title: the what
body: or? what?!

i always wondered how it is that people see
images when asleep... vast architectures of dreams...
even this phenomenon of the recurrent dream:
what an alien concept: people have recurrent dreams?
like what: they're school children...
sitting in a classroom having to learn on repeat
a lesson they haven't learned the first time round?
it must be like that... a cosmic "deity" is sending
them a... electric bill reminder: or something?
i dream so little... i once bemoaned this...
but if i hear a words being uttered in dream...
if i see a word... let's say... i'm content...
                but i sort of figured it out...
   in the distance... while perched on the windowsill...
i "accidently" squinted my left eye while having
closed my right eye... squinted it and peered
at a street lamp in the distance...
         wow... the light splintered... obviously
the source of light remains intact...
but by squinting my eye... a beam of light races to me...
but no... not directly into my eye...
the source of light is directly present in my eye...
this beam of light... it travels... to my forehead...
my brain? just above my eye... into me...
do i have a third eye? is it closed: implying that's
the reason i do not have visual dreams?
well... it's not that i'm wholly ignorant of certain
matters... i would be ignorant of certain matters
if i had recurrent dreams...
   no cosmic "deity" is sending me mail... via dreams...
it probably figured: no need to bother him...
he's quiet content with being awake:
he'll probably find that... by squinting his eye...
he'll see where light travels to...
  he'll probably find out that he has a third eye...
then he'll realise that... he's not getting my mail...
because it (the third eye is closed), which will tell him:
he's content with his life, with his being...
              no self-help guru is going to touch his
   auspicious disposition...
well... i guess that's about right...
                whatever the science is... the brain is a sponge
of electric currents... it short-circuits
when a person is asleep and the unconscious pretends
to be consciousness and... conjures up dreams...
because that's how the unconscious pretends to be
consciousness... i.e. conjuring dream architecture
for the sleeper... no... i'm not interested in an objective
language... i've heard too much objective language
when doing 3 years of a chemistry degree...

oh but the more poignant point...
     how many years was it... for a 21 year old boy...
boy... clearly not a man...
  to get over his first "love" (the first best **** of his
life... and being torn from it)...
  the years of a ****-less desert... or just timid "lovers"...
14... years... and finally...
ah... a new chapter... hmm... love is less hard-hitting
this time... my head doesn't come off...
my heart has a steady beat... sure... sometimes
the stomach and intestines give in to something
that's outside the realm of superficiality...
of idealism... but it's a different sort of "butterflies"...
some butterflies are actually moths...
they are warning cramps...
          the hot flusters are there... that's when the moths
come... the stomach cramps created by the moths
are a way of providing me with a warning:
this girl is a bad idea... even she's telling you that she's
a bad idea... the people in your vicinity say
she's a bad idea... she's nice to strangers... but it's a mask...
perhaps she was only nice to strangers because
she worked with you and noticed how you treated
everyone equally... and... what you actually saw?
a show... an act... because she was in your presence...
otherwise she wouldn't behave like she did...
double-cross... back-stabbing... political in the sense
of: puny-politics of in-group and out-group preferences...
oh... mind you: the retreat...
she knew she ****** up... but you nonetheless didn't
confront her about a rumour... against you...
you did the opposite... to ploughed forward with a charm
offensive... oh the sweetness of the retreat...
because... she just started looking ridiculous...
those are the moths... you get flustered... for a reason...
you learn to fall in love like a boy again...
if she's putting on an act... hmm... you put on act...
                 beautiful... this sieve... to separate the bull-*******
from the authentic people...
mind you... the butterflies do come...
but they're not the same as when you were younger...
you have to work on stamina of the... ahem...
"certain parts" of the anatomy that are essential
to copulate... the butterflies come... sort of in reverse...
you get butterflies from merely thinking about:
giving a good bedroom performance...
and the many tricks involved in doing just that...
fasting... but eating a heavy loaded diary meal in between
two extreme exercise sessions on a bicycle...
30 minutes each... drinking white wine...
taking your time to get to location... walk a bit...
buy a small sample of brandy... relax...
   get rid of any possible thought...
              eyes wide open... no need to invoke the heart...
keep it the size of a pebble...
and no... thinking about nothing will not suddenly
make your head to get chopped off with some
wild ideas that this encounter might go somewhere
like: a house, 2 children a dog... holidays together...
whatever...
               the butterflies are a preparation tool...
once... my first ever girlfriend...
          we went on a date... well... sort of... it wasn't a "date":
it was a DAY... a day-date...
art gallery... cinema... Troy just came out...
then to a sushi bar...
           it was an entire day...
