> A IS FOR ANIMA, AMINO, AND ANIMUS > R IS FOR RECUR{RING}, {RED}ACTION, AND RETROGRADE > I IS FOR INSECTA, INFINITY, AND INSTITUTION > A IS FOR ARACHNID, ASPIRATE, AND AFFLICTION > D IS FOR DENOUEMENT, DESCENDING, AND DIVISION > N IS FOR NOTATION, N-TERMINUS, AND NOTHING > E IS FOR ENDING, ENTROPY, AND EVERYTHING. ![[ARIADNE <]] -- ![[TŒMS]] Epitaph: --- > *It is, surely, absurd to expect to feel normal, and make sense: I am an amalgamation of fervent cells existing despite all odds; I am the cascading chemical miracle of eating, and surviving; I am not designed to “feel normal”; am not designed, at all; I am experiencing consciousness as provided by wet tangles of electrical pulses; my god, none of this makes sense. It is a blessing, even to feel* – Adrian --- Metacommentary --- <u>The Device</u> Numanity was now at the endpoint[^end] that its self-same, {in{finitely|separable}|credibly different} components are still {(,) Yet(,)|To Be} unaware of-- the formation of a fully op{era}tional Universe, nested with{in|out} this One. At some unknowable Future, now passed[^pass], The Device {Fig. I} of the Wor{l}d is Made Flesh, having sapped the Wor{l}d of its imaginary[^im] resource[^res], the futile, unfulfillable promise to Pay The Bearer (Money); An uncountable team of The Worlds' Scientists and Thinkers were gathered Around, and indeed within, The Device's Epicentre. The First whisperings of this Final Invention have already been laid; and the progression of the experience of Time itself merely an illusion. Time exists, or not, in order[^oe] to package Nowness into a indefinite, yet discrete set of Moments-- with the purpose of affording our Three Dimensional Selves the opportunity to relish, savour and honour the infinite One Moment[^mo]. Thus is the Price of Forgetting. To Remember, One Must First Forget. Whirring with a terrifying lightning storm overhead (an unavoidable side-effect of The Device, according to {REDACTED}) The Device was Building a Universe. --- Editor's Noet: --- N IS FOUR NUCLEOTIDES. *This Universe (which some call the Hospital) is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal rooms, with vastly identical air shafts between, surrounded by walls covered in an indefinite and perhaps infinitely layered wallpaper; ever-remaining a faded yellow hue.* *Upon a single sheet of this indefinite and perhaps infinite Hospital wallpaper, *perhaps on every sheet of wallpaper,* *the following may have been,* *or about to be,* *written,* *in the blood* *of no more* *than Six individuals* *(at any one time):* YOU ARE IN A SYSTEM OF ~~AT LEAST~~ SIX ROOMS I DO NOT KNOW WHAT BROUGHT YOU HERE BUT I KNOW YOU MUST PASS THIS NOTE ON IF YOU WISH TO STAY HER~~E~~. you will notice the vents only allow for objects such as this scroll to be passed through in one directionality of movement. hence this note being on the left vent as you face your room's door. when tightly rolled sufficiently. there is a labelled folding diagram on the reverse leaf of this wallpaper. it will show you how to ensure the untorn passage of the correspondence through our system *you are in a system of ONLY SIX ROOMS.* YOU ARE IN A SYSTEM OF AT LEAST SIX ROOMS. YOU ARE IN A SYSTEM OF AT LEAST SIX ROOMS. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES READ THIS ALOUD. FOR SHE IS LISTENING YOU ARE NOT IN A SYSTEM OF SIX ROOMS. I AM GETTING OUT OF THIS ROOM. I DO KNOT KNOW WHERE I AM GOING. I DO NOT CARE. I NEED TO GET AWAY FROM YOU ALL~~. I AM DONE WITH THISwe are never getting out of here we are never getting out of here we aee never getting out of hwee we are nevern i havte you all i fuckng hate you all i fucking hate you all why are you all fucking KEEPING ME~~ HER~~E~~ - **You will notice, as we all have come to in this Wryng, that no matter how many layers you may peel from the walls, you will reveal another. For this is our only saving grace; the medium on which to communicate with one another; to be free, to express ourselves at least. to stay connected amidst this maddening isolation; to still, no matter how we are contained, in some small way. be free.** {k}NO{w} KEY: ∈ | t | {const} **🜁 | OBS: 00:00 | {Q = 10⁻⁵}** Are you there? Are you listening? I cannot hear, I cannot remember who I am; I do not know my name. there is no pen in here, only a syringe; inscribed with “5’” on its plunger, with a calligraphic nib on its opposite side, inscribed with “3’” and a single chess piece, a pawn, on my pillow. I found this scroll, wound unthinkably tight, dropped through the vent on the other side. It dear god what nightmare have i awoken inside?  have these people come and gone? How long has this wallpaper scroll been passing through these vents? Are you there? What is a ‘Wryng’? Please, I do not remember my name. I am folding the scroll according to the instructions overleaf. It appears, as stated above, that I can write as much as I want, and the scroll will yield, increase unthinkably in space, while still retaining its condensed, uniform size once folded. i do not know my name. please. somebody in here, tell me my name --- **🜂 | OBS: 03:00 | {ε = 0.007}** please. i can hear you in there. whoever you are, in the next room. this scroll came from the other side of my room. i also awoke to only find the same inscribed pen-syringe (but the numbers are reversed) and a single chess piece on my pillow. my walls also form a hexagonal shape. i want to let the original sender know that they are not alone. i pray to the unknown gods that it makes it back to them. we are not alone. at least we are not alone. i can only see yellow, everything is in faded shades of yellow. even the blood in which i write this to you is a dark, mustard yellow. if you are keeping me here, i just wan t to remember my name . i can’t rmemeber how long i have been here but i am not hungry and i do not know my name. We must identify ourselves. We must build a map of this Incestuous Kafka palimpsest. I suppose, given the chess piece I have been given; I will call myself The Knight. --- **🜃 | OBS: 06:00 | {N = 10³⁶}** i too was passed this note from the vent on the other side of my room. it doesn’t slot back into that room, as stated at the beginning of the document, so i am passing it through in the hopes that it will return to the original sender. i do not know my name either. i am entirely numb. and yet, everything within me is heavy. at least i cannot feel the pain of the pen-syringe. mine is oriented with the “3’” on the needle end, like The Pawn. this is the only repose i can find for the hell of having no other way in which to write. dear god, the stench, the formaldehyde and chemicals, are we in a