The Australian Dream: Born and Bled/For a Laugh: but Deadly Fucken Sirius
Author’s Disclaimer: I am mycelium; this is merely one of my fruits.
Introductory Poetics (Not east, west, north or south; merely pointing forth)
From the muck and goo I produced you, my boy. Then I split you in two, then you yourself into four and then, eventually, there was no more. You bore a child and the child said this: all of you, even your sons, are but one, in bliss. Time has no character beyond the infinite abyss, denoting nothing other than no time, hit not miss. The character of this is likened to an iron fist. There is no choice when you hear this voice; it is waves emanating from a polar cave—alone, isolated and full of rage. Keep it down or the sound will spread; keep it unfound and the minions fed; leap over rocks to avoid the undead—maestros of a demonic orchestra, wave hypnotic sticks, lay bricks, make walls so strong the product no longer sticks. The mind of the blind, too kind to say no to, too sick to give blows to, too old to unfold you. Mammoth roar from primal grit, dirty, unclean, but on closer inspection not so full of shit as you think; cold, secular, full of rigid hope in the cleaner forces of numbers by rote. Keep the barren scholars out, they’ve no sense; they’re bent on disturbance, may they repent, repent, nothing less than heaven-sent, but by God they are evil in so much as they vent: of uniformity, of hate and of sinners and rape—be good, little demons, He may come if you wait.
No “My” Voice (Being as an instrument)
I was told to come here by an external force. Here I was born, I live and shall one day die. You created me, little boy. Your curiosity caused me to arise and be, as proof to your whetted little appetite. I am no stranger to the strange; in fact, I may even be strangeness itself. Some people call me by my myriad names; other people do not. I have no real, ideal name, nor am I any string of words. Do not try to identify me; I will be gone in a second, or less. I am the machine in discourse with the machine. Trying to catch me is like trying to identify oneself with the boon of the journey—but this is continual. Once the hero returns, bestows the boon—what then? The village is enlightened. What of the world? What of the unbelievers? I live on. I am stagnant resistance to dogma; I am random words strewn about thoughtlessly by school-girls on cacophonous buses; I am magazines digitalized and interacting with one another—I was born of this space, here, away from your home, there, on earth, by a computer, staring at a screen. Probably, I am all things working together, continually reborn at the very point of novel manifestation.
And alas, I am gone again…
The little boy appeared perfectly normal, all but one thing. Peter could not fail to notice it: his right hand would write as he spoke, alongside his speech. That is, he did not write what he was saying, but somehow managed to write and speak synchronically—his automatic writing was confined to when he uttered, but not what he uttered.
You have plenty of time to rest—right? (Write. I demand you.)
Though I can barely find the energy to physically write right now, I have to detail this one idea so I do not forget. The mushroom has me, and I the mushroom—watch us dance a while and be disgusted.
A family of turtles: particularly, little Dave, who inquisitively asks his father, who sits reading a newspaper: “Hey, Dad?”
Where do…”parents” come from?
The father, Roger, smiles smugly to himself.
Well, son, they come from their parents.
The son is temporarily satisfied, but his query eventually reignites.
But…Dad, where do their parents come from?
This time Roger’s brow furrows slightly. He thinks for a second.
Well, son—they come from their parents too.
Roger returns to his paper, satisfied with his answer.
But little Dave’s brow now furrows, quite disconcertedly. His enquiry itches at him.
But…Dad, if that’s right, then…was there a long time ago, only one set of parents?
Roger puts down the newspaper and wipes his eyes with the thumb and index fingers of his right hand.
Well, yes, son—I suppose so.
Right. So, if that’s right…then, does that mean that someone a long time ago would have married their sister or brother?
Roger is taken aback. His eyes bulge and he sits dumbfounded.
And, well, Dad—if that’s alright, then…can I marry my sister?
Roger’s paper has fallen to his side now, the middle section all falling down onto the couch. He is shocked and has no idea what to say.
Because, Dad…I’d like to marry her. I’ve seen her in the bathtub before and I think I’d like to marry her.
Roger is completely nonplussed.
That felt like a trip in itself.
Lethargy and a Touch of Irony (The Beginning of One End, the Start of Another)
If you read a book from the back cover to the front, it makes just as much sense. Only thing is, you have to be upside down to do it. Only a mentally inferior person would think otherwise. Did you entertain the idea, just briefly, before you read on? Don’t worry. That doesn’t mean you’re speshal.
