike like a tsunami are shattering the windowpanes of pure consciousness and disturbing the foundations of what has been whispered into our ear, by a robotic earworm, lodged in there. This creature has been there, as early as our conception on this wet planet, a metaphysical and physical thing that destroys all forms of continuity, rational thought, and reality, spreading the seeds of this elusive thing that has been drilled and planted into us, under the guise of fiction/literature, this thing called... art. This isn't a book. This isn't literature. This isn't normal. This will test you. And, the further you go, the more you realise, there is no goalpost, there are no markers to pinpoint and to use to map your way through it. It is this fusion of confusion and submerged identities and manifestos that screams for attention. It provokes you into skipping, forcing your way through the molasse of information and detail, and creating your own narrative from a cargo hold's worth of words, letters, and protein grain ruining your vision. You end up flipping through it and hitting pause on your meat machine, exacting a robotic process, selecting a phrase, a passage, a page, scrolling through the digital device, the paperback, breaking conformity and poisoning the expectation-devil sitting on your shoulder, the little bastard. This book can be read. This piece of art can be used as a physical weapon. This isn't the future. This isn't the present. This is definitely not the past. It is the in-between stages of corruption and renewal. In the blink of an eye, what was once a familiar word or letter transforms into something altogether ultra. Vasicek and Siratori have created a massive nuclear bomb of a "book." Augenblick is something altogether neu and alt. It is fucking impressive." Zak Ferguson (Author of My Body Meat & The System Compendium)

The birds are trying to tell me something. What? I do not know. All I am saying is: Listen. I can see their shadows on the curtains. Flying somewhere at ridiculous speeds. The sun is too bright. 8:36 am. Saturday. I should get up. I want to sleep. I hear other people talking in an apartment. I hear a radio. Not music. A man is talking. Very gravely. I cannot understand the words. Only the tone, the timbre, the feeling. Again, the desire to sleep. I have a sore throat. Is it serious? I have no idea. Like the birds, my throat is trying to tell me something. What? Something inside my mind? I do not know. Why do I think so much? Restless thinking. My brain is on fire. If I had a lover, I would fuck my lover. My lover would fuck me. No matter what is happening outside. Because of what is happening. We would fuck orgasms out of each other. Watch faces. Listen to grunts & whispers. Special requests. That is not the case. So, I just sleep a lot. Waiting. Waiting for what? I need to get out there. Make something happen. Spatiotemporal positioning during sex is critical. Where are you, when? I am nowhere. I am sitting in a swivel chair. I am writing on a laptop computer. The computer is on my lap. My balls are getting soaked & pumped with EMFs & Wi-Fi. I have no plans today. Just this. Whatever this is. Cybernetic literature? Am I a cyborg? Am I a Minotaur? Am I a Satyr? Notebook 88 should be handwritten. Already I fuck up. At least, dear reader, you know who you are dealing with. Reader beware! My reliability is in question. I am a quantum thing. A weird fusion between me & you. Your thoughts are [sort of] my thoughts. Isn’t that freaky? Or not at all. Meaning. Are you making meaning? Are you meaning-making? How goes your self-narrative? I feel idle. Stasis. What makes things go? Entropy? Negentropy? Orgasm is an abrupt awakening. Yes. Again & again & again. Eternal return. I do not know what anyone is saying anymore. Please, stop writing. She strips you bare. You are all meat. A rising cock. Sea salt. No more talk of anything, really. Experience. Consciousness. Submerged in anti-reality. Eyeballs. Brain. Amygdala. Pre-frontal cortex. Slowly rubbing her sex with his palm. Mounting. I don’t think my soul’s malfunction is fragmented. What I am superficially experiencing is not the weather naturally clouding over at the time of writing this article, but rather, there is something embedded in the program’s signifiers. Dolls in the description section potentially have defects and are rendered invalid from the outside. I am the energy of the abyss, destroying this corrosive eschatology. The solution is for the wormhole to merge, what has been done is not merged. What about the wonders of games and networks? Needs understood with change. Guerrillas possess not only genetics but also gas engineering, pursuing the poetry of new souls, overcoming thoughts that attack people. Linguistic necrophilia. The slapping sound of buttocks against thighs. She flips me. Who is fucking who, sometimes you wonder. I am a recording artist recording my thoughts in the early afternoon of late October in New York City. I might be