Neovorticist Manifesto Part B

 Β:α: The tender moisture of arousal's first blossom, twineagled romance soaring crushmutualed, or the throbbing irritation of lust's aching sore when the love's worn thin, or the BwO of masochism's neongodded flatus has become a pudgy hypochondriac or tantrism's rich cheerful substance [hello darkness my old friend] and love which is real yes it is so real and yes love... screw it it ain't real, love isn't real no fucking way... and the fatigued ache of work are none other than this quantum information, this sweaty rubbing of our animalfarmed meatprisons seeping into your head like earwax from the outside building up. It's all about the information "about" the information "about" fasterandfaster rhythmic contractions, tensions and dilations or more broadly, pulsations, twitches graphs or vortexes of forceful topology rippling, rippling somehow all the god damned way through which the "self" communicates or expresses its "self" or is this "self" as ache only the gratuitous gregariousness of arousal's nubby rims?? or the stretching of the limit(ations) of the body...

Β:β: As Nietzsche said there ain't no god dang will there ain't no god dang interface!! Impulses are gathered though, here. And this particular thing is "the piety of sinking into pattern recognition". It's like a lesbian romcom love's onetreehill. You sink like a stone in quicksand into and into and into the fatigue of your sore back, ego tunnel crabby bunghole you sink into the flaccid embarassment of the blossoming erectory whoreoscope of momentary eroticism immediacy aesthetic wormhole, frowning vegetal columns like a putrid bog of jazzfuzz {{cf "Bogs and Fens" I forget the author picked it up at the Orona Bog boardwalk in Maine}}. Either way the passive synthesis takes the cake. Which brings us to this ego tunnel, this tendency to see patterns, this crosswordpuzzler brain we've got that's mostly in the muscles anyhow.