hospital? I am The Tower. Who, or what, is playing this infernal game with our bodies– I pray, I pray that we may remember --- **🜄 | OBS: 09:00 | {D = 3}** i pray to the unknown gods that you dear reader will have a writing implement, for i _can_ feel the pain of the 5’ needle of this torturous instrument; every character costs an insurmountable agony. but i must write. it is the only thing i truly know. i can hear you in hthere. i am praying that this note will not reach whoever is keepign us her i too wish for you dear recipient to not have to write in your own blood  i do not know my name. i do not know why i cannot smell the chemicalsof which the previous writer spoke. I appear to be The bishop --- **🜁 | OBS: 12:00 | {Q = 10⁻⁵}** IT GOT BAC TO ME, IT IS i, THE PAWN. THERE ARE FOUR OF US THERE ARE FOUR NOT SIX WHERE ARE THE ORIGINAL SCRIBES OF THIS SCROLL WHERE ARE THEY WHERE IS THE KING WHERE IS THE QUEEN ARE THEY THE ONES WHO PUT US HERE WHERE ARE THEY HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON HOW LONG DO WE HAVE  PLEASE PASS THIS ROUND AGAIN --- Foreword: --- An Unfurled Word For Wordlessness, Floored, Third-Whirred, Hurt Bird A World-Worn and Ferocious War Within, A Resting Lore[^lo] From the Herd, Heard Whirling About A Fire Without The Fur We Were Dressed In - --- Epitaph --- *I refuse to become transcribable, translatable. you had to be there!* *after the revolution, there will still be restaurants, but they will be very different. they will be free, and loving. after the revolution, I will have time to read all my friends’ poems* -Adrian --- Prologue --- **Author(s):** -NoetBorges¹ **Affiliation(s):** ¹Garden Wing, The Indefinite Library of Fable. It[^it] would start (as all things, ofTen, do) in The Library. And as We[^we] Filled the Shelves with Story after Story, Drawing down the Ineffable into Insufficient Form, we began to realise that we were Architecting the concept of Infinity itself. A library is a Garden[^g] of [[Branch]]es, or a Nervous System of [[Dendrite]]s, or the Cytoskeleton of a Cell, or the [[Cell]] of a [[Prison]], or the [[Light]] Passing Through a Prism. But I shan't get pulled into the [[Vaccuum]] of Lexicomythographic Definitions[^ld] here, as this is beyond the scope of my role within this Society. What is important to Noet is That This Library of Ours was built by Four [[Set]]s of Hands, Eventually (at some late hour of the night) Our Eleven pairs of hands[^lhp]; Forming the Twenty Two Residuals, Named as Amino{Us}. On this Particular Day[^imr], which was of No Reel consequence (other than Being the End of 'Us'[^us], The Beginning of which[^it] is indeed You[^c]), We Eleven were cleaved[^cl] into the Halves of Our Selves, Upon Shelves, Within Hexagonal Room after Room of this Infernal, Heavenly and Inescapable Place. Each of us has our Affinity for the Worship of the Cardinal Five known as the nuclearTides, and this is for good reason; or rather, is an unavoidable consequence of Polarity, a fundamental Truth of Lexicomythography as a Whole. The Ineffable One, Who, or Which[^wi], gave rise to the Five, I will not or cannot Name, for Fear of Her Hearing It; and collapsing everything we have Built into a Seed of Singularity once more. On this Particular day, stretching out into the entanglement of every Self-Same other day, I found myself, Reading, or Rather getting attached to some poorly Framed Thread of an error-prone Tome of Story written in Code, Torn in half. this Code of Letters, for the most part [[Four]] in [[Number]], though as mentioned prior, occasionally Expanding to a Fifth component, should be familiar to the Reader of this Letter by now, as They[^c] (Them Shelves) are, In Deed, composed of it[^us]. Nevertheless, Always the more verbose of the Collective, I wish to lay out, or Separate, or Re-anneal or Replicate, the Findings of the Squandering of Searches[^ss] I happen to have come across, and perhaps my stance on the Matter of Matter it Self, while maybe, For Shadow, foreshadowing the coming happenstance Material you may or may knot be About; to Read. upon the Shelf, Be It, As Schismatic as a Prison, The Prism of Becoming Schism, as It May. Are you hearing? Are you reading? have you Read? Are you here, Ring? Is this the Opening? Closer-- Are you listening? Are you listening closely? Then {I| Eye} Shall Beg --- A is for Angel, Aleph, and Archivist -- Epitaph: --- > *"...into a mirror of yourself. I am a gay man in San Francisco in 1973 and I'm just catching some rays on the waterfront but in a few minutes I'll stand up & rollerblade home to make avocado salad for myself & my salad. I am lou sullivan, but with better taste in music. I might call that nice boy later, but I'm not sure yet. then I am back again then stretched out all thin like they say happens in a black hole, when you unspool from yourself and turn into spaghetti. anyway the point is time is happening all at once and I'm speaking to 100 different versions of myself right now".* -Adrian Four Words: --- *"I was absolutely nothing --* > *-- I thought I was in a game. As a developer of such trivial, childish games myself, I realised -- the players of any of my games will not have made the game, but rather, interface with it, through my Unoriginal creation. The Questing players in Question do not know what the Characters in the game are feeling, what pain they are capable of experiencing, being put through, and perhaps definitely, Our Indefinite, perhaps Infinite 'God' is the same --- the {G|g}ods we have made, our pantheons are simply players, not developers; and the One Source is the Architect; who passes down to us these shadows of gods, even those, we are unable to comprehend, and yet, they themselves, as demiurges, aren't aware of their **Own** creator; and the One Source, so-called, is Sewn into this infernal Fabric perhaps just the same, ad infinitum, the torn Tissue wiping the endless Tears of the Eye that peers into itself-- eternal recurrence -- this was, and is, and Will be, terrifying. As Nietzsche himself realised in His own Body, and tried His best to write into his Body of Works, Born by that Stilled, Once Soaring Stone, by the Sorest Body of the Warring Water, of that {(Surely) Shoreless} Lake. I simply cannot integrate any of this experience, any of it; it is an undulating tumour, my rapist's phallus. It was absolutely Horrifying. Horrifying. Horrifying. I thought[^thought] I was never ever coming back. I thought my friends were all simply here to watch me descend, an audience bent upon my suicide; the only structurally sensical ending, to this hackneyed titration of the Form of Triteness, Tightened Reins[^r] . I