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Axons across beard-seconds of darkness

Stretched out February 19, 2012.

Blackness squatted on the edge of a desk, somber and stalwart. A staunch glargoyle, grimly it guarded the scene that lay before it. Black blood coursed through its veins though, not the usual avocado green of the glargoyle: The beast was angry at what it surveyed before it, but it could do nothing but stand guard and watch.

Superego having said its goodbyes and id having departed on the last flight to Arcadia, only ego remained. The ego floated lazily, moving upward, around and upward, sometimes downward, occasionally leftward or rightward, but mostly upward (and never backward or forward). Stubbornly it refused to give up the ghost and vault itself into the supralial plane of existence beyond this one; not even the box of fresh Drunken Donuts jelly donuts proffered as a ham-fisted bribe could persuade it to concede defeat and dissipate into the æther.

Axons stretched out across parsecs, light-years, and beard-seconds of the increasing darkness… reaching, probing, probing for anything they could get their axony little hands on. Nothing but nothingness was their reward; as they moved, emptiness greeted them and the dark, deep depths of nullity yawned before their ganglious little membranes and vacuoles. And there were so, so many vacuoles—too many to count. Around the edge of each outstretched axon a dull sense of dim, colorless light gnawed. But it was fleeting, and—much like the distant, frantic honking of a goose in the immediate seconds following a sudden weasel attack—trying to make sense of the sense was ultimately in vain. The weasel would win the day, and the goose would be silenced forever.

Poor little axons.

They withered and retreated back across the beard-seconds through which they had wrought themselves in a desperate bid for stimulus. If the ears behind them still worked, somewhere off in the distance, Britney Spears would be heard barking. But the ears did not work. One had to wonder then, was Britney barking? The parable of a tree falling in the forest and landing on a deaf and dumb moose came to mind. (If there was a mind for it to come to, which there wasn’t. Not anymore.)

Thousands of specks of light suddenly assaulted the crumbling remnants of the unblinking vision that remained in the broken form: The form from which the ego had escaped and the axons had attempted to flee. At first like the teeming froth of bacteria that suddenly envelops a fresh turd the moment it splashes into the dark, fetid waters of an underground septic tank, the specks began then to slow, slowly then—tearing and bending—and, like chance, slowed slowly even further… ponderously slow at last… until they were stretched glimmeringly along concentric, epicyclic pathways orbiting the retina… moments before the rods, cones, and dodecahedrons blanketing the retina’s surface failed at last.

Darkness. Thick, hairy darkness.

“This wasn’t the Brundlesphere.” A single thought, subvocalized into some semblance of substance, sparked across the few neurons that were still attached to one another and were still able to hurl a coherent signal across their sodium ion channels. Alas before it could complete, the thought trailed off: Lost, as a neuron, connected to nothing, fired the ponderance off into the air in a random direction. The ambient magnetic field rippled slightly, the inverse square law did its thing, and soon the pulse of energy was lost amidst the froth of virtual particles and the tiny, bearded and befezzed gnomes that, on a sub-quantum level, make everything go.

Back inside the numerous chunks of not-really-gray matter, neurons slowly expired. Necrosis was all around them like a pack of slavering hyenas. Cells burst under osmotic pressure, their organelles spilling out at the feet of hungry, hungry anærobes. Some of the neurons became aware that they had forgotten the middle third of the alphabet. Others realized, horrified, they couldn’t even remember how many Cantor sets it took to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. Fibonacci, Tribonacci, and even mostaccioli numbers spilled forth from the translucent snub cube that was leering outward from the periphery of sensation, as the Golgi apparatuses wriggled and separated and Richard Uptlnm Plkcm norberted the dslbn fnarp~Alyssa/ toes… #feet—â/ 1 ñin—gorgothIN the bubbles dancingly orbit#%d percolating coffee asunder sundry sundry Moloch~8tebel hitabel~ .a vaginescent′ [sea of] yclept b^zillion$ ~~~~niz Wikpiedia boffos say: Nordiblortfast narglefakes the ~Seferndaÿ editorials as Rav~~Rav na spins h%r toes litely &persand* †watch it;goes±noẃ Ẃroclåẃ “d” sMarg™ right write /right //end-of-l!!ne how$v^r/; Barn-d00rź open &nd moar thē goattily læcither ;GNARK—s down the Jefferś%%PDF%% ·Glick Glick Glick Glick Glick Glick Glic% Gli%% Gl%%k G—rkk! At 1the {offic@fnichous} …nob…nob…meep …meep; nizzl Pnå…

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…glaxkKńo cllllaaaRit…ỳ …suddenl cl… lari… hilarï+ :Then su…suddeN clarity %gripped the brain. An aura of ser%enity descended upon the shattered, pink thing. It ran out of bizarre, suppurthine analogies, and it died.