I know you are never reading, either of you, here, so I will apply the metaphor to my unlikely hypothesis.
To be deployed only once, as my analogue censor’s sensor. Only ever to be experienced without anyone knowing the thoughts behind the one shot skill. Bone dry macadam, no cadence, no skid, just arresting high G. Waferfab micro footfall.
The topological metaphor.
As usual it is an eclectic diabolectique, no thing changes, though we may live and expire.
Null, a spark of life, null.
Infinite light, a brief breath, boundless illumination.
One good. One evil. And we are the uniting infinite interface, the relic of the line, the death in life of our humanity’s vector. Form and from where all our numbers grow. First there was one and then there is three, all male, all immeasurable.
Guess where the yahweh money heathen spout their bounded, constricting, closed system filth, which part of the dialectic do they infest with their doomed pursuit of their heathen gold? Where do they execute yahweh’s will over our corpses?
Apiru clue to the existence of the heathen, the steward of the constant, red, dusty refugee, heathen called, evened, numbed and 6 magic numbered.
5cm per second, yes they fall at that rate, even here now the trees are blossomed.