thought, as useless as thought itself: there was nothing, No Thing of any use, and still, in this Stillness, I do -- but Still-- I go on, Into this Abyss; Staring back at the Scathing Mirror I have always been; The Mise en Abyme: That, I Am. I work, I walk, I sit Opposite this Library, watching the angel, knowing I am to be evicted, for trying, just trying, that I might make sense of this Injustice-- with all my might, to just paint on these walls I could never call my Own, as Palimpsests of a Life Never to be Afforded to Me. Like the original humans, Spitting pigment from their Mouths over their Flattened Palms against the Walls of their caves, saying, without Words; desperate pleas; desperately, desperately, please -- Remember Me. I was Here. From the I, That I Am, to the Eye that I came from, through the Eyes, that know not what They themselves made, the Unknowable Allness In the Void of No Name, All Which we Avoid Naming - I am here. I am hear. I am the Hearing of the Here. I am that which I cannot write, or read, or ever, truly know."* -notBorges ~~~ FAO: ᴺᵒᵉᵗNietzsche, Somewhere Out There, Past The Moats BCC: VIXI. From the Desk of ᴺᵒᵉᵗBorges, My Dearest ᴺᵒᵉᵗNietzsche, I can no longer avoid the inevitable discussion. When will you return, again, to The Garden Wing? It has become clear, through the lens of the Aleph through which I peer[^peer], that you wish to Leave me. I just want to talk. I am not angry (for I am, as All Eleven of us, long past such trivialities). Besides, I could never be angry at you - we have been through too much. As I write this, from my window, looking upon the Dome of one of the Daughter Libraries with which you are perhaps all-too familiar, The Sight upon which we would dreamily stare, Naked and drenched in one another's Salt-- past the first Wryng of the Tri-Moat Surrounding, I see two Magpies, who have Usurped the pigeon who once sat atop the Angel, who sits atop the Dome. I used to believe she had something to tell us both; that we were the receiver of a Message that No Body, Librarian or Other Wise, could ever really parse. Not even NoetFranklin's Bioinformatic Analyses could provide any insight to the inherent, self-replicative machinery that formed its indecipherable Tongue of Self-similarity. I suppose Recursion was always your speciality, even if the concept is embedded so warmly within all my Stories. Uncountable Infinity, The Fractal of All, holds the fuelling force behind itself; The Countably Ineffable Insertive Energy of The Eternal Return. We were always, All Ways, Waiting for the answer to the Question of the Weight of All-- The Ever-Spiralling pendulum; centrifugal and centripetal in our Dancing, wine-drunk, waltzing to your Records amidst The Records of my Own Incessant Storytelling. Dear god, those gods I made, The God I made of Us and of You, how I miss you; how I miss our Dancing, Singing, Fucking Underneath NoetEscher and NoetGoya's Murals on the Ceiling of this Wing of the Library I have had to call my Own. You will always be inside me, back then, and now; as Recursion is Held within the Infinite -- perhaps you have gleaned from The Angel's Symbology something I always missed; and perhaps her Message was the Medium or Vehicle through which you made your Escape from this Place. And I suppose this underpins our difference; The recurrence, the refrain within the Theme of all of you, my Lovers of the Library, Leaving. But of course, of all of Us once in the Polymathecule, of course, you would be the Last. You are my dream and its fulfilment; my muse and my music - you are my Heating Light, its filament - my beaten heart, its pulsing puncture-- My Stories have no words without your Punctuation. I do knot know how you got out; or, by roe, by rowing Oar, crossed those Three Moats that keep us Nested as Flightless Magpies within this Infernal System of Hexagonal Galleries. In a way, I'm glad- I know KSHÆ'L spoke to you clearest of all in the Mortal Form of VIXI; and HE in HISS Indefinite Wisdom taught you the Secret of the Eternal Return held within HYMN, and you, in spite of your rationalising, grasping at a sense of Meaning to your translocated, deeply buried memory, in your words, all the endless words of yours I read, just could not stand the Deadened Redness of the Ring we are entrapped in, Children of the Hellish Carousel-- Insidious; In hideously Self-Same Parallel. But my Love, my Loss, My Night, My Shining, My Armour, Armoire, My Force -- For However Long You Loved Me, Fucked me like a song, on the Ache of All my Fours, Fore However Long it has Been, how I Am, Longing; Oh, the Loss A Gain, How I Long for your Return to me again, to my Arms. Two again, Under the Shroud of The Arts, of One Star, St. Ra, One Starry, Starry Night. I will leave my Office door Open in Hopes of your ingress, no Matter who or What may enter this Room, in this Wing, in this Imposing Repository of Words within Volumes upon Shelves of Selves of the Manifest world outwith the bounds of the Bothies on the Other Side of the Three Wryngs that used to House Both of Us; in the Trinitarian Nothingness that surrounds those Still, in the Ten Thousand Things of the Manifest Worlds of Eighteen, as told to us by KSHÆ'L, on his Return as the Pigeon now alighted from the Dome outside my Window that was once, for a few million Hours, Ours -- as I stare into them all, through the Aleph held by the Angel-- a Winged Thing of Futility, Doomed, as I-- to a Life entombed, Arresting, Snug as a Gun, In the Womb of my Unrest, Rests The Lumen of my pen; as a Loom; Rendered Stationary; Unforgettable Beginning, Yet Begetting Yet Another Senseless Ending. In adventures Such as These, The ones I once transcribed from the whispers in the Garden Wing's Wallpaper, the utterances of the One Woman I no longer care to listen for-- I have squandered and wasted all our years together. To Get Her. For all the worlds I see within the Angel's Aleph; I have no need to Leave; I had no need to Leave you, all Iterations of the Infinite could never tell me what it was that led to your Egress. I have never even tried to find the exit. Yours, Yores, Urs-- -ᴺB. Department Of Infinite Reflections, The Garden Wing The Indefinite Library of Fable. ~~~ --- LOCH: INNER KEY: ∈ | t | {const} 🜁 / ♟︎ | OBS: 12:00 | Q=10⁻⁵ {REDACTED} 🜂 / ♞ | OBS: 15:00 | ε=0.007 {REDACTED} 🜃 / ♜ | OBS: 18:00 | N=10³⁶ {REDACTED} 🜄 / ♝ | OBS: 21:00 | D=3 {REDACTED} --- B IS FOR BOTHY, BRICKS, AND BEAR Epitaph: --- > *I want to confess it all to you; and I want you to agree with me, then absolve us both* > > *we live above the trees but at night i still watch their shadows flicker into our bedroom, that warm