                        it was a glorious 2004 summer...
we were so young... so innocently young...
                 i took her to the train station... hugged...
then a former "friend" of mine called me and said...
she said that when she hugged you...
she had the butterflies... blah blah...
so i called her up... started dating... thank god it was
at the end of high school...
i literally had no drama in high school...
then again... it was a Catholic school...
we were all in strict uniform all the time...
   that's always good... drama: esp. with women...
begins on the level of fashion...
                          send your children to a school with strict
school uniforms... point being...
the butterflies came after: for her...
now? butterflies come prior... anticipatory butterflies...
could i love... again?
what the hell is love? commitment? i tried that once...
no regrets... it's much better being the person being
rejected than doing the actual rejection...
i'm committed to keeping the cats fed, warm and healthy...
i'm committed to keeping the house tidy...
to ironing the shirts... to cooking meals...
i'm committed to taking care of people at football events
in stadiums... i'm committed to... looking very
******* presentable on the job... to the point where
i fixate on correcting my tie while someone in the audience
tells me i look sharp...
love? what the hell is that?
love is... when someone sticks around...
is that love? so love is not the little dramas...
the great ***?
the intimate:
eating-each-other's-eyes-with-each-other's-eyes?
love is not... eating each other's lips
with each other's lips?
love is not... what the tongues get up to
when the eyes are closed?
to be honest?
    if love is anything but the briefest encounter...
my god... what torture... or rather:
what boredom! perhaps i could love...
a deaf girl... i'm being serious... when i'm alone
in the house for a period of 2 weeks or longer...
i sometimes startle myself or rather:
the silence of the house... the house is startled
when i finally break down and speak with irritability...
why? because the cat is meowing too much...
who said that?!
                   well... when the neighbour comes round...
blah blah... but in general...
peace & love... peace & love... & solitude...

i can love: the smell of damp London in the Mile End
vicinity... i can love.... salted pork bagels
of Brick Lane... i can love... the emptiness
of Hyde Park... i can love the traffic from Romford
into Central London... cycling...
i can love a good curry... decent music...
i can love... feeling ***** throughout the whole
day being lazy and not washing myself until
the evening... which included my teeth...
taking a decent amount of ****... even diarrhoea...
a walk in the woods...
but... loving someone else? oh my god...
spare me... i'd like them to pass freely...
    that sort of love implies... also mourning them...
losing them... i don't want to love because
i don't want to mourn them...
       now... what this second encounter with great
*** has taught me... it's not love...
it's only a momentary attachment...
   no... this is "confusing"... to get dragged into "love"
with all the petty squabbles...
"planning"... whatever that might be...
sure... it would make life easier... if the bills are split...
someone does the cooking... someone does
the cleaning... blah-d-blah... but if i can do that
all by myself... love... for... what?
a ******* conversation? about what?
what is there to talk about... if you've been
a sort of monk from the age of 21... and still sort of are
aged 35... what... common language?
i could swear i'm en route to somewhere else...
en route: well... at least no one is going to mourn me...
that's a big relief...
    love... people throw this word around like
it has some mystical properties...
          my grandfather didn't understand it either...
he provided for his family and was treated like ****...
drove him to abuse alcohol...
he didn't drink prior to: something having happened...
oh... wait... i think i can pin-point it to:
my grandmother not wanting a third child
and getting an abortion instead...
         i'm just guessing... completely sober prior
to some event... whether it was that or not...
do i need that? i'd play along to... being the surrogate
father... much easier... mould the mind...
to hell with the body... again: what's love again?
abusing someone... because... now you get access
to their domestic routines and the diamonds galore
of meeting up and having *** is gone...
can't people do that: best... on their own?
          i don't remember being ever good at sharing
something with someone...
time... esp. time...
                              there's nothing better than walking
alone in the woods... or the fields in Essex...
never mind cycling alone... why... on earth...
would anyone require company... conversation:
to upset the gentle balance of the wind rustling
through the trees, ferns and bushes?
- need to reinforce my own ontology...
    by... god... i abhor the objective language of...
2nd? 3rd wave Darwinism?
maybe that's why i'm going down the existential
rabbit-hole of subjective-language...
the objective-language reality of 2nd? 3rd wave Darwinism
that now... merely focuses on the dating and mating
side of things... but has... absolutely no...
sense of wonder... about the natural world...
