We've got the force to carry you through your day.
I don't accommodate for the divisions in between
thoughts exit and enter
the courage to separate the thought
it materializes. an expression

I work at the counter tea o pea I see
benevolent figurines counter-intuitive
or, as in to put it into a modified diminutive.

There are few stories left on this planet. All has been worked over in the static glow of archetype interference, further refined and defying our sense-making machinery. A story is a presentation of characters, constructs sieved through the faculties of perception into shapely identifications varying in forms and representations, not necessarily reflecting human beings or animals, but ghosts of these things, holding hard-wound concentrations of potential energy, shaped. Their potentiality relies upon the tertiary observation of a Reader.

A story can exist without a reader, but it holds no intrinsic meaning prior to their acquaintance. An author is but one form of the Reader, an intermediary force that creates the synergy and casual linear-reality of a possible narrative. Narrative is not story, but stories are often troubled without it.

What is narrative? A sequence of events, images, impressions, symbols, interactions, thoughts, concepts, or what-have you (dis)organized into a particular impression. There are infinite combinations of narratives, irrespective of medium, content or concept. Stories are finite within a Reader-bound universe.

Let us define Reader broadly. Let us make shim synonymous with Watcher, Interpreter, Critic, Philistine, Corrosive Battery Acid Neuter Repair Service. Let's make up stories about how stories are made, recreate the very myths that the ghosts of contemporary time rest upon. Begin with the myth of solid-state essences. Become sickened by the world. Redefine (recombination, recombination, recombination) redefine the myths of beings and essences that accommodates your outlook best. Reapply, personal mythology, step out ready to face the world of broad literature again. The open sea. The taste of wine drying your lips, the cigarettes staining your mucous reading Clifford (the big red dog).

At Boson's we sell the interactions that make things happen. You can get a side of fermions with any order, but matter doesn't matter. It's what is in between that will really interest you. And when they question the validity of strange psychedelic acts of empathic investigation, communication, they are not the same as they they the reader, the they that organize and evaluate the quantum universe. For if invisible particles that maintain their life among quark lepton neutron electron gluon actually perform action at a distance, though at such a minuscule subatomic scale, and nature repeatedly shows us that it is a pattern-forming device, a device where the most minute of building blocks, the fundamental elements are capable of uniting to build more building blocks, and those uniting until a form of emergent behavior is revealed— well hot damn! The selfsame attributable differences in the possibilities of a morphogenetic field or whatever name we want to slap on it is entirely feasible.

Skeptics challenge the story of ESP, and rightly so. According to the instruments of science, a case for ESP has not yet been made. But perhaps they are testing for the wrong thing, under the wrong conditions. Maybe it's less like a "reading minds" sort of thing, or even precognition, but something organized within the force carrier particles, something that picks up communication of some sort in between the subatomic particles, which due to the incredible large amount of atoms, and fermions, bosons in your body it's almost like static that most people can't pick up on. There's so much going on, so many signals being received that you start back at zero. Unless you train the mind to pick up on what's going on. Or by fluke.

And the science that I don't understand, that I'm only beginning to understand, the science of mediums and their chaotic and unchaotic tendencies, only more powerfully obliterates my connection with reality, my ability to stand in line behind the line that we're being given every single day. As THE WONDER and THE GRACE of THE UNIVERSE send their stellar time machine of light through my pulsating body, I grow ever closer to a purpose I can meet. By studying the nature of reality, perhaps some day I can modify it. And wait for the next tier of knowledge, the certainty that with every thing I do, think, feel, or elsewhat— in some ways, makes things different. Somewhere, something has changed. And I may still be sitting at the counter at Boson's, my head in my hands, reinventing the Story and trying to revise the emic reality. I'll keep waiting on the customers. I'll pass them my reality terrorism.

It's free for everyone.

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