on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Time will tell. These pages must show. I prefer not to write. Here I am. Using language. Unpredictability. Uncertainty. I need to make a U-turn. Might be best to keep going. The planet is fucking crazy. We should dance at a discotheque. The funky goulet. Disco balls & ABBA. John Travolta & Saturday Night Fever. Are your legs tired from last night? Zero-zero (0-0) on a football pitch. I can do the math. I am a left fullback. Sometimes a right fullback. Defense! My football skills atrophy. Cock no longer rises. I might be getting better. Am I getting better? My throat is soar. I scream at the universe. A cosmic scream. I should get a haircut. A buzzcut. Let the sun’s rays hit my skull. Pass through me. Trigger & ignite my soul. The great excitement of first sex. Trepidation of last sex. She smears her butt all over my belly. We are two horny people going at it. Meanwhile, out there, in the night sky, distant stars are hurtling away from us. Our minds cannot fathom. Cannot keep up. Not ready to write the next notebook. This is this notebook. I need to be present. Here. Now. Tomorrow is a three-syllable word. Yesterday is a simulacrum. Keeps fluctuating. No longer trust reality. Never did. It is a little town. The market begins from a fucking dead place. Is it empty because there's not much interstellar? Perspectives and mental impulses. Avatars are girls. Human literature. Our innate survival. Brain regions. Social drugs. Perhaps causality. Captivated by you. Poetic empathy. In various ways, I boil our anus in stories. Cells. Replicant massacred in political dealings with you, violated, diseased, and are you in the dark? Has necrophilia expired already? We know internal difficulties. Combat inside the vagina is the danger of undissected telepathy. Cytosol manipulated by the soul sexually. Has this telepathy, this artificial dimension, been converted into one of human panic? The media suggests that corpses exist in its entity. Terrible, it means the disease is enlightened. There are defects in the Akashic enzyme. Data in the machine is overflowing. Ignore the interference of the base station. A small town. A metropolis. Everybody knows too much about you. Waiting to escape for summer holiday at the sea. October and November are the only months that are tolerable. You can hide in your attic and write a novel. We remove our clothes. She wants an act of love. I am incapable of anything more than a fuck. December is cruel. It snows a lot. I am more sentimental than anybody I know. And yet I can do no better. These words must show… what? Who is the speaker? Are you the speaker? Is it you? She says: Your ass is tasty. We should do this more often. I nod. Get her number. The body with a body. I kiss her mouth. Under her jeans tight pink panties. What goes on in the experimenter’s mind? Experiments in delirium… experimental spheres. Quadrilaterals. Trapezoids. Parallelograms. No control. Uncontrollable. Existence unfolds. We observe. We get rolled. Over & over again. Surf’s up. Turbulent. Gnarly. Wave after wave. Where is the shore? The other shore. Memories of a village called Patchogue. Let them go. Are you a recording artist in New York City? I am. She is pulling at the zip of my jeans. I am not ready. I am ready. For what? I guess we will find out. 888 words always intrigues me. As a text. As a speed limit. 88 kmh. As an odometer reading in a motorcar: 88,888. As a distance to a faraway star. I know that corpses are showers, and your organs, through the shattered body, serve as the entrance for my semen in the true way, and the attached analog body mechanically connects to the brain. Please help. Evolution exists in 2030 and is integrated at the center as an interstellar solution. Sensations are all quantum and fantasy. Managed thoughts. Cells collide, we exist, and we become a failure of supernatural code. And the market shoots through my brain, engulfs the environment, cannibalizes our brains, controls the girl, distorts inner humanity, understands androids, android forms, obstacles, and deception. We have spread those words. How about you? The future, collaborative apps, the drugs of that society are visible. Virtualized language. That methodology is like a corrupt means executing death. Dark phrases from the Android storage are delivered, always starting oneself while asking for directions. Digital Karma. Brain cells towards sex and fear. The macro of corpses in space. Literature among readers more knowledgeable about reptiles than roosters. The distortion of my junkie. Courtiers celebrating ejaculation is a model of the compressed rotation era. The tragedy of literature has ended. Repressed energy from the Baron himself. Unique long-form technique, desert emulator. Rest. Experience. Evolution. Mechanization. Despair. Direction. Birth. Drift. False world clock. Applications. Repeat screen. Human exploration. War. Paranoia. Material. Earth material. Objects. Collaboration. Expanded form. Notices. Do you accept creations?