Darwinism in the mainstream no longer focuses
on... the external world... on sharks... on birds...
it's all internalised garbage ***** about who is:
and who isn't getting laid...
objective-language reality and all that fact spewing
*******... doesn't it become... sort of... tiresome?
it's sort of like the language of: astrology...
i'm hearing something... but... at the same time...
is this Mystic Meg from the tabloid The Sun shedding
light on... the prophecy for the zodiac sign: Taurus?
no good with a subjective-language reality?
life is a FACT... but not an EXPERIENCE?
wow...
              really? no one wants to hear the objective-language
of Darwinism: esp. in its current form...
reduced to the dating & mating flesh market...
after all... the original language of Darwinism...
it wasn't objective as such... it was a subjective-language
dynamic... it was a discovery: eureka!
i found something! look! look! as a theory:
it wasn't cold... it was... FRESH...
objectivity doesn't deal with excitement...
it's cool, calculated, repeated... firm... well established...
didn't Darwinism face backlash at first?
heated debates? ergo... it originated in a subjective-language
dynamic... no?
objective-language structures are what makes
pedagogy happen...
            but for something to be found to be original?
subjective-language structure is more becoming...
of how something is conveyed... expressed...
passed down... the modern take on Darwinism has
been hijacked by... popular psychology...
and... psychological adding up of data points...
the self-evident failures of the dating & mating
market monopoly by a... small percentage...
oh... the natural world is always the best excuse to use...
because... all those years of man trying to overcome
the natural world... ships to cross the seas...
aircraft to defy gravity... the invention of pencilin
to combat disease... pain-killers to block pain receptors...
yet... we're now... going back... way back...
men created certain ways to bypass...
natural discriminations... monogamy...
           once upon a time... Darwinism was once
a revival of the man-child ancient Greek philosopher
mentality: awe-struck... wow... look at this...
the original language was a subjective-language...
the use of objective-language came later... much later...
when the subjective truths / intuitions were to be later
tested... established... given to the rigour of...
something akin to mass-production...
   pedagogy... but the original language structure wasn't
objective... in the least...
hardly... now? Darwinism... "Darwinism" and the use it
has... in the modern world... it's all about ***...
no... no need to spare some thought-awe
for the Greenland shark...
   and his "funny" companion: the eye-parasite...
   Ommatokoita... yeah... the parasite attaches itself
to the shark's eyes... and slowly makes him go blind...
the shark lives for 120± years...
the shark itself? Somniosidae: sleeper shark...
                       in pop conversation... that's what?
Darwinism was supposed to be used to explain this...
not be weaponized for the dating & mating game...
i hate what Darwinism has become...
the natural world imploded... Darwinism "borrowed"
something from history: it wasn't supposed to borrow...
any new... spontaneous evolution?
we're in stasis... no new evolution in our lifetime...
i can guarantee that... well... unless you're going to talk
about single men... there's going to be lightning speed
re-adaptation methods in place:
the dodo project mentality...
   but Darwinism in its current format:
the objective-language reality... nothing's new...
spewing these psychology-mingling facts is a bit like...
reading yesterday's news for... about a week...
while at the same time... nothing is "supposed" to happen
a week from the day the news were being recited...
but the shark is sleeping in complete darkness anyway...
so... parasite? or is it rather... a symbiosis?
it doesn't matter whether he could see or not...
he couldn't see jack ****...
perhaps being blind allows the shark to live
much longer?

consequences? there's no returning to a subjective-language
Darwinism of... exploration...
the weight of the objective-language "Darwinism"
is... too annoying... because?
it has lost clues regarding... exploring the external world...
of focusing on nature...
it has been hijacked by en masse psychologism
of statistics...  herding... herding and... shackling
in... chicken cages...
            once upon a time Darwinism was like...
finding out about... navigation of the seas...
now? n'ah ah... Darwinism has become internalised...
weird that... internalised via an objective-language...
i can imagine something being internalised via
a subjective-language... but...
paradox: subjective-language externalises...
it doesn't internalise... objective-language internalises...
since... it's a drill-process...
why remember 1 + 1 = 2? not because it's a subjective "truth"...
it's an "objective" truth...
add a measure to the numbers... seconds... meters...
you get the picture...
that's why we think: i guess...
we internalise objective-language and why we externalise
subjective-language...
     or... to put it more simply...
            that's why we sometimes can't say certain things...
to externalise subjective-language?
sign-language... body language...
how we speak without speaking when using our
body... what's that? internalise objective-language...
