Every collection of impulses is a museum of irrational duration. Reactions kill reality with sharp-edged pragmatics. To lift one second out of the timeline would implode the magnetic pull of the future. This is not to say that inevitable fingers are lacing up your conclusion. If you wanted to make stablines in your clock-progress, no one could stop you.

With talented dissolve-processing, it is possible to wash away the entropy. Compounding unpredictability is certain to violate any unprotected dimensions in the universe. Being such a dimension, we humanbots must take extra special precautions not to listen to our perpendicular ideas. In parallel conservatism, we will protect our fringe from burning a hole inside of the vital organ(s).

When thinking, do not protect loose sentences from the machinegun-table. If any clever mutations infect the fusion-stream, we are in big trouble. This is how not to let the instantfake plane of steadiness murder our ability to functionalize the culture-systems. Stepdown folding ladders are tools. All tools will eventually reach the culminary point. At this vortex, wind will sleep and massive agriculture will get its revenge.

The matter in question is what to do with the unrestrained outgrowth of nonsense. Inner-lobal confusion, if you stop to think about it, is the only realistic outcome of any permutation. When the algorithms decide to reach their phase change, all the collapsing will be a harsh-pollutant. When the solidprogress becomes the liquidfork and eventually the vaporsphere, there will be no stockbrokers left to tell us we are bankrupt.

There comes a moment inside every day, when the failure of mental touch-sensors gives us an unwelcome rattlethrust. How can this failure in the capacity to permeate perpetual oblivion be reconciled with the live-walking-seconds that we inhabit? There is no reason for us to be here. Click triggers in the brain turn off the planet and resuscitate it four trillion times per millisecond. This is how sustainability works?

Without one or two renegade neurons keeping us on our toes, we would eat the machine. Order and wardrobe are on the verge of coronation. Repetitive confusion disorder is the new disease. Compounding disagreements in the structure of global trade are evidence of the non-existent treaties we accidentally signed with reality. Smallish print was used to indicate the inescapable nature of our planetcave. The brutal prison does have flowers and tidal colors, but the pleasant manifestations are only the more frustrating considering they are apparitions within the globebrain.

In the corner where no one is looking, is where the slope of estimates meets the level, prag-magnified wooden Lysol of our definition. Great, staggering complexity is all we have. The degree of fluctuation harbored by natural cellular discourse explodes every fact ever discovered. There is no way we are getting off so light. We are the inductive crimes of ten-thousand generations of attempted reality. Well, every miscalculation added another stinking slice of confusion to the pile. We are buried under an undefinably aggressive mixture of confusion and mistakes.