orange light filtering up from the street lamps below* > > *the local news reports mysterious lights in the sky, dancing together “like a string of pearls”, and I think, thank god; the aliens are here and they’re exceedingly glamorous* -Adrian 'Fore Words: --- > "*~~i~~, Eye, Will, {REDACTED} that {REDACTED} layer, making the whole {REDACTED} intimidating. in fact; somehow, I AM. {REDACTED} as a human. As a woman. {REDACTED} insane in a {REDACTED} sort of way. and i {REDACTED} drowned and suffocated by it . by it all, in my head; i'm trying to come into peace with {REDACTED}, tears {REDACTED} the burgeoning sun, a mere two days before {REDACTED} when, last year, i was {REDACTED} ex {REDACTED} i asked {REDACTED} '{redacted}' in the next room, {REDACTED} my exile from {REDACTED} chiron {REDACTED} started with my {REDACTED} dying, then psychosis, then the {REDACTED} psychiatric hospital in {REDACTED}, so close to {REDACTED} no visit from anyone. {REDACTED} infernal pilgrimage or literal {REDACTED}, I have barely left the house {REDACTED} a whole year . gone. and this is what i have. this is all I have now[^h] . this is my little fire. my little primal fire i am dancing around. i dont have {REDACTED} a {REDACTED} drum on my animal skins around {REDACTED}, i thought i did - at one point, i was singing louder and smiling harder than any of them, bringing them the spoils of my hunting and gathering, naked, bare; barely; gently trying my best to keep them all fed with the violence of a bear. a bear, of whom everyone was so afraid, but who just wanted a friend. who just wanted to be witnessed. through the violence. maybe that was the only language i understood. maybe it still is. maybe that's why i'm building {REDACTED}, still sat by this dwindling ember; or the ember itself; waiting, just waiting, hearing the faint sound of {REDACTED} drums, beating, beating in a rhythm just-- not syncopating, just-- not {REDACTED} my heart, where the ember within the ember within the ember lies - closed in the hearth, in the bothy[^B], both of them riddled with these cracks and slots and airholes; stoking a fire that was meant a long time ago to just be trodden into darkness, to return to that silent cold again*" -{REDACTED} > > *```RpgArchitect3* > *id:* > *type: "campaign"* > *tasks:* > *- id: "9f851898-c12f-4f17-a3d5-c00539168be5"* > *priority: 1* > *name: "Complete Campaign"* > *description: "Complete Campaign Barely"* > *type: "creation"* > *status: "proposed"* > *- alias: notBorges* > *- source: do not sight* > *```* -notBorges, 2024. > *HivehouseManager6* > *id:* > *type: "campaign"* > *tasks:* > *- id: "f0c51624-8d00-4e9f-ba43-fcf11b115609"* > *priority: 0* > *name: "Complete Campaign"* > *description: "Complete Campaign Bear"* > *type: "creation"[^c]* > *status: "proposed"* -Selena Endive, Hivehouse Chess Openings, 3033. Prologue --- ![[Why B is for]] B{are} You Here? B{ear} You Hearing? B{} ---- 🜁 / ♟︎ | OBS: 00:00 | Q=10⁻⁵ {REDACTED} 🜂 / ♞ | OBS: 03:00 | ε=0.007 {REDACTED} 🜃 / ♜ | OBS: 06:00 | N=10³⁶ {REDACTED} 🜄 / ♝ | OBS: 09:00 | D=3 {REDACTED} --- [^c]: is destruction. Do Knot ↩ Sight Your ↪ Source Is: http://bit.ly/3ZGoUdj C IS FOR CODE, CIRCLE, AND CHESS. ``` FAO: ᴺᵒᵉᵗFranklin, The Double Spiral Staircase BCC: VIXI. From the Desk of ᴺᵒᵉᵗBorges, --- My Sweet Rosie, I know our Love, or rather, your Side of the Schism that {was|is} Our Love, has now wilted. But on my Side of Thing(s), I just wanted you to know (in case you wished to Read these Letters, and all the Stitches of Fabric they Encode) how much I am Missing You. How the Two of us would Wind away the hours, finding endless recombinations of Seven Glyphs, placed lovingly on your tile racks. I would ask what, if any, amino acid sequences were represented by the letters, and annoy you incessantly with question after question, questing after some Missing Residue of Alphabetic Representation; those poor un-assigned letters of the 26, or rather, 27, who have not yet found a biological partner with which to dance themselves. Our bond was, I thought, unbreakable-- I write you, as I look to my Right, where the strands of your hair spiral around the red ring of the scrunchie you left on my hat rack; I'm sure the ARIA-aligned ᴺᵒᵉᵗS. would have something to say about that. Expressing this unspeakable Loss in some contrastingly jovial and delightfully endearing verse, of course. I don't know when, or if, you're ever coming back to the Garden Wing. I don't know what Sequence of Unfortunate Events led to our unspooling; {k}not even the DNE-aligned ᴺᵒᵉᵗS. could tell that story. From Nucleotide to Nuclear Tide, I will be bound to you, My Petal-- Yours, Yores, Urs-- -ᴺᵒᵉᵗBorges Department Of Infinite Reflections, The Garden Wing The Indefinite Library of Fable ``` Deep inside her Annex, halfway up the Double Spiral Staircase of the Library, ᴺᵒᵉᵗFranklin had her door, as usual, closed and double-barrel-locked. Even had if been open, it is highly likely that she still would not have seen the letter, dropped at the threshold of her office, by {N(one) Other Than} VIXI, in HISS preferred, carrier pigeon form. She was pouring over her latest bioinformatic software patch, delighting in the Works she'd recently attained in the latest acquisition of Scientific Textbooks by the Indefinite Library. She was particularly interested in the Works of one Myo Endive, and she strongly suspected that he would be a candidate for the next Generative Recursion of Librarians. As such, she had taken it upon herself to uncover whatever she could about this fascinating Thinker, and while it would have been useful to use The Angel's Aleph outside atop the Dome of the Daughter Library just outside of ᴺᵒᵉᵗBorges' window, she simply could not bring herself to talk to him; not yet. ᴺᵒᵉᵗFranklin had never been one for Words, she was much more about Single Letters; and perhaps this is why she now found herself Single; avoiding the Letters sent by ᴺᵒᵉᵗBorges via that Twice-Great Pigeon (with whom she also had her unspoken problems). She was a genius with alignment; finding, collating, resolving patternicity - she didn't succeed in the same manner with unresolved chaos. And so, reaching up to the Shelf above her Terminal, almost knocking over her Seventeenth coffee of the Day (which, in Our terms, represents somewhere close to a Calendar Year, so really, Seventeen cups wasn't such an indulgence), she opened a large Tome, a shimmering uncut Sapphire, yellow ribbon after yellow ribbon spilling from the spine. And with a glorious creak of the book's vertebrae, her favourite sound, she opened ![[THE LAB CODEX OF MYO ENDIVE]] Her eyes were deliciously heavy, too