surprise surprise when someone has
internalised subjective-language:
the casual expression is: they're speaking their mind...
no?
   my god... good thing i started reading
Sartre in English... that's what i'm here for...
to externalise objective-language?
that's how the current wave of Darwinism goes...
fact... or rather a BLITZKRIEG VON TATSACHE...
a lightning strike of fact!
   i won't use the plural... term for facts...
because? the singular implies a cascade, a: boom boom boom
rather than a tsunami of facts...
to externalise objective-language?
to regurgitate... to parrot... to read something and speak
it back to someone else...
never to think about it...
                how are the reins on the flow on this, Matthew?
i think i'm about to find closure...
people who don't read that much will
find this as a sort of a word-salad... i got that...
no need to think when reading:
or rather... perhaps thinking about something else...
when reading it... that's why i'm not going to make
any youtube videos... writing is a good sieve...
it keeps the idiots out... the ones that have
this irresistible need to speak to a camera:
but not a person...
  and what am i going to do? repeat my point(s)
again? like Sartre: "reinvent" the ******* circle?
i think i was pretty clear so far...
i'm going to take a selfie and send it to Khedra...
but unlike the normal selfie...
i'm going to take the whizz-kid selfie type of pointing
the camera at a canvas of glass... with my reflection
entombed in it... no... not inverted with the camera
looking at me... i'll be taking a photograph of the camera
looking with me... at something... well... me...
i'm not going to muddy the waters by the fabric of
reiteration: it will not prove my point any more...
job's done... i'm done...
i reached the zenith of my argument...
the modern interpretation of Darwinism *****:
***... big ***... elephant sized ***...
it is (an) internalised objective-language...
rubrics... pedagogy... the original was an externalised
subjective-language... where there was once awe,
suspense... now? nothing's new...
move on... nothing new to see...
******* menopause or...
myopia... or... a return to the geocentric reality
of the world... people still don't see it?
we've returned to a geocentric model of the world...
because of ****** frustrations...
and it's not like women are incapable of starting
wars... no... because Helen of Troy is just
a ******* myth... no no... just an innocent creature...
what caused the war was the hurt pride
of the brother of Agamemnon... Menelaus'...
yeah... that's what started the war...
not Helen's infidelity with a toy-boy fling of Troy...
thank god the matter was settled between
Hector and Achilles...

i'm not going to be ****** and reiterate...
i made my point...
if it's not clarified already... then i think you...
probably can't be my contemporary...
i'll need some necromancy readers...
people who might understand me when i'm dead...
i never expected to be understood by people who...
just so it happens... are alive... while i'm alive...
fat chance of that happening...
i sometimes try to give directions to people
and they are insistent on not waiting...
while i try to conjure up a map of my locality...
an before i can give them directions they
assume: oh... you're not a local...
drive off... *******... wait wait...
i'm walking these streets with a can of beer...
what's the ******* hurry?!
can i have a minute or two?
i'm not a local... even though... i perfectly know
the timing on some of the traffic lights...
at junctions... o.k.: whatever...
people in a hurry... are usually people with
nowhere to go...
yeah, sure... be free... whatever...
you're apparently as much needed elsewhere as
the place you just left: asking for directions...

god... bring me more of these sort of people...
the type of people i can tell to ******* without telling
them to *******...
i'm starting to love it.

i write about these things,
because in all honesty?
they don't matter to me.

you can call it assimilation, then you'll call it
   i'm making a worded salad, so it doesn't really matter
whether i speak the language or not,
being native you'll tell me i have to be a diacritically
riddled over-laden version of you  nativeness...
you'll basically tell me i have to speak a worse-off
native than you didn't bother to grasp...
after that? i turn Sioux and scalp you.
  because that's what you deserve.
i could have come up against you
in the thick of night and turned you into a kebab,
and do you think anyone would have
cared? is it one thing to assimilate,
and another to assimilate into a skin-head culturalism
implosive that's brimming to the full with your patriotic
hopes as being acted upon? i can speak the perfect
English and still be more welcome in Scotland
than in Kent... but that will not not do,
not until i shave my hair off,
grow a beard, and runsack my skin
with quasi-Hindu ******* tilts...
           and when this foreign legion
of Swedish journalists bemoan why
their **** ain't where their heart is?
have you seen the *sienkiewicz"
trilogy of *potop? you want history?
how about: in the beginning
there was an invading horde of Swedes
that tried to topple the proto-commonwealth
of Poland and Lithuania...
  even how much i cared to learn the tongue:
i'd be left belittled by ugly accenting
stereotypes...