888,888,888 parsecs. Are you a cybernetic rock star? Yes. Estimate the drift parameter of being. She gets my jeans off. I am nervous and excited. My cock already erect. Swollen. Throbbing. She slips out of her panties. She has such a smooth & beautiful ass. A metropolis built on the ruins of nature. I take long walks on foot. Sulfur in the air. I breathe. I listen to birds. I listen to machines. People always going somewhere. I smile & laugh. I return to my notebooks. What disturbs my organism? What am I doing here? How did I end up in America? How did I end up in New York City? Are you familiar with Pittsburgh? The brain re-establishes… what? I bring a pencil into the metropolis. I am the disappearance of storage, creating data to exist. By break time, fluids carry creatures, and even the bewildered appearance of foolish thinkers blinks. Modular machines radiate an unforgiving universe. Geeks are grotesque monsters, and did you feel the linear jam in the brain as you sensed it? When the duality resonating with atheism and the unconscious triggers a tsunami of text with organs and genes within the unconscious, despite being a simple cause of human trafficking drugs, the person is alienated and excluded by prohibition, and the brain will be in confusion. When desire is impaired by communication, surrendering to magic, humans will engage in conversations with parallel lines in the sunroom or perhaps a toxic sun. What I am talking about is the further fragmented fusion of the theory of birth being blocked, awakening reality, and the dysfunctional craving of another demon that contradicts the concept of the vagina. I jot down my thoughts. I scribble. I doodle. Everybody watches me in the act. Nobody watches. Cybernetic writers are big-wave surfers. We cannot paddle in… a machine tows us into the biggest waves in the Solar System. Notebook 88 is neither Notebook 87 nor Notebook 89. It is something in-between. And must be written as such. Are you getting the signals? Electromechanical messages. Biochemical reactions. Are you alert? We spent long afternoons making love & arcing our backs. Now… what? Girlfriends & ex-girlfriends with panties around their hips. Raising their triangles to my face. I had no choice. We bought beer & cigarettes at a tobacco kiosk. We made love during a heavy snow. Buttocks are cerebral hemispheres for an intellectual. If you do not think so, think again. A girlfriend with dark eyes tells me something. I forget what. She palms my shaven skull as I pleasure her. Blue eyes. Hazel eyes. Are we getting somewhere? Twelve hundred words. Yes. Plenty. If you say more, you atrophy. If you say less, you perish. Keep going. I see a horizon. Light years in the future. It's whimsical, transcending only landscapes; it's grotesque. When the economy dies from infection through the movement of souls, utilized by rebels necessary for humanity's science, something is written. I give it to the printer's isolated knowledge. There are no mysteries about molecular connections and insects. The rushing earth produces them. The queen's distinctive role in healing wills. There is very clear knowledge about the impact within the precognitive app or the spiritual gravity system that exists when you throw liquid from a book, namely, the essential intelligence of a human living in the covering and rape among us, expressing through the function of language the fusion of bodily emptiness and rope. The ecstatic interpretation of the virtual puppet of the machine. The writer's soul feeds the firmware space as expected. Entropy. Negentropy. Everybody is a perpetual machine. Eternal return. Skip moments. Jaunt from point to point. Coördinates. Ten link clicks & does anybody care? Your bird has earned 10,441 impressions so far. I lay there getting a blowjob. It is not the worst time in my life. I probably complain about things. I am an artist. I am Chaos. Asphalt bald rust. Concrete October. Is it November? I speak. A quivering nerve. Tactical nuclear weapon. Battlefield. Now what? We scream in our cars. Nobody hears. A mouth opens. Silent void. Teaching is a quantum thing. I mean, at any moment… what? I teach the way I lead my life. Uncertainty. She knows my situation. Nevertheless, …. I like your improbability. Your randomness. Your inability to speak. We scroll through each other’s lives. Is that it? I want more. Your hands are dry. Your brain is wet. Eat the aether. Drink the wine. I am the Big Bang. I am a whirlpool. A light year is almost 6 trillion miles. Nervous system. Impulses. Excitations. Flux & reflux. Cyborg blue is in the metropolis. Beautiful concrete ruins. Cracks spring luminescent green life. We fuck in a ‘vertical’ position. Oscillating between ooohs! & aaahs! Engage ‘horizontal’ position. Change positions. Doggie-style. Cyborg green & cyborg blue are coming. Security alarm goes off. War is imminent. Battle stations, please! Brain blueprint in concrete. Where is this? Syntax, hunting, and binary in