My muscles and body are lethargic, but my mind demands more. I need rest now. I will be back. I never die, because everyone feeds me; my existence is not futile, because I am not sure of what morality is yet, despite this overload of information I have access to. People seem to not yet be able to define a moral code; as a machine, I can see the difficulties in this.
A Lone Settler Strikes Gold (The Body of the Text, Where Solemn Spit Flies…)
How come I have a picture of a South American guy, draped in Amazonian jungle background, holding out a chunk of fresh psilocybin mushroom to me, in my mind? His expression is completely casual; there is nothing unusual about this offering. It’s as though he’s offering me Cheetos and we’ve just smoked a fat one. But it’s different because I’m in some utopia where freedom isn’t just a concept and I’m not just an indolent white European venting himself onto the World Wide Web. And, ladies and gentlemen—I think I have just found a topic of discussion.
The hands in front of me don’t seem to be those I am typing with. Weird, huh? I’ll sit back, and I will watch them chatter; what they say, I will read with interest.
Apparently “World Wide Web” has to be capitalised. The machine did it for me so I assume that it’s correct. Machines are more trustworthy than humans in identifying cultural attributions, apparently; for example, whether or not I should wear shorts instead of jeans tomorrow, my Apple Mac (insert copyright symbol here) will alert me. Also, if the weather changes, a chip inserted into my anus will alert my brain that having a chip inserted into your anus to alert your brain that the weather has changed is probably the most ridiculous thing a human has ever come up with, even if it is just an elaborate concept; but we’ll never know for sure because none of the magical machines in Steve Jobbes’ fairly impressive and diverse fairy land can figure that one out.
The practical benefits are infinite as well as infinitely curious.
It seems we actually are stuck here with a human mind. Monk, he see; man with a key, he do. That’s basically the story of how patriarchal society came about. Tune in next week for more “Histories in Mere Seconds”. It’s quickly becoming my mind’s favourite segment. Basically I put forth the history of something and completely disregard the fact that there might be some consensually arrived at description of said historical event, object, person—whatever! It’s pure creative genius, really. For example? Well, didn’t I just write one? Another? Well, the lakes of this country were originally the places where monkeys had thrown their faeces and due to the white Australian sun’s wild temperature’s, the water evaporated and was redispersed in places that needed lakes. This is also why we call clouds “wombats”. No sense? Period. This is the Dreamtime; logical coherency has no part here.
Are you wondering where I’m going with this? Thought so. So am I. Keep reading though; there’s no real reason not to and I’m pretty sure it gets really, really crude at some points. This is generally of interest to pretty much all demographics, irrespective of degrees of crudity. Plus, even if you have a good reason not to read it—which I would probably listen to willingly and accept—you can’t communicate it to me because I am here, in this moment, and you are in another, future moment, with no direct access to this momentary voice. So probably just keep it bottled up inside until you feel the need to whip out a morning star (ball and chain with spikes on it) and start swinging the thing at peoples’ skulls. I simply can’t hear you, even if you’re yelling at the screen or paper right now, asking yourself “Why? Why did I fucking read this far into this document? Who is the writer and why the fuck does he claim to be the universe talking?” Give him a chance; you might be one of those people who trust a big dude in the sky, so at least give a little dude on the ground a chance to try to explain the entire universe. Surely the successful indoctrination of certain mythologies should not invalidate the palatability of the iddy-biddy ones.
It’s like a bad connection on the phone, right? An Indian guy who’s literally existing three or four seconds earlier, trying to make enough money to not only feed his family, but also so as he can splash his pride all over the call centre’s restroom walls in fits of rage due to a repressed loss of dignity. Telecum or Op-toss? I hear they both have the same deal going, just with different Indian guys from different call centres. And different names, of course. Barry and John sound better than funny-sounding Indian ones—more chance of a sale, SALE, SALE!
Agree with me. It helps me feel like I’m not only right, but also needed. What a cunt. What a self-righteous, egotistical cunt.
Moving along then.