                          i'd be Islam of drunk,
while the engineers would be left saying:
and unto us amphetamines,
and Mamelukes were never Egyptian...
because Egypt was what Egypt desired...
a quasi thingy... then i turned my ear
to Macbeth, and earned 70 years
and a Spartacus' worth of ears to my nearing 31...
                   i turned to Macbeth the theatricals
silences, and let, the music... play.
i can learn the language, but i am expected
to push the natives from a career of criminality,
i am expected to become the criminal,
i've learned the language beyond the natives,
what else?
   to learn the debasement of the natives akin to
every other culture? am i to become the
criminal statistic of the ruling political elite?
so they can "know" but that they merely quote?
   i owe my ode to Macbeth,
for Hamlet can become tiresome aligned with
Sisyphus in hell...
              we'll have builders by the end of
the debate...
     how much more do i have to learn?
is language not enough? then velkommen Syriac!
               is it not enough that i know the tongue?
must i be jeopardised by using it,
and say that universality is to be excluded,
simply because it does not abide by an utopian
ideal of pure English sprechen pure English?
         there are scapegoats to be festering upon
the spike that's readied to be fried...
but come on... is this deutschesprechen?
              it can't be! if i pretend to be Malcolm...
you pretend to be Duncan,
but nonetheless the speech makes us both truant
ghouls and guises receding
   into the demands of operatic - kindred to
Lady Macbeth (a protestant, or should she be
known catholic: McBeth) -
      as Glasgow religion of the coliseum of the times
testifies... celt and ranger... green & white vs. blue and
   black...
     lady mc.: what beast was 't thou,
        that make you break this enterprise with me?
(no matter if you killed a man, of whatever
stature he be worth, what beast are you to suddenly
cage my heart, when having agreed to make my heart
and feeling thus: storm the heights of Ben Nevis,
and descend as angrily as a woman might please,
  and with her whim, descend from the mountain
as if a mountain descends into desert?! what
courage, ye! to throw a woman into such woe
and leave a man's promise, the very least
a man can bestow upon this earth: but a woman
yet to come to correct!) so thus the elvish Anglican
was spoken, and thus continued:
- when you durst do it, then you were a man;
   and, to be more than what you were, you would
be so much more the man. nor time, nor place,
did then adhere, and yet you would make both...
  from his boneless gums...
nor have i understood Hamlet as the model student,
the puppet if not the mere mascot...
for the Freudian couch... then again i navigated
past Kant with Macbeth,
having yet to complete reading the critique...
       i took to maturity, and said
what others wished upon: there is true
adult agony in a well versed poetry...
       more so than adolescence in what's deemed
a maturation process...
             perhaps i should have served the concern
for Hamlet and laid bare upon the psychoanalytic
couch... but Macbeth: of said
sepia as copper, so said of woad as in aquamarine
surrender... led me to cite...
          for i was never bound to own the tongue
i would acquire... i was told:
   well, hello there, dishonourable squire...
ah... the queen's majestic airs...
    will make any Irishman desist from the republic's
gaze...
             and sloth in a respectably believed state
of consolidatory affairs under the kites of Yates...
   but never you mind the Silesian consumed
by former guardian of the coalmine...
or what L'vov wouldn't say in Ukrainian...
mind you Nevada and Lasso Vegan...
mind you that...  for that speaks biblical studies!
i will never assimilate, in that i will never be
allowed to own this tongue...
            and if i am allowed to own it...
i am but a furry-faced-bloat of faked pleasantries
   and closet nationalism...
        i wish i could own this language as if i
might own a typewriter... but i'm apparently
not welcome, by the pseudo-irish who
mediate the English assertion of the understanding
of the dover sieve...
                 ******* leprechaun mafia...
  paddy paddy oo too the butch-faced freckled girl...
   it's as if the Italians have Manhattan,
    and the Corke conglomerate prescribed
everyone a pint of Guinness rather than iron-pill
supplements...
                 well: and so the Titanic bellows
out an oceanic morse code of tantrums on
the accordions.
                      which sorta soothed the mermaids
digest contemplation for the vegan accomplishment
of shrimp... and over seafoods...
being digested.
         now i'm apparently not speaking English,
or i'm speaking English and i don't understand it,
or i'm understanding how i'm speaking English,
and how i'm supervising all things uranium
                               bound hallucinogenic...
or how, even though urbanity took off and
the countryside disappeared, you think you'll never
meet peasants in smirk attire to condescend you
gravity toward theatre or opera...
     but peasants are reall... you can recognise a peasant
the minute they don't recognise you insulting them;
it's a bit like telling a very witty joke...
         i don't get witty jokes because i tend to treat them
like a siegl heigl salutation...
   and i respect the memory of Octavian...