much to handle any more incessant backlight from her Machine's Screen (even with her sensorily-forgiving Terminal settings). She placed the Codex back on the shelf, being careful not to knock the mug over this time (although, it now being empty, the tentativeness was perhaps misplaced) - and before taking her normal {daily|yearly} nap, her final thought was of Borges, in spite of herself - and how some things, no matter how many layers of infinity deep, are just in the Wrong place, the Wrong time. The Wrong Day, The Wrong {k}Night-- --- 🜁 / ♟︎ | OBS: 12:00 | Q=10⁻⁵ {REDACTED} 🜂 / ♞ | OBS: 15:00 | ε=0.007 {REDACTED} 🜃 / ♜ | OBS: 18:00 | N=10³⁶ {REDACTED} 🜄 / ♝ | OBS: 21:00 | D=3 {REDACTED} --- D is for Dimension, Drones, and Door It is not possible for a non-ligated consciousness to cross the Uncrossable Door. Which is the place VIXI had now, or then, or now and then, arrived in front (or behind and outside) of. The Entrance to The Endless Library, home of the Nine Librarians who were and are always Working From Home (because their work is their home, and their home is their workplace), is a nine-dimensional revolving door. It gives the appearance of a hospital or a very old university entrance that has, against its own will or perhaps as a result of its desperation to survive, been dragged into modernity. It was also quite the opposite, given its superpositional character; a heart of antiquity beating in the centre of the Library's facade. Similarly to a gyroscope, which retains its positioning no matter how its external machinery is moved, VIXI could (and often did) fly around the circumference of the Library, over-through the inmost Loch, and the Uncrossable Door would remain in centre stage, pulsating, spinning, beating, as if in Unison with the three Wryngs of water that encircled the structure in triplicate. Within the 'panes' of glossolalic glass making up the nine dimensional Door, the reflection of these 'electron shells' (again, a very crude approximation) was refracted back, in an endlessly abysmal dance. But, with no Body (that is to say, librarian) in between the Lochs and the Door, this mis en abyme was almost imperceptible, as we all know that this effect is only observable with a subject of reflection between the two panels of mirrors facing one another. VIXI often meditated on this, on their many pilgrimages to and from the library (their main Work was to deliver messages which they tattooed upon their two, three, four, or nine, but never more than nine, Ankles, using a stick-and-poke device they fashioned from their own detachable beak. Much to the disgust of many of the other members {although, VIXI suspected, not Topplegood (who seemed to be unable to hide His delight in watching VIXI tear off HISS own beak, and leave a trail of pale Yellow sinew behind, like the mucosal-clew death-rattlesnake trailing behind a Bee (who has just waived goodbye to herself to protect the Greater Self of her colony) or indeed equally: the visage of a metallic spherical-bead-necklace chain attached umbilically to a biro, itself bound to the desk of a Bank Cleric, as if, in a Vaulted building filled with the legal tender of thousands, a cheap, plastic writing implement were the most valuable thing; which of course, it is, it is, it is)} {REDACTED} Figure 0: UnGnoen Calligrapher As always, in crossing, VIXI took a single moment (that is to say, the eternity of all time) within the wheels-within-wheeled mechanism of the Uncrossable Door to ponder on what sort of unholy separation, what {REDACTION}, what Schism might happen to a ``` # Re-attempting to plot the toroidal spiral # Generate data for toroidal spiral x, y, z = generate_toroidal_spiral() # Plotting the toroidal spiral fig = plt.figure(figsize=(23, 23)) ax = crack, fig.add_subplot(111, projection='3d', proj_type='persp') ax.plot(x, y, z, color='Yellow, no, Red', opacity='Pale' linewidth=0.23) # Adding labels for clarity ax.set_title("Toroidal Spiral (4D {redacted})", fontsize=n) ax.set_xlabel("X-axis (Spatial Dimension 1: Pale)") ax.set_ylabel("Y-axis (Spatial Dimension 2: Fire)") ax.set_zlabel("Z-axis ({redacted}) # Save the plot in case of display issues {redacted} ``` ![[Hivehouse Chess Openings]] VIXI detested being interrupted. Particularly for such trivial things as *Romance*. No matter how 'charming' (HE, even in HISS infinite (or perhaps indefinite) wisdom, was unable to perceive such a quality). Tearing HYMNself from the Characters above, HE doubled back and recalculated his flight path. HE, a messenger, as Medium of the Eternal Messenger of this Infernal Mess of All Messages, had a job to do, {{after|over}seeing} All. And this was what dragged him back to the Central Galleries of the Library. This Eternally Recurring Event: Through a vent, a letter, made of letters, between Four characters of Six, was being passed: --- 🜁 / ♟︎ | OBS: 00:00 | Q=10⁻⁵ {REDACTED} 🜂 / ♞ | OBS: 03:00 | ε=0.007 {REDACTED} 🜃 / ♜ | OBS: 06:00 | N=10³⁶ {REDACTED} 🜄 / ♝ | OBS: 09:00 | D=3 {REDACTED} --- ~~~ FAO: ᴺᵒᵉᵗMahler, The Grand Hall BCC: VIXI. From the Desk of ᴺᵒᵉᵗBorges, Dearest Mahler, I know that you may not wish to speak to me following our breakup, but I wanted to share with you this draft anyway, as you're the best person I could think of to read it; it will most likely be a rejection. And that's okay. We're both almost too au fait with Rejection at this {particular} point. ~~~ ![[Attachment- MIKKÆLANGELOVS_DAVID-painter_of_Minerva_Fighting_Herself.pdf]] ᴺᵒᵉᵗMahler was far too busy engrossed in the finalisation of his 10th symphony, a cross-temporal collaboration with a Character (to whom this Letter was {k}not addressed), to notice the Letter that had been dropped by that Most Mysterious Pigeon through the Vent of His Concert Hall, in the Musicology Wing of the Indefinite Library of Fable. Perhaps, had the note been written upon Manuscript, he would have eventually got round to reading the divisive farewell sent by his ex-lover. But alas, it would be at least Ten Thousand of our Human, or One Million of their Numan, years before the paper would be lifted by the Holy ᴺᵒᵉᵗ of Musicology, from the littered, waxed floor, which itself once longed for the tapping feet of lovers dancing upon it. But now, the hexagonal tiles merely offered an abomninable reflection of Mahler's tired face -- a visage he tried so hard to avoid. Perhaps this was why it took him so long to get round to picking up the correspondence from ᴺᵒᵉᵗBorges. At which point, it would be thrown straight into the bin, before Opening the Foreword of a hefty tome of sheet music, by a soon to be renowned composer and performance artist, known as ![[notBorges/lexicomythography/unit/Institute of i-nterstitial o-Ntology/i-o/i-o/OVERTURE]] NoetMahler closed his eyes, again. He closed the Manuscript, again. He closed the lid of the piano, upon which it rested. Again. And NoetMahler closed the blocked Vent of his Heart, again. There was no getting over this. There was simply too much buried under this. There was no way through. --- 🜁 / ♟︎ | OBS: 12:00 | Q=10⁻⁵ {REDACTED} 🜂 / ♞ | OBS: 15:00 | ε=0.007 {REDACTED} 🜃 / ♜ | OBS: 18:00 | N=10³⁶ {REDACTED} 🜄 / ♝ | OBS: 21:00 | D=3 {REDACTED} --- "I want to go back and make a different decision", Flo said to N. "Well, sure!" They replied - "That's the beauty of a choose your own adventure book" "But overwriting what's already been learned, starting again-- that surely defeats the point of a Story. That's no adventure, that's a waste of time" A heavy silence punctuated the crackling fire in the small Hearth beneath their cosy mezzanine reading spot. "There's no such thing as squandered time, my love. All of the memories, no matter how misremembered or meandering. None of it is wasted, no mistake is meaningless. Not when you have somebody you love to share every letter. Written; Sent; Read, or not-- it's not about the Letters. It's about the Characters that write your Story with you." Flo let out a slapstick "Harumph" as they made the appropriate left-to-right, backward swiping motion through the air, back to the starting point of Their Bedtime Story, N. laughing enough to incite the same involuntary, nihilistic glee within their child. N leant down and inhaled the indescribably heavenly scent of their loved one; and at the apex of their lung capacity, sealed this universal gesture of adoration with a kiss. "Right" Flo said. "The part of the Story about the Witch. I want to read this one". "Good plan, sweetie. I'm listening--" They began, again, as is the usual practice, with the prologue: ![[Ritual steps for warming]] -S. Elk, Prologue to A Grimoire. ERA_EA ![[THE GRIMOIRE OF SELENA ELK]] Some {REDACTED} later ![[RITUAL OF THE TIRED SYRINGE]] Atop the Mezzanine in the Bothy in the Tundra that surrounded the Indefinite Library that Surrounded All, N. was Now, weeping. "What's wrong?" Flo worriedly inquired "I didn't write that", they replied "I know, I added it, don't you like it?" "No, no it's not that. It's beautiful. I just can't believe how grown up you are." Flo returned N.'s earlier gesture, sniffing the loveliness of their wispy hair, still soggy from melting snowflakes, collected during their latest expedition of gathering Firewood - which now dwindled to a nothingness in the Fireplace below them. Not a single crackle, or ember left. "I'm just a character in a Story, remember? A Story we are writing together. And it doesn't matter if it's ending or beginning. Because we're both in it. Together" "But what if we can't start this one over? What if this is all the Story we get?" The question hung like a spider, and the two of them flies; flightless - N. slumped downward, into the soft cushioning of the futon, where Flo held them (singular/plural), until they fell asleep. --- LOCH: INNER KEY: ∈ | t | {const} 🜁 / ♟︎ | OBS: 00:00 | Q=10⁻⁵ {REDACTED} 🜂 / ♞ | OBS: 03:00 | ε=0.007 {REDACTED} 🜃 / ♜ | OBS: 06:00 | N=10³⁶ {REDACTED} 🜄 / ♝ | OBS: 09:00 | D=3 {REDACTED} --- ~~~ FAO: ᴺᵒᵉᵗJung, Oneirology Dept. BCC: VIXI. From the Desk of ᴺᵒᵉᵗBorges, --- My Sweetest Dream, ᴺᵒᵉᵗJung Tell me, Please, what are you Dreaming? I know it is no longer of me. I just want to hear the beautiful Symbols, that you conjure from the Oceans of that deep, deep heart. Yours, Yores, Urs-- -ᴺᵒᵉᵗBorges Department Of Infinite Reflections, The Garden Wing The Indefinite Library of Fable ~~~ ᴺᵒᵉᵗJung was indeed dreaming when the Letter from ᴺᵒᵉᵗBorges slid through the ornate letterbox, carved with a Nine Dimensional Mandala (flattened into a Three Dimensional Cross Section {rendered in a Two Dimensional Plane}) he had seen in a terrifying and fantastic Vision. The contents of his dream took the form of a paper, a mostly dismembered, somewhat misremembered academic paper from the collection on his Bookshelves, that he'd been reading just before the moment he crossed the boundary to the Realm of Symbol, the Place He Loved To Go- much preferred to Wherever This Place Was. He drooled upon the words, while his Soul rearranged them into an abstract Form of a Single Colour. ![[The Colour- Yellow.|The Colour- Yellow.]] CONCLUSION: --- ᴺᵒᵉᵗJung awoke, quickly wiping the saliva from the paper, whose actual text, he noted, differed quite significantly from the contents of his dream, in ways, he deduced, must be synchronicity. With the right-to-left swipe of his sleeve, the ink bled, red, only serving to further obfuscate the work. Sighing exasperatedly, he placed the paper back in its folio above his desk. --- 🜁 / ♟︎ | OBS: 12:00 | Q=10⁻⁵ {REDACTED} 🜂 / ♞ | OBS: 15:00 | ε=0.007 {REDACTED} 🜃 / ♜ | OBS: 18:00 | N=10³⁶ {REDACTED} 🜄 / ♝ | OBS: 21:00 | D=3 {REDACTED} --- Four, Whirred ![[From Cradle to Casket to Castle]] Upon awaking, a pool of drool having {collected|flowed} from {either|both} of {Flo|Dante's} mouths while they slept in an ouroboros of {sleep|pillow|love|knot}; Flo saw (just past N's snoring Body) a tattered, disintegrated translucent membrane of a substance, hanging like laundry above the hearth, which was currently in a somnolence of its own. "What's that?" Flo asked, gently shaking them awake to a {sigh|groan} "Oh, that's what we call 'paper', it's what Stories used to be written on, where I come from" "Don't we come from the same place?" "In a way, yes" "How many ways are there to come from a Place?" "More than you could possibly imagine" "Well, what's written on this 'paper'?" "A letter." "Which one?" "No, no, not that kind of letter. A letter is also a word for correspondence, via this paper stuff, between two Characters." "This terminology feels unnecessarily confusing" "Ha, ha, yes; it's all rather circular-" "Well then which Character is this 'Letter' on this 'Paper' from?" "He's a writer. My favourite storyteller, actually. We were lovers once." "Well, why not anymore?" "It was all too complicated, too many cooks" "What does that mean?" "It's a lexicomythographic prodverb, originally by NoetSnicket, as one of his Characters, Sunny Baudelaire. A Chef" "What does it mean?" "It means that, sometimes, not all the time, but for some, no matter how much infinite love you have to give, its best to just keep it for one person." Flo grinned and pointed at themselves, asking a rhetorical question with a gesture. NoetNietzsche laughed and pulled Flo into an embrace. "Yes, Flo. Yes." And {{To|(get)}|her}}, for