You print numbers, suddenly added, although technically speaking, this might not be entirely correct. I will respond through an endlessly plastic newspaper archive, since within the form, everything is reduced to functions, to differential dynamics that corrode the rippling swindlers, like some epidemic of functions, or perhaps like the buzzing of zeros and ones, 11100, maybe more like buzzing. And you still, from some third person, wonder, does all this mean what you point to, that you are handling some serious device, an instrument that, through the illusion of consciousness, tricks all of this, considering that your style squeals so much like technology that prevents it from developing, shaking off all that kills possibilities, while all of this stinks greatly. But I’m not qualified enough to answer the question you asked me about the printer, because after all, what is one week made up of 604,800 seconds, or typography simply cannot absorb the formalizations that shape conventions, although I believe these are just clichés trapped in the grids of infinity, and through them, we are interrogated by the contextual modalities of spheroids. But when the figures appear, then asceticism screams, questioning the connection to its fruits, then rakes become graveyards, like a photograph sealed in creaky memories or on a metal plate, on stereotypical plates, an imprint of some image, a mold for images to be multiplied, a raster burdened with the stench of etymology, the odor of exaggeration. However, moderation always drags itself along with sequences, these are just sequences, just regular rhythms isolated from noise, from forests, to the day that reveals to us the strangely alive smell of a meadow where a genre-specific Rococo grows. Don’t interrupt me, I think you’re pretending to be crazy. Continue, therefore, the descriptions of mutual interaction of bodies still arise from the definition of the concept of gravity, which means that the device for printing forces is of great importance for the investigation, the lost device. So how come you’re still pretending, since you endlessly repeat the following ringing words that deceive the stale smells of this public institution of importance, but I quote, ideas are just the consequence of the transfer of action through boundless spaces, through sequences that fade through things, like the smell of heat, like diagonal polyrhythmic buzzing of insects, the beetle is a car, as a figure, sir, you cannot afford to believe that these institutions are for comrades, for the politics of friendship that roll around in universal relativity like pigs in mud. Still, don’t delude yourself, sir, the dogs outside are waiting for the remains of the day. Pardon, comrade scientist, spreading is not time, but it is not bad weather either, sir, I am deeply convinced of that, so deeply that in my insatiable will for power, I neglect the fact that reflexive control feeds on contextual modalities on the dynamic surface of spheroids, although it opens one of those nights, one of those darknesses through which wander these liberal witnesses, stuck to the cold truth of topologized spider threads of the day, the night of automatic illustrations that swiftly disintegrate into crisp layers of background. However, if you want the presence of a figure, you must also have the landscape, comrade, pardon, sir, the descriptions of the yard, the linden tree crowns, the damp and heavy air, night, again night beneath the constellation that interrupts the monologue and explains that it is not, because it is not, since negation must, I repeat, must open up the possibilities that this has trapped, because forces must have some possibilities, slippery, but still possibilities. A 186-second break, polished, from bone to bone, from cube to bone to cube, from point to point, vomiting proportionality, expressively throwing up layers of knowledge, both on itself and on others, on the third ones, while from all half-chewed prosodies, envy speaks like a sculpture, although it is smelled before and after it, like a formula justified only by an axiom, built into some apocatastasis of a breathing dream, a curved summing up.