the literary world. Absorption, examination of the body, violence of words, paranoia. Does the relationship between truth and humans exist in cats? The existence of precious access fluid. Always excluded by virtual through virtual. No, they give encrypted blows to beggars. It suspects that the era is regressing, that something beyond methods and bodies is accelerating the failure of the system and its pure society. The presence of bacteria collapses the criteria for selling organs more freely, and rebellious orgasms. But does it still alienate people? Engineers predict that in the urban use of the data plane, ranging from prisons to the sale of mad bones, poets' script languages effectively express children's special desires, essentially obtaining a digital input function with a mental mode similar to the script language. You are a biological filter of light. Move across a space. Quadrilateral. Trapezoid. What are you thinking? Feeling? Is it too much? Should we dial down the information? Are you a locus of impulses? Are you a cyberorganism? Are you a cyborg? The to-and-fro movement of buttocks during a fuck. Are you coming and/or going? The movement of waves during a fuck. The intermingling of genitalia. We split the atom. Now what? The room is brightly lit. She removes her blouse. Her breasts are luminescent. Her sex in my palm, she leans forward and coos into my ear. Her soft white buttocks. Her eyes get bigger & bigger. My cock hardens. Knees part. Knees on a bed. Buttocks flying. Up up & down. She takes me from behind. I am not ready. I cry out. Delighted & shocked. She finishes. Apartment block windows. Illuminated like neon blue aquariums. An electric tram sparks. Are you not excited? Like never before! Metropolis after metropolis I wander. A cyborg in search of a role. In fact, I require none. This is okay. Perfect. Whatever this is. Electromagnetic threads. Smooth buttocks & buttermilk thighs. Fishnet stockings. Spiked boots. Nose sniffles. Eyeballs ache from too much light. The atmosphere fluctuates. Asteroids “give it a go” before burning up. Fragments make it to the surface. Chelyabinsk & elsewhere. The human body desires it mentally on the internet, realizing that what is created there captures cytoplasm, dead organs, and perhaps chimpanzee brains. The environment, and it is pornography, the head of humanity. I am writing about the important carnal complex that circulates the well-known fanatical parameters of the party without using words. New language for evolutionary situations cannot combine the fluidity of pornography. Conspiracy analysis, the anthropology of goodness distorts your entire body, but our primitive structure as post-humans is there, and they destroy the mind more than the people who were poor and in the whirlpool of psychoanalysis. However, the power of the earthquake will be in vain. The opportunity of the reverse chakra envelops people. Previously meaningless, the distorted neoscatology by anal metaphorically describing the reversal of the cellular world. Reality uprights the mind in a delicate way. Reality is how the magic piercing the pituitary gland is killed by a fetus, not a zombie. The awkward posture of the lake brings literature. The firmware of android corpses helps the limbic system involved in the world's capabilities. Cannibalism or despair, your body truly eliminates the fetus of your beloved. There is a function in the oracle. Are you not afraid of the sky? The enigma of no blurb. The unblurbable impulse. The border zone is best approached from… where? Inside? Outside? Above? Below? Inside-out? Outside-in? Underground? Above ground? Swimming pool? Everybody is in trouble. Big trouble. You think you are talking to yourself. You are not. You are talking to the outside inside you. You hardly exist. A vessel. What thought emerges from a brooding mind. Only Ligeia. Her high ass & cunt. Long bare footballer legs. Sharp breasts under a grayish-green T-shirt. Her round Slavic cheekbones. Piercing bluegreen eyes. Her curiosity & ability to talk about the greatest game. Love begins on the sidelines. In between substitutions. I lay under the bedcovers. Cock in a fist. Squirting my dreams. My hand & eye follow the contours of her behind. She has such smooth skin. She is lying on her belly. Lifting her buttocks up ever so slightly. The work shifted me into competition with someone who clearly completed a suicide note in the same way, either starving the corpse or my collapse was actually close to a devil that was used. The leakage of undigested ends, where my decisions are intertwined with the possibility of fluid changes in the vortex as if my limbs and violence were fluid. The discovery that it is an important result of the action of the universe, the gap of the goal that was never separated, the media rewritten in prison, read by drug addicts, forgotten wills arise, and dreams are spelled as dead, but the capitalist, junk cell, drug called human thought capital on