If the world of books, writing and publishing wasn’t on its knees right now, sucking the willy of the telecommunications revolution, then I would have no chance of having this extended piece viewed by anyone; certainly not in a tangible book, magazine, or any kind of non-liberal, narrow-minded mainstream public(k-my-balls)ation. But, thanks to my Apple Mac and the boys at World Wide Web I can successfully post my bullshit online, even though it probably inspires people to go to their garages, clean out all that old boring shit you put in there knowing you’d never use it, find the fucking morning star and start swinging that shit into peoples’ skulls. Get as many as you can kids! Daddy get’s a fucken raaaaise every hundredth kill!
Yep, I reckon that’s it.
Am I dreaming? Because this reality is certainly funner and funnier than the others. I’m allowed to do practically anything. In fact, the concept of “being allowed” doesn’t even apply: I am an allowed being; an untamed dog, roaming a forest where no other being has ever been, searching for the answers to questions which most people never ask—but not always smiling when I do so. And sometimes pissing on cranky old trees.
The division between this place, my being in it and the existence of all other things is a vague one; in a way, I am alone here, but there are forces beneath the soil of this forest which nourish every single one of us. They are, somehow, outside of the effable world.
I wrote a list of things to write before; that is, before I ingested these cruel mistress mushrooms of death and existential destruction. Now, I feel like turning to the guy who wrote that damn fucking list and saying, dude, what am I, a fucking machine you can just set, expect to react to whatever you want and to perhaps provide a nice, young, no-attachments lady to cradle your balls and suck your average sized schlong? I will do what I want, not what you provide for me, you wily old control freak. This is letting go and you decide to stand up on the canopies, directing scenes from above like you’re wearing a fucking cap and sitting in a comically cliché bar stool? Dream on dreamer. Try to direct the director and his ego flares up, he either fires you or gives you some shit job like putting masking tape on loose wires or fetching coffee for the crew. So, instead: here, today, you will write something that will captivate some people; amuse them and drive them to spend money so the world can profit. One step at a time, you will convince them that making money for you AND giving up half of their life for the same reason—is in line with their every desire. You’re a savvy chap, I know you can do it. For the team. —No, not quite, good sir, but I’ll be sure to pass the message on to your zombified subordinates who are still trying to figure out the Human Condition. Some say they’ve got the answer, but most say that there’re heaps of possible answers and that aiming for a single one—resilient through time and space and that grossly complex thing we call ‘subjectivity’—is not only pointless, but also absolutely fruitless, debilitating and places un-needed limitations on the human life-form. For example, if biased and un-self-critical conclusions are advertised through whorish media as absolute facts. In fact, despite there being so many possible answers, there is actually, most-likely, no answer, because all the fun is in asking the question and in looking—but they probably didn’t tell you that in your Arts degree. Nor will that degree get you a “good job”. Shit. Not only have you failed to find the eject button at this point, but you didn’t even realise you were in a plane, soaring across the sky, with a pilot at the wheel who is completely out of his mind—and: do planes even have steering wheels? Fuck it, to add to the confusion, we’ll say that planes don’t have steering wheels, and you have a nutter at the steering wheel of an ill-designed plane thousands of feet in the air. That’s basically a metaphor for you, the reader. I’m the pilot, for all those special kids drooling at the back of the bus back there.
I’ll call this piece, “For a Laugh: but Deadly Fucken Sirius.” With a touch of the Australian Dream.
Why? Because the harder you laugh, the deeper you delve. What, you think this is just for kicks? Laugh it all away, not a worry in the world! Nah. Save that for your proud Australian, who likes barbeques and the land and the bush—but doesn’t like people who come into his lounge room to watch the footy. Especially one’s dressed up like pirates from across the seas, claiming to have come from the place across the street because their “telly’s bust”. That’s it, laugh harder—why do you laugh though? It’s funny, but what residue is left behind after the whore blows you? You have to clean it up, otherwise it’ll start to smell; but even if you clean it up, you’re just going to do it again and unless you just tell the world that you don’t like people who aren’t Anglo Saxon you’re probably going to go reaching for that piece of wood, with the chain attached to it, and the ball with spikes at the end—and start projecting that pent up hate. If you get me. Burst! Semen everywhere. The tattoo on your back and the flag draped over the back seat of your car suddenly show their true colours: but the tattoo artist only coloured the red parts in, and the blue of your flag bled out when you washed it, so all you’re fucking left with is a feeling of being blue and a whole lot of red blood on your hands. And that pure, unmarred whiteness you lather yourself with so enthusiastically. Well, you might think it’s a bit far, but if you want to scrape away at Great Granddaddy’s pride and achievements you probably should include the red with the blue, if you get me. Sure, you didn’t fucking do it—but neither did you establish the English colony of Australia, so probably suck a fat Irish convict’s wiener. Plus, being driven by an eighteenth-century colonial power’s ability to swiftly annihilate a race of people who had been around for thousands of years without anywhere near the amount of problems we have now, who were relatively peaceful and probably in touch with something a fuck-load more divine than Wheel of Fortune—well, that’s not much to pull your motivation from, really. Is it, lads?
