I walked in the room and what I saw in the room wasn’t what I saw in the room before. And I knew that. I also knew that what I saw was new and what I saw is what evoked what I thought I saw before, so that, unlinked, I didn’t see anything different. Just one; just one and just the thoughts that one thing incited. But what’s a thing if there’s only one of it and it’s a bunch of things? That’s what I thought­­ right before, in the room, the person in the room said something to me and this something I didn’t hear because all I heard was noise, and a few sounds in the noise that I constructed from what I’d previously constructed ­­or what had been constructed for me; fuck­­ But nevertheless they were probably words and they were words that I wasn’t hearing. I said something; I couldn’t hear the sound of my own voice ­­I mean, I could hear it, but I only heard sounds I always heard when I spoke so I only heard sounds, but they didn’t sound like anything, exactly, but myself. And I myself sound so unlike the self that I know I am ­­I mean, logically know that I am­­ that it’s not even a summary or peripheral view or funhouse mirror of myself but in any case a depravity distorted.

So anyway, I said something and then they said something and then, them, um; uh, shit. And then ­­did you know that the shh sound that is made to incite silence, when combined with the entirely contextually dependant it is the word shit? which is the word feces, which is refuse, which is absence but it’s not actually absence it’s just incomprehensible noise that is unpleasant and causes disease, anyway­­ I saw the mouth move and I saw the sounds and I heard them this time and they were gloriously nothing ­­in other words they were words. I mean, words to me; exclusively.

And there was some other stuff but none of it was as important as the ascription thereof. Or the mode, or the mode of the mode, which is mine; I mean.