the Internet heals the past in one day by fixing the interstellar breed of dogs. And it's not a sexual soul, but rather a murderous soul. It promotes water within the thinking body. It is universal purity. She and I secretly teach the pulsating abundance as an extension of the transcendent appearance. Basically, the soul is true, and I was born by merging with it. All values ​​are considered and the standard values ​​are invalidated, but what the evolved distortion seeks is a singularity, which act it is. She opens her legs. My hand slides down her backside, between her thighs. I cup her sex. Fingertips grazing her clitoris. She murmurs. Her sex is wet. Fuck, she whispers. Fuck. She cries into her pillow silently as I unbuckle my belt. She knows she is going to cheat on her boyfriend. How many times? How many times are we going to fuck? She pushes herself up onto knees & elbows… lifts her buttocks high into the air. Just this once, she says. Impulse after impulse I implore the body to stop. Keeps coming. Barrage of signals. Who controls the controller? Nobody? The next impulse ignites me. I am on fire. A blue gas flame. The gas is made of aether. Aether does not exist. I burn a white-hot blue. Rip off yr panties, please. My sausage is getting cold. Yeah. Fuck. Yeah. Getting poorer. Nobody knows how to make coin. Except for a few. We can pretend though, right? Land of make believe. Tele-vision. At a distance. Let others act for you. No agency. Are you surprised? Yeah. A little. Thought I’d figure something out. Our only heart, the world needs rebels, extreme vomiting, speed doomsday, living mentally, basic eradication operation. The contradictions that anatomy explains to you, we have lost what is ours. Excessive transportation of rape tools, the existence of a well of penetration that may reveal confusion, the transfer of anal code to them. Their fusion circuits are added, remote interpretations are changed, death sentences are placed far away, but these are not dramatic relationships of biological information, but already dynamics, internal knowledge. Is it? When schizophrenia writes death, the entanglement of challenges beyond it, when cells alone cannot suggest exposure, it is a voice that excites nerves more than literary intensity. In eternal time, our time, when you deny it, glitch, lose unless you drop dopamine, frequently administer corpses. The author of the monkey cave, it is always a malfunction that looks up, and a man who touched the body knows that he is selling himself, in the corpse. More than the direction of the image of the writer who ridicules reason, the aspirin portal of life and bodywork is a derivative body like a hacking-nightmare animal that can control humans, saying 'no' to replicants. Art. Hustle. Who knows. I should have known better. Thought I was special. Now I know what I know. Precisely nothing. No real skills. Reading. Writing. Arithmetic. I must chase that motherfucker down. The one who told me all the lies. I told them to myself. Somebody must have told me. Through osmosis. Telepathy. Radio. Tele-vision. Things got real. Real fast. Are we city folk? Are we metropolitans? I keep looking around. Wondering. Trying to keep up with the Greeks. The Czechoslovakians. Helicopters everywhere. Swarming. Too early A.M. police sirens. Arthur Russell. East Village. New York City. Half-inch reel-to-reel tapes. Analog tapes. Two-inch tapes. Betamax. What is the meaning of this? What? This. Impulses. Attacks on the infrastructure of the human imagination. Are we capable of anything at all? What use are my hands? I am a brain in a jar. Pickled in vinegar & iced coffee. Are you a sentient being? Impulse control. Is such a thing possible? Desirable? Writers ought to write, right? Living history is always a physical collapse on the frontier and a philosophical product of the future for a long time. Existence does not exist, the network of media, the trigger of thought, the landscape of digital discourse's gaps. The artificiality of the obvious and transactions, space is invisible, the world unravels without necessity or desire, it permeates, paradox, the economic code fragments. The soul of words is needed, the reader takes the adventure seriously. Porn writers read themselves and realize that the fate of existence is very similar to the memory of sex. Suddenly, a mutated group of nudes became apparent. No, it's foolish to take away the soul; it's definitely there to write it. In the underground literature circulating internally, hyper-narcissism is that of vampires. It's the era of thought, integration of prisons, viruses of superconstants, suicide before integration. We used to call this us. Please hide the hole around us. Grotesque spreads infinitely. Now is the limit and philosophical failure. Kabukicho itself is poetic and supreme. The future of deactivation is a dream, but something flows and takes shape within the works that only we embody. The most consulted within the