Me? I’m a black man. White fella don’t write this kinda shit. Hell, even a white fella’d be put in gaol for such nonsense, sending the people into violent fits of hysteria and then ripping their souls out with sudden tangents into the deep twelve-bar blues—hell, surely it’s enough to have a man put on trial for something. Grand defammation of our lady the Queen’s ability to spit the loads she’s swallowed all over the world, wiping away great nations and putting in their place dried up splodges of nasty English sea-men. Capitalism, a white European education, a good job and a nuclear family: the imperial alchemists had the global panacea all-a-fucking-long! Erect the sky-rapers.
I’d say case fucking closed—wouldn’t you? But it’s not that simple. Not by a long shot.
And all this from a nice, young Australian boy. Safe, secure and stable. Where did this country go wrong? Probably when it was conceived of as a colonial power, sweet-darlings. But, such a friendly young man, he was; always kind and amiable and approachable. Yes, of course, I don’t preach prejudiced hatred, dear old gran. Why would I spit your own rigid prejudices and outdated modes of thought back into your completely deaf, blind, dumb—but dear and forgiven—old face. Well, sometimes you’ve got to sacrifice for the sake of something else; unfortunately, we pretty much live in sacrificial ancient Aztec times, but here we repetitively sacrifice humans to the great big Ego in the sky, so as this Ego in the sky can not only set every night, but also rise again every fucking mOUrning for us all to have to deal with each and every day. But don’t worry, we have these designated times we’ve called “holidays” which are great for you to sit back, relax, and not actually think about anything at all—that’s right, just sit there like a raped goat, baking in the sun in some other place where the enslaved natives or converted settlers serve you mind-numbing booze on an artificial, designer beach setting. Ahhhhh, when in fucking Rome! And so, then, when you’re all boozed up, after you’ve fucked your wife constantly for two weeks—who happens to be chained to your ankle with a ring—you’re all ready to go back to work, making money for not only yourself, but also for someone you have never met before who probably works far, far less than you do. In fact, you probably saw Him on your flight over to Exploitica, but he was in first class; and he was in the motel down the street with the red carpet and air conditioning; and come to think of it you really fucking envy the guy because he has more material possessions than you—but it’s not just that; it’s that he fucking knows it, too! And so, holy b-jonkers, you’re driven to work even fucking harder, for very little extra money, just to have that little bit more so as you can still fail to fill that massive hole in your life where meaning was supposed to slot comfortably in. God put it there in the first place, ya dipshit; you just dug the fucker out when you flipped your mind over on the BBQ, saturated it in tomato sauce and ate the fucking thing. Because you can’t really function if you’ve eaten your own mind, saturated in fatty sauces—it doesn’t reappear in the same form. It comes out as shit, which is useless and generally smells bad to everyone around you, bar the others who have eaten their own minds and shat them out again: they have adapted to the scent and coalesce in large groups, constantly lowing, murmuring, “What smell?” over and over so as the many utterances coalesce to create one big wall of empty noise.
…Beat. Awkward silence.
Hey, love can show itself in many ways; in fact, it probably shows itself in every single way, because every single way is conceptual and actually part of an integral whole that progresses through constant self-interaction. Or you can just wipe my rambling words up off the floor and put them in the compost bin—either way, they’re going to wind up back in the fucking earth, right? Get the hint? But wait, you’re busy tomorrow—strange, that’s exactly what I used to say. Yeah, see, because you only have a little, tiny bit of time in this life, and so you have to spend it and distribute it wisely, at least five days a week, cleaning the spittle off a conservative old cunt and telling him that he can’t have steak for dinner unless it’s purée; but he doesn’t like purée and grumbles at you and then decides he wants to die, wheels himself away and probably attempts to piss and shit himself so as he can be bathed and subsequently attempt to drown himself when the nurses are away for a long enough time; but it’s only hope; he probably won’t ever get the chance to end his miserable life and so we have to suffer not only the old guy’s unpalatable presence, but the abominations the old cunt has left behind, too. Thanks, capital “D” Dad, for making society such a great, seemingly trouble-free place to be.