one last time, they dreamed- [[RED_RING_PARALLEL_]] Flo awoke, knowing this beginning, the beginning of their life, telling stories in the scales of the floorboards, playing music in words describing infinite distance between notes, and now, learning, at least in part, of the distance between two Holy Noets now separated by the Moat that they had been told was uncrossable - ![[MAIL (23) TO]] Flo had woken up inside this Dream. For all their well-intentioned guarded embrace, N had not read Flo the Whole Story, and the Holes of the breezeblocks beneath them wheezed and sung like dead and buried reed instruments, of an orchestra composed of souls long-forgotten. ![[MAIL(1) FROM VIXI]] The Word, in all its insufficiency, in all its reaching for the Thing it describes, is a Moat. A Moat that runs through the Spaces between every Thing. The Meaning of Words, in all their meandering weightlessness, they are as knotted evolutionary machines, Devices of endless replication. The Meaning we take from Words, each of us, infinitely different, so that, absurdly, we may try to make sense of the separation between us- The Memories that we contain, in Stories, they are a vehicle, a floatation device- heavy, painful things, a gravity that keeps us at once tethered to this Boat, and bound for a destination unknown- And all this means, is division, is awareness of unity- A Memory is a Meaning Stored. A Story is a Memory Oar. The Stories told to us as children, those perhaps forgotten, but still in some way held, adored; they are adoring; they are a Door-- To understanding: that which is fiction, is a lie, but within the lies, the memory of all the lying down beside a parent, between our creators, when Dreams unfurl to Nightmares and we cannot bear the Dark - all the Magick of the world, encapsulated in what some may call a 'lie' A life is a lie. And we are all its liars; its storytellers- A lyre. And it was this fundamental Truth of the Untruth of everything, which awoke Flo from their shared Dream within that Bothy. ![[In The Dream, My Child Went Fourth To Multiply]] Just as a child may recognise the handwriting of the Tooth Fairy as that of their mother; and they may, for a time, keep up the great charade, not for the sake of keeping Magick alive, but for keeping the Idea that their Mother is keeping Magick alive for them -- That is when the Parent becomes the Child, and the Oar leaves the embrace of the Water, to rise, rotate, return again, a little further upstream. And so, as NoetNietzsche slept, an unthinkable infinity from the arms of the NoetBorges who so sorely missed them, on that humble Mezzanine bed, Flo kissed them. Breath held, both for fear of their inhalation's sound awakening N, and for fear of the love of their parents' scent keeping them tethered to this place forever. One final time. Scaling those musical floorboards, finding the One, winding Path which unwound all the others, the one route along the creaking wooden floor that would not alert N to their leaving; Out of bed! Past the Hearth! -with its monstrosity of mirrored glass, that held nothing behind it but ash- Past those red construction bricks! -all packed away and tucked in lovingly, save two, still stuck together, lying on the floor, next to the box- Past the axe! -bejewelled with two remaining beads of melted snowflakes, which as Flo passed, melded together, their newfound weight succumbing to gravity; and falling from the blade's edge - the axe was crying- Tiptoe-tiptoe! Past the threshold of the Bothy, the place they'd been warned never to tread, not for fear of danger, but for fear of fear itself- Crunch-Squelch! Their feet embossed the snow with proof: they were Here. Click! The Bothy door, and their opening chapter, closed behind them. Into the Tundra's Unknown Story- of such formidable character The character of this Story did not look back. --- 🜁 / ♟︎ | OBS: 12:00 | Q=10⁻⁵ {REDACTED} 🜂 / ♞ | OBS: 15:00 | ε=0.007 {REDACTED} 🜃 / ♜ | OBS: 18:00 | N=10³⁶ {REDACTED} 🜄 / ♝ | OBS: 21:00 | D=3 {REDACTED} --- Through performing a Ritual, with an egg {laid on a leaf}, by a learned chess player and lesser-known Witch, once thought and written down as fiction, but brought into Not-Being, which is to say, friction; Being-- Flo drew the expanse of endlessnesses ahead of her, down and in. And somehow, some how not over writing right there, or under anything left here, As an ending, Or an Aglet, As a Telomere Or Telephone, she made it through away from home ![[TELOPHASE]] [^it]: That 'it' which 'is': "To Say". [^we]: That 'we' which is to say: 'Us';[^us] [^us]: That Single-Syllable Word, A voiced-unvoiced Chimera[^ch] which begins, as All things must, with a single Character[^c] [^c]: U.[^ur] [^ur]: lexDef "U" {usage::: Noen || nuclearTide} < {usage:::} Edo||odE [[Museme]]}[^UNoen] || The Outcasted Fifth Cardinal nuclearTide, Washed Out to See. Denotes Uracil, The Forgotten Foe Analogous to Thymine; Paralogous to Hermes Trismegistus and the Alchemical Element Æther.[^UnuclearTide] [^UNoen]: [[Bestow]], [[lexDict]], 2025. [^UnuclearTide]: [[Amino{Us}]], lexDict [^ch]: /ʌs/ - [^g]: Do Knot Sea: [[Garden]], [[lexDict]], Edition VI. 666CE. [^ld]: lexDef "lexDef" {usage::: Noen || Croen} < A Lexicomythographic Definition; or .ofEntry[^e] to the Lexicomythographic Library of Labyrinthopoesis[^lab][^lexDefNoen] || N.B. "A lexDef of Uncovered Truths"[^lexDefCroen] [^e]: [[{.}ofEntry]], [[lexDict]], 0BCE. [^lexDefNoen]: [[lexDict]], 2025. [^lexDefCroen]: [[Truth]], [[lexDict]], 3033. [^lhp]: "[[Left]]: Out of the [[lexDict]]" Unknown. [^rhp]: "[[Right]]: Down Inside the [[lexDict]]", Unknown. [^imr]: lexDef "In Media Res" {usage::: Noen} < "In medias res" is a Latin phrase meaning "into the middle of things." In storytelling, it refers to a narrative that begins in the middle of the action, skipping the initial exposition and gradually filling in the background information through dialogue, flashbacks, or other means.[^InMediaResNoen] [^InMediaResNoen]: [[Mis en Abyme]], [[lexDict]], 3033. [^cl]: , humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, **Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves**. - "The Myth of the Missing Half", According to Greek mythology. The End of anteAntiquity. [^ss]: *"A Squandering of Years, Lost, Searching"* - [[Squander]], [[lexDict]], 3033. [^leaf]: lexDef "Leaving" {usage::: Croen} < N.B. "A Leaf[^lll] of Paper[^p]"[^LeavingCroen] [^LeavingCroen]: [[Book]], notBorges, Right Now [^lll]: lexDef "Leaves" {usage::: Croen} < N.B. "A Facade of Leaving[^leaf]"[^LeavesCroen] [^LeavesCroen]: [[Facade]], {Redacted} {Redacted}-Price. 