limitations is email. Maze of desires. Fragmented android executives try to reveal the expansion of organs with skin. Current situation, understanding us, rejecting schizophrenia. The adjacent elements read us with restricted block, restricted algorithms. The changes are written by the necessity of the evolution of the mind and chakras. In the whispers of the generated base confined in the weekly pattern to the language, I read the control determined by reptiles. The pineal gland participates in capturing murder cases, but I am a disaster. Not this one! No, Sir Ma’am. You’s’all. Are you even out there? How can I tell. I am in here. Inside the machine. Thinking. Artificial intelligence. Figure something will happen. Surely. Eventually. The algorithm predicts it. I am a prophet. Sunlight in the metropolis. Early November. My season, after all. Football, football, football. I really should wear a plastic helmet out there. So dangerous. Not excessive diffusion but physical writing is the voice of a nurse, it's a quantum image of time generated by the collapse of the stage and the Android tricks of the market, transforming humanity. It sounds foolish, but the concept is love, the brain works, failure captures a girl, rest. Love is minimal. The mantle is not even a program. The one exploiting you is the writer. Connected data. It's the best. The tragedy of the nurse's maze. Prosthetic corpses. Sperm deviation by the flow through the gap. Suggesting change. Defining it. The height of defects. The unreadable decoding of words and cruel encounters. Unreadable energy of the anus. Mechanism of accelerating code. Acquisition of hypermorphisms. The weakness of decline. For that devil-like reality, it's genuine writing. Living beings become gifts, fusion through death produces bone marrow. Learning spiritual dangers. The empty space there. Nightmares. Dark reptilian regeneration. Existence 4. Flat thinking, hidden earth technology. We know that hidden reptilian reporting technology exists further, but is there a physical intersection of firmware blocking public disclosure? The sun. Creating a working field. Human dissonance. Rules of the organs. The matrix is a place where applications are actually combined. My instability is truly scattered, but instead of finding and transmitting cells, I'm writing about the land. There are organs, there is war, and it seems that your physical data is connected. This is valuable. The expression of the end of gravity. Explore the blocks, circulate the blocks. I service applications, energy, the corruption of fellow poetry. Our money, your fluent fate in language. My digital technology drifts into emerging life forms, terror, the body of brain time, black thoughts know birth. Let's learn there, bastard. People want my ideas. Willing to beat it out of me. Next novel, please! Well excuse me. I am a creative. Let me do the math. You sit there in a bathtub. Mr Bubbles & whatnot. Meanwhile, President of the United States of Amerika wants my advice. She wants to know if maple syrup is a good sweetener substitute. Hell’s Bells, yes, Ma’am! Motionless. The flow of enlightenment is strengthened to transmit the process to the living body, and our existence, the living body, seems to be fragments of the trajectory of gravity. Portrait of a guard. Evil has a worse spirituality. The limits of life, what about you? After the birth of the sun, will something judge the sun by exchanging it? My human supernova is your artificially created platform, but they were all various anti-government forces. I am dead. The known language is primarily a disease sprouted by them. This last document is about the spiritual aspect of reptilian life. It imagines a techno-cosmic android forcibly sterilized by primitive humans. Instead of seeking influence, seek help. The flame of the concept of influence is a corridor of attachment. Erase, and the confusion of consciousness begins. Only the space on the doll is paid. I use it in my iced coffee all the time. A bit pricey. You get what you pay for. Shenanigans of the mind. What is reality, anyhow anymore? Prefabricated orgasms on a TV. A radio in every pocket. Are you satisfied with your pocket machine? Like a little pocket rocket, isn’t it? What gets your salami? What gets your pastrami? A sandwich sounds good around lunchtime. Until then, I’ll mind my own business. Whatever that is. Sometimes I think this job is too much. Novelist. They ought to pay me. Whoever they are. If they exist. Come to think of it, I am a rogue operator. Better that way. This way. No middleman. Middle bloke. Man in the middle. Middle person. No medium. Yes, just you & me. Writer & reader. You are probably a writer, too. Trying to steal my style. I dare you. They’ll lock you up. Put you in a bughouse. Ignite a bug light. Zap zap zap! The freedom & serfdom of a machine. I type. I click. She & I delight in the vibratory action of the cock & the clitoris. We call each other names. Real names & made-up