opteimasdgais g aoi saingdsaio;

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To say it again a different way, I think people should buck the kicket list. Which is to say, stop being intent to end other people's things that THEY want. Buck it. 

Lets make SoMe a place where we buck one another up and goose the love. Reemember stuff. And remark on peace. And link to beauty. And fire extinguish the mania with the freeze of friendliness. And fight depression. And share jokes. And sigh because we want to find the best canned peaches in the world, but the ones you tried came up short because tTissue. here isn't enough aspartame in the jar seriously, maybe three grams per unit would improve it. In the jar. The glass.

Next item: could we have a suicide emoji? I'm saying something that means only that despair. It's hard to dial a number sometimes. Sometimes it's hard to do anything but die. So. Having an emoji that people could use like a bitter violet fire alarm: Help! Would help. 

Antie dote 

Tissue. 

???

Start over! 👱

As for the Greeks I think they made a pretty good mac and cheese, but the hall where Pythagoras and his disciples met had as many things wrong with it, because the number  2 has an irrational square root and the number zero has as many flavors as infinity. Really. 

 Some things are just irrational, and we have to accept this. And not spend our energy trying so hard to deny that truth. 

Tissue. 

As for the Romans. Hi. Why did you use your alphabet to describe numbers as well as phonemes?

--Well it looked okay, so we thought, why not?

--Isn't it clumsy?

--It is.

--was.  Rome is fallen.

"Yes but there is nothing that is not Rome. Rome won. One.

--So why use that?

--well we thought it was more beautiful, so that the relative cornucopia of weltanschauug was tempered. Everyone for your letters use the same letters you do, and everyone for your numbers use our letters. Then we send you a letter that's numbers and that's really all we care about. You pay us the numbers and there are no mistakes and we have no love letters. As for the mixing of functions encompassing both number and language, do you see me shrug? It is like mixing wine and water. Or fennel and cinnamon. What's the trouble?

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Now I have a funny question: regarding Butte. Isn't it in Moon-tana, and isn't Moontana a place where there are moontains and aren't moontains the very Rocky word of God, spoken into existence on the sixth day which you wouldn't think it would have taken so long? God is a moontain ((I believe) (And continue) (to believe)), but to get back to language, which I don't feature much on this page, Buttes as I understand it, say many things--including what's written at the top of this page at the very top. Whoa Nellie.  Mona Loa it's lovely here. Mona Loa Bloa. Wait, didn't I say Moontana? What's the moon got to do with it? Love's but a second hand emotion. Tina turn me.

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Regardning the mostly academic verbal shitmonster "interrogate", can we please just ask and question, and ask questions.

If you say "let's interrogate that, it's pompous and assinine and what you're really trying to say is that your a pomp and an ass who doesn't feel like a sweet broken chocolate abracadabra questing for truth on a bamboo fishing pole hobbyhorse when the fish are only sort of biting, but the mosquitos are definitely, but no no you wants to sit like Gollum behind the gate in well filtered clothes of faux analysis communicating to nothing and nobody really anything at all except that you are is smart. And that you're important because you're smart. 

Not, 2 say it again, beamish. Not moxy. Now tintantalan. Not lickable really. Not Variant Fortlander, which is a thing of Mars and pure Aphrodite and calyx and boxom be in the flowers of intell. Say you're asking a question. Otherwise it's taking the word "question" and "ask" and rapping and roping and repossessing it. And you know the other word. And then the quest for knowledge that what was simple and charming and yes deadly bat also Chaucerian and clip cloppety toward the dragons that do not die until they doo--and all this gets replaced by me me me. And who are you? The undertaker who's oddly not in the 29 of the Chaucerian Tales. I just thought of that. 

Anyway, ""interrogate" is hereby for Harlan not intellectually hip, it's poopogenesis at best, which is say drop-dead-bully-bulshit, that would never come from a Bull, they are much too ballsy. How you handle language pronounces your own true intentions and lays them bare to the Lord. Duh. Doi. Lee. Nickel. Society. Varnecum. Polytimorous outcome. Vardenecom. Pleasure. Pure. Anderson. Windows. Pretty good. Could be better if you add cm. of glass on average of bitumen. Rum. Pom. Pom. Wake up Richard. I know it's Earley but.

 Hello. Baby you are small. You are poopy. You are just about the funniest. But not so funny as me looking at you. And you know what? I'm done done done with that. You will not ask for anymore milk. Just don't oh okay, you think? Alright I'll watch, but you suck. Just know that the beauty of the liliies is not the beauty of your mother. She doesn't know what a lily is. She is approximately 9/10 of a lily and therefore not fully open to listening, nevertheless she fully understands why no one likes a baby including her. Why, after all, should anyone expect her I mean me to kowtow to your tendencies to smile and burp? I want to tear my licky creamy sumwhat non-analgesic pocket book hair out, I mean talking to you on my lap as the hours go by with you just looking back at me and I even have to watch you sleep! But to get back to my breast baby you suck I'm telling you. This breast is not the engine of the godly powers of procrustean powers of daily atlantean disco and is it not miraculously barest in moonligh, and actually moonish itself in its disregards for distance, and even numinously phallic in its tendencies to feel what! don't touch. Don't eat! not that! strongly forbidden! I am somewhat ashamed of this breast. I really am. I cannot look at it. In Assam there are not two breasts like this. Which is no surprise because I am only speaking of this one only. You have to know that you, baby, are not a person I want to be with in eternity, because then we'll be the same age, and you'll still be bothering me like this, only in language too! Tell me nothing now. Nothing of paradise. I don't want to hear how we will sit down under trees of our daily lives making daily fucking Lindisfarnes of music to the Irish pipes and the hornets nest in the tree of lives will fall to the ground and out of the beautiful textured scriptural paper will come the hornets and say gday. And all our tears will be wiped away because shit that's scary.  

Coconut palms too?! No one dies, you say? We just find the rest room door and do other things?  Who is this Jesus?  Is he like a fly looking through a very small telescope at my moon, the bummm? He shows his face, you say?  And the coconut palms bow because the sun comes up? Well good these coconut palms are definitely my favorite--after the banyan tree that is the mirror of time, a labyrinth of benevolence and a problem to no one but the fish who die to be there. Oh baby. I have to get you some food now. Really, you don't know what suffereing I suffer, what infinite daily daily interest I have to pay to you.  I have to sit here and feed you like CNA of time. Can you imagine? You can't imagine what you do not know. For instance, did you know that you cannot start the church service until the pig comes in?  Tjaht is true in Rajastan and Portgugal and Papua New Guinea and Salutistan I have see that. I like it. I love it. I want some more of it. 

Except no babies. No babies. No babies some more. I dont' like babies. No one likes babies. Conjugate them all. 

H,