                                 it's the wittiness that comes into
contact with actually not telling a joke: and people
end up laughing... that's when you spot the peasants.
    so you see... i speak the ****** language,
but i'm sorta denied the access for drinking a cosmopolitan
at a Shoreditch pub...
                        which makes all arguments
for learning the language obsolete in terms of gaining
a "fair" advantage... and this is European to
European lingo...
        didn't i ask that Swedish journalist
ingrid carlqvist to watch the trilogy, including
potop about the war between Sweden and
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth, and ask her
about what's to be culturally inherited?
**** me... maybe i'm sleepwalking...
                     dodo zombified or something...
                                     oh wait...
                                         if ever there was a regressive
reparation policy in a country:
i'd hear: guilt from western countries taking the bribes
of the Marshall Plan...
      and overt pride from countries post-world-war ii
being prescribed communism, as a way to rebuild
their nations: for fear of having to commit to
hara kiri... or *******...
                                         as said: becoming
the easily bribed convenience...
                              the concept of assimilation
within the construct of selective migration has transcended
the mere acquisition of language...
  acquiring a language isn't enough...
         the reverse policy of colonialism is hushed-down
ethnic cleansing...
          which goes beyond language per se,
since it goes beyond dialect ex lingua...
              it is a necessitation of also acquiring
national stereotypes of unengaged in dialectics...
it is one thing to rhetorically assert a need to debate,
and another to understand that dialectics ≠ debate;
but rather a service to prompt and engage thinking,
rather than debating... dialectics is an art-form,
     it's intended to encourage thinking,
rather than the continuum of polarised / schizoid
debating: debates never accomplish a convergence...
whereas dialectics is intended to establish
a convergent pinpoint... as Socrates said unto the young,
so i find myself talking to old men and being
in accordance to have shared a park bench,
one sunny afternoon at the nadir of summer.
                why is it that acquiring language is not
enough these days?
       or why is it that a poor acquisition of a language,
or acquiring a language without correcting
accentuated stresses particular to a tongue
are given a freer access to labour, then
acquiring a language to a standardisation of
mimic localisation, and fence: a faking of
a faking (ad infinitum) or locality?
i.e. overly-successful assimilation?
             overly-successful assimilation is punished!
   it is punished by speaking as a fluent native
might... but having no discriminatory biases
that could enable one to be completely native...
and this is punishable!
             by a stance that it's a robotics project,
that one is nothing more than an a.i. enterprise...
even those dearest to me acknowledge me
as a robot... an a.i.,
           but they can't seem to understand that
artificial intelligence, and authentic intelligence
cannot be superficial intelligence of
natives... for the natives have a placebo
to what is otherwise a Pompeii resurrection
to the volcano-dynamic of analysing-ergo-synthesising
           ana ergo syn           which
constructs the opposite of thesis and antithesis,
given that the equation combines two adequate prefixes,
ana- and syn-...
                      "against" therefore "with".
isn't that how we cling to social pressures
or prejudices and still accumulate 8 billion examples
of a comparative e.g. that's a John Smith?
     i have yet to come across a contemporary that
might become as if fatherly...
   i just see opportunist buckling down the M25 of
encircling nothing more than a venture into
gaining a quick buck... and it could, it could
almost be sad... but it's not...
              it took me almost 13 years of synthesising
the English language: synthesising i.e.
mimicking - before i started analysing it...
      and when i say the groundwork for any
theory on the subconscious is to focus on grammar
and grammatical word interjections into
a Joycean stream-of-consciousness...
                              for that's worth the upper-tier
working from the sub-level...
                          of utilising language:
then the unconscious is far from dreaming...
it's equivalent in seeing how i acquired a language
at the age of 8 to synthesise / mimic what the children
around me were saying...
   but that it took me so long to analyse the language...
which the children around me acquired within
a reflexive bias to later strand such reflexiveness into
a divergence of calling their angular retraction
philosophy, linguistics, poetry, psychology...
whole all i had to do is to appropriate a reflective bias to
later strand such reflectiveness as to say:
of my mother i say polski, of my father i say:
             ojczym - and i can reflect upon him,
foremostly his diacritical lack of the wriggling-blagger's
economisation, when due coinage is needed.