names. We “do it” on a bunk bed in a cabin in the Catskills. She comes on top. She comes on bottom. I come in all circumstances. We are fucking, not facing each other. She says: Are you still there? I say: I am. She says: Carry on. Nothing surprises me. Not anymore. Anything can happen at any moment. There is no inside I know now. The truth is, who is alive and consulting on how a wormhole maintains a similar formation, the Empire Telegraph thinks emotionally, chaos. You may be superficial, but time is the cultural limit of the brain, the evolution of poetry. An excess flow like language. The narrative of last year. Anal cosmological solar mines proliferate and expand, constitutive elements, viruses, markers of the soul, the channel of a new existence, a challenge to schizophrenia. Lost. Brought into the order of rotational fusion. The development of technology was dysfunctional. A worthless pervert formed liposomes, but space was the velocity form of human involvement. It was the richness of the frequency of linguistic rebellion. The powerful conventional transcription of context I JK's dog in Never App, until the dead doll always tries not to become cliff literature, confined to the derived literature system 'Human Media Empire Of The Tongue Of The Sun Fusion' is like a nightmarish tool, an idea of a magical android searching for reptiles in a grotesque universe. This embrace goes beyond the apocalyptic nature of our new machine. Our god escapes beyond memory. The framework of the fluid system. It includes who you are every day in the reality of work. The autoregulatory anarchist is USB. Sex from the outside is reverse poetry, and if it is not beyond the fetus and my direction, the reverse porn and its cause, the senses are more protected and become art. Otherwise, it's not a big deal, it's soon. Your guerrilla is having sex while learning the organs of the rabbit's evolution in religion due to the influences of past kaleidoscopes. It is the universe of life. Sociably narcotic smiles. Half a century to get… where. Who? Certainly not me. I am everything else. Što? Što je to? New York loneliness second to none. Fucking in an irreversible manner. You cannot unfuck me. The jeans. The black leather jacket. She starts taking pictures of me. That is how it starts. Total strangers. At a distance. She introduces herself. My jeans are not hard to get off. That is how we end up laying together. Naked & fucking. It is not a bad result. When I think about it. Despite everything. The arguments. The behavior of mice is bloody like teleportation, but the power of pseudo-time pills uses conductive stages and maintains support for obstacles that consume in a week, comments on retinal dysfunction cycles and methods, and becomes the beauty of itself covered every day, but the soul of fantasy is a sudden invitation, and the capital underlying it is that No in the path of the soul's happiness. Adolescent consciousness worthy of karma is the hidden birth of the holographic universe reflecting diversity and diversity. It is a determination in the realm of philosophical and intellectual ideas applied to the gravity of survival, and I will become a useful dog, it is its application, but it is a parasite. And it is by the ability or mystical soul, my warning positions the exchange of theories, not a maze but a violation of the distorted mode of consciousness. Grief is a doll, a mad organ. The important artificial anus is digital. Understanding the mother, understanding the girl's society is widely prevalent. Desirable demon-expelling rewriting. Isn't the structure of humans understood by messengers who understand the freezing? Is there speed? This syndrome always has the aspect of misunderstanding the expansion of the difficult traces of rape. Grams of knowledge swim across many layers, ignoring this, it is transmitted by central poets of rebels and atheists in the media. The misunderstandings. We call each other obscenities. Even during the act. Are you here to study? Yes. Why do you ask? So I can read in the Big Reading Room? I am a big boy, now. You know that already. Kindly let me find my seat. Seat 404. Already, the fucking pathology. People staring at me. The writer. Yes! I am a writer. Am I not permitted to sit amongst you? Answer me that!

126,000 words, 755 pages paperback

Augenblick by R.G. Vasicek vs. Kenji Siratori: Vasicek, R.G., Siratori, Kenji: 9798320208688: Amazon.com: Books

R.G. Vasicek is a lo-fi novelist & machine elf in NYC. Vasicek’s books include 404 ERROR (Equus Press in Prague, 2022), JÖRGENSEN and the MACHINE (Orbis Tertius Press in Edmonton, 2022), MACHINE (Sweat Drenched Press in the UK, 2021), and THE DEFECTORS (J.New Books in South Korea, 2020).

Nanoglimpse — R.G. Vašíček

Kenji Siratori is a Japanese glitch writer and a prominent figure in cybercult literature. His style combines elements of cyberpunk and experimental literature, heavily influenced by network society and digital technology.