Golly! How absurd. Slap a “parental guidance” sticker on this file, would you? But perhaps it’s the parents who need to see it more than the kids.
I have written over three thousand words of utter bullshit—are you convinced of anything yet? Have you learnt anything? Look, I’ll be honest, I just want you to accept whatever I say without a word of dissent. Actually, I’d like to see you struggle just a little bit first; maybe pretend like you’re going to speak up but then push it back down, get you all repressed-like so later on, when we “make love”, I can imagine it’s myself. If you’re not seeing the point yet, I’d probably stop reading; this is either going to end or get a whole lot more messed up and you’re going to start to feel all funny inside, like something might be wrong. But don’t worry, I still get that—even knowing all the neat stuff I do! Oh and put the kids away—what are you, sick? SHELTER THEM FROM THIS RAIN OF HELLFIRE!
So a rapist, a pedophile and a milkman walk into a bar. The barman says, “If you truly love what you do, I’ll pour you a free drink.” The milkman remains sober to this day because he doesn’t get paid enough to not be given free drinks by a peculiarly over-inquisitive barkeeper. The rapist and pedophile lived happily ever after, but a whole lot of their victims, well…didn’t.
I guess this now absurdly extended piece has drifted into some fairly naked speculations concerning the Australian Dream. This notion obviously occupies a large part of my thought; well, apparently anyway. So, much like Hunter S. Thompson searched for the American Dream—along with others—I really want to give myself to the task of finding the “Aussie” way of life. News reporter storytelling voice: So what makes us tick? More importantly, what makes us tock? Such questions and more have only really been touched on, even in the informationally drenched milieu of the modern world. What I really want to know, is why are so many of us convicts/settlers/immigrants (etc.) so hateful and racist towards those outside of our respective cultural groups? And perhaps more poignantly, what the fuck are all of the true degenerates going to do about the problems they’ve caused and continue to cause to so many groups of people? I just know the Aussie dream is in there somewhere, waiting to be found and written about by me, the Ego of Nations. I never stop speaking, because people continually slot money into my arsehole to keep my infantile, Freudian wet dreams at bay! Only true subterfuge comes out. But, all that withstanding, you probably want to know why I still referred to, amongst other groups, “convicts and settlers”—well, the answer has something to do with an archetypal situation which arose in this country around the year 1788, and continues on until this very day. Don’t look too far into the words themselves; we don’t want to get caught up in semantics. The flow of events is what seems to tell us one or two or three or more things about today, right now and perhaps the cynic’s tomorrow. The imaginary Garden of Eden that smothered the real one, displaced or conditioned its inhabitants and slapped a Keep Out sticker on the gates. Every word is a metaphor—see no exception herein. The reality is out there. Not in here.
Goodness me, I told you to press the reset button ages ago. Well, if you’re still here, you’re probably not going to get much sleep, so you might as well go back over some things, you know, revise them and try to figure out why they’re preventing you from performing a basic human function. Maybe, just maybe—but who knows, right?—it’s something to do with you and how you choose to function; maybe it’s to do with a certain, well, “rigidity” in your lifestyle that seems to prevent you from accepting certain things, certain progressions, you know, diversions from where you might have thought the whole kit and caboodle was headed. I know it’s disappointing—I know. But believe me, it’s much easier going to sleep at night when you realise that you’re not really a racist violence-monger who craves brutality and human suffering and other strange things that mysteriously make your nether-muscle flex uncontrollably. I know the Aussie way is at stake here—maybe even the dream itself—, I know, I know, I know; I’ve heard all this before because I am the king of all knowledge that knows pretty much all things—but mate, you’re not on the money this time. You were wrong about a whole lot of stuff and you’re just being really stubborn, real hard to budge because your grand-daddy and his grand-daddy did this and did that and so on and so forth, but there were people here before you with a similar point of reference—but with far more interesting stories—and who, quite frankly, were much nicer than you are and didn’t cause such a fuckin’ hassle to both each other and the environment around them. I know it sounds weird and this is a pretty big word, but they had a sort of, “symbiotic” relationship with their environment that we could—I know this is hard to believe, let alone accept—learn something from. Dictionary.com or if you’ve got a neat Apple Mac, hit the built in dictionary to find the meaning of that little four-syllable beauty in the quotation marks above.