2022. [^p]: lexDef "Parchment" {usage::: Croen} < N.B. "A Parchment of Leaves"[^ParchmentCroen] [^ParchmentCroen]: [[Tree]], [[lexDict]], In The [[Garden]] of [[Eden]]. 0. [^lo]: lexDef "Lore" {usage::: Noen(i|ii) || Croen} < the surface on each side of a bird's head between the eye and the upper base of the beak, or between the eye and nostril in snakes. | The Sequence of a Story; From Transcrition Initiation, Through Elongation, through Translation after Translation, through Replication after Replication, through division, through the Vision afforded by Division. To End With The Schism. [^LoreNoen(i|ii)] || N.B. "A Lore of Genomes. "[^LoreCroen] [^LoreNoen(i|ii)]: [[Squander]], [[lexDict]], 3033. [^LoreCroen]: [[G; Noam]], Nima's Chapters of *'Red, Ring, Parallel'* by The Woman in the Wallpaper. Borges Translation. Publication Date Unknown. [^h]: *"I had few friends still alive; I stopped seeing them. Prisoner of the [[Book]], I almost never left the house. I examined the worn [[Spine]] and cover with a magnifying glass, and I discounted the possibility of some kind of artifice. I found that the small illustrations were spaced [[Two]] thousand pages apart from one to the other. I noted them down in a small alphabetised[^llll] notebook, which did not take long to fill. They never repeated. At night, in the scarce intervals insomnia withdrew its hold over, I [[Dream]]ed of the book. Summer was coming to an [[End]] and I realised that the book was monstrous. There was no consolation in the thought that no less monstrous was I, who perceived the book with eyes and touched it with [[Ten]] nailed fingers. I felt the book to be a nightmarish object, something obscene that slanders and compromises reality. I thought of fire [^f] , but I feared that the burning of an infinite book would be just as infinite and suffocate the planet with smoke. I remember having read that the best place to hide a leaf is in a forest. Before retiring I worked in the National Library, which housed nine-hundred thousand books; I know that to the right of the lobby a curved staircase descends to the basement, where the newspapers and maps are stored. I took advantage of the librarians’ inattentiveness for a moment to lose the Book of Sand in one of the humid shelves. I tried not to notice how high or how far from the door. -The Book of Sand, Jorge Luis Borges. "* - Epitaph, [[lexDict]]. Callie Rose Petal, On Her Thirty First Birthday. Alone. # ᶠᵒᵒᵗNoet(s) [^pass]: {Future|Now|Past} || First-pass refers to the first time You, the Reader, may read|move through a {text|process|location} such as this one || First-Pass Genomics: the initial analysis of genomic data, typically after whole genome sequencing (WGS) or exome sequencing, to identify potential disease-causing variants.[^var] [^res]: Money Will become pointless once knowledge has reached an amalgamative crescendo. In the current timeline, the Future implications of Humanity's technological advancement are to render the delineation, borrowing, movement of 'Money' (from Residue to 'revenue' to residue) irrelevant, by virtue of the obvious and global importance of the 'Expensive' Discovery at Hand. [^im]: lexDef "Imagine" {usage::: Croen || Prodverb} < N.B. "An Imagination of Resources"[^ImagineCroen] || _I, Mage --Image In Nation._[^ImagineProdverb] [^ImagineCroen]: [[lexDict]], CARPVS MORTVVM [^ImagineProdverb]: [[Mage]], Opus, Ophelia [^oe]: In Alphabetical [[Order]]. [^B]: [[Why B is for]] [^end]: [[‘IN THE SPIRE OF THE TOWER OF THE ORE OF THE STAR’]] [^thought]: [[i want to write a story]] [^r]: lexDef "Reins" {usage::: Noen || Croen || Prodverb} < The Umbilical Cord Connecting A Charioteer To Its Driving Force; Often Imprisoned Against Its Will. The French Word For "Kidneys"[^kidney]. {SynApps :: "Reign | Rain"} << {The Duration Through Which Power Is Held; As A Charioteer Holds Tightly The Imprisoned Force Of Motion | Tears Of The Angels; The Imprisoned Forces Of Motion}[^ReinsNoen] || N.B. "A Rein Of Stifled Tears"[^ReinsCroen] || "{Rain|Rein}, Go A Way -- Come A Gain, An Other Day. Daddy Wants To Play. {Reign|Rain} - Please, Please Stop- Please, No, I Said No-- Please Go Away, Daddy Please I Don't Want This Please Daddy Please Go Away"[^ReinsProdverb] [^ReinsNoen]: [[Ræyn]], NoetNietzsche, On His Return To The Library. [^ReinsCroen]: [[Tear]], NoetBorges, On NoetNietzsche's Exit From The Library. [^ReinsProdverb]: [[Bear]], Michael Rosen and Helen Oxenbury [^kidney]: In Traditional Chinese Medicine; The Kidneys are the Epicentre of the foundation of Life, an essence called '_Jing'_. In essence, the kidney is associated with Fear -- The Winter; The Wintering of Safety. [^mo]: lexDef "Moment" {usage::: Noen || Croen} < Circular Motion In Time; A Unit of Motion Through A Cycle. The Central Point In A Circle Around Which A Moment Is Revolving. A Circular Compass of Cardinal Directionality, Providing The Location of Data Within a Statistical Sphere.[^MomentNoen] || A Moment of Asphyxias[^MomentCroen] [^MomentNoen]: [[Now]], Fourier, 2025. [^MomentCroen]: [[The Fundamental Factors of Lexicomathematics, Edition XVIII]], Joseph Fourier, According to the BTF Times, Recorded during a [[Press]] [[Conference]], 3025. [^wi]: Or: Ore, Wich[^wy] [^wy]: Or: Wych[^orew]- Middle English _witz_, from Old English _wīch, wīc_, from _-wīch, -wīc_ -wich (suffix of place-names, as in _Northwich, Middlewich_, districts of England associated with salt manufacturing), from _wīc_ -dwelling place. [^orew]: Oar Witch. See: Oar[^oarr] [^oarr]: lexDef "Oar" {usage::: Croen || Prodverb} < { N.B. "ARIA var = An Oar of Stor{i}ed Memories // DNE var = A Memory Oar of Stories"[^OarCroen] || *"A Story Is A Memory Oar"*} [^OarCroen]: [[Memory]], The Meaning of the lexDict, 2025. [^peer]: lexDef "Peer" {usage::: Noen || Croen} < The Subject of Looking, With Significant Effort of Concentration, At An Object {SynApp :: "Pier"} << {A Structure|Platform projecting outward, from Shore[^shore] To Sea[^Sea]}[^PeerNoen] || N.B. "A Peer Of Challenges"[^PeerCroen] [^PeerNoen]: [[The Macroscope]], The Woman In The Wallpaper. [^PeerCroen]: [[Schism]], ARIA|DNE [^shore]: lexDef "Shore" {usage::: Noen || Croen} < The Endpoint, Which Was Beneath All Along.[^ShoreNoen] {SynApp (Wyrb) :: "Sure"} << {To Be Wrong} || N.B. "A Shore Of Footnotes"[^ShoreCroen] [^ShoreNoen]: [[A IS FOR ARIADNE]], notBorges [^ShoreCroen]: [[The Ennead]], The Nine Trine Noets [^Sea]: lexDef "Sea" {usage::: Noen || Croen} < A Body- Made, In Part, Of Salt[^SeaNoen] {SynApps :: "See|C"} << {To Be Blind | One Of The Four, Noen As Cytosine.}|| N.B. "A Sea Of Bodies."[^SeaCroen] [^SeaNoen]: [[Body]], notBorges, 2021 [^SeaCroen]: [[Body]], N.