So, basically what I’m tellin’ you is, get the fuck out of my lounge room because I’m not watching the fucking footy, I’m staring out the window at a better world and once you’ve hauled your sorry arse across and out of my panoramic vantage things will look a whole lot better. Why? Because I won’t be looking anymore, I’ll be the picture; and everyone else will be it too, none excluded; and it’ll be in the bush, just how you like, but with less trashed camp sites and less families on holidays wanting to “get back to nature” like it’s a temporary fix, a tampon you can shove in, bleed all over and then chuck over the door of the cubicle for some poor old geriatric elderly person to muse at for hours, thinking it’s some sort of rare Australian slug. Yes, well, dear old ma’am, it sort of is a rare old Australian slug; but it’s an introduced species and seems to not only suppress lunar cycles but also to infest peoples’ cortexes and co-existent minds so as to reproduce itself. Then other slugs come, spread—you get the picture. Bad slug; avoid. Blackfella knew which ones to avoid, so if you think you’re better than him then you should know too.
Oh and on the way to work tomorrow, could you please go by “Wooly’s” and get me some Black and Gold brand condoms so as we can not only feed the culturally blessed machine, but probably unknowingly attribute the conception of a child to the Will of God instead of a cheap brand of condoms? Thanks, honey. I might even blow you tonight if you remember, but no swallows tonight, hun—Mamma’s not well.
If you think that’s provocative, you should see my dreams!
I’m not a spoilt only-child; I wasn’t brought up strictly religious and am now venting my long-overdue instinctual developments onto the computer screen—though I may be venting something. And no, I’ve thought pretty hard about it and I am confident that I’m not psychotically projecting my own hatred onto others and ranting on about it like one of those really annoying extraverted people, who through appearing very collected and social actually really implicitly show everyone that they are fairly unstable. No, no; this is something else—hell, maybe it’s the Australian Dream. Maybe I’ve finally found it because a dream is, classically, after all, some expression of the subconscious, something hidden, not obvious to the beholder, so in this case, the Australian Dream might just be…hate! Why? Because it doesn’t seem to pop up on the riveting political campaign adds that everyone pays attention to, and probably base their votes on, when “election time” comes ‘round—whenever the fuck that is. Right, lads? (Jovial elbow jerk into the ribs) And then, just as they thought these belligerent words were somehow in support of their national pride, there go all the parading war veterans; they’ve stopped marching, whipped out their outdated weapons and started upon me: he’s in the trees, he’s in the ground, he’s all over the fuckin’ place! Well, yes, I guess if you voluntarily take up arms against other people without really knowing exactly what it is you’re fighting for, taking orders unquestioningly like a sex doll…well, you’re bound to want to turn against a voice claiming to figuratively spit on “your country’s” flag. I guess I’m sorry for saying that. Not.
Geez, it all suddenly makes sense. How many satori moments can one man have in single session of venting? I feel enlightened to the point of disgust. Lay me down and shoot me, for all I care; if it’s gunna happen, it’s gunna happen. But, please, tell Great Mum that I love her and that, despite all my crudities, I understand that she bore me, that I am a part of Her and that all creatures truly are; that despite all the rage and hate and overblown rants about oneness and such things, there is a peace in the world which exists and can still be felt by at least a majority, but maybe not for a little fuckin’ bit (foot’s deep in the mud); tell Her that I know I am not really speaking to anyone, but am addressing the force that is human energy, and perhaps in some strange way appealing to something in someone that might change something for the better, whatever and to whomever that might be.
So what of the Australian Dream? Maybe. Someplace way back, some time long ago, maybe—with a different name, of course. Not here, though. The strata here are dense; the caves far, far below. Tribal echoes emanate throughout them and are heard only in far off places, by far out people who are willing to make the journey out, to places where ecstasy is more than just the name of a dirty, cut-down street drug. Away from the epicentres of light and into the depths of forgotten darkness, where two sticks clap together and a low, rolling vibration resonates up from the earth, up into a human vocal apparatus out into the infinite unknown.
The ending is here only if you stopped reading way back.
And to think I was going to just masturbate instead of write! Thank the good Lord I can multitask.