The Gameable Girl; was Frozen. She stood Ourtide of the bed and

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Now thought had me by the hadron and Cerne up and runging through children’s minds the warp and the woof od the teacher’s barking mad fear. Semblance of tranquilty later in the fractality of a park. The Queen wore white and looked virginal. Phil wore a latex tux and in lime green pantaloons rushed forward to say Howdy Doopy Dog. The biscuit was fresh and the park laden. I was inside my own mind and loving every aquare fractal inch of it, and yet still oak trees were oak trees and beer was beer. We sailed up off Top Street for Top Shop and swallered a large tonne of fish jokes before embarking on the Q & A Palisarde directive. I wished for a Guru and found one, tossing him by the wayside like a stray cut throat black cat from Borneo; milliseconds later, there were feasts for swallow eyes when Tariffs bearing beauty made their round on the footstall. Haberdashers and ironmongers, ecplisoids and pentagrammers, ideographs and geodesic types made laughter sail through the winf. El Banko had said it would all go collapso, but every nigger knows the worm hole is in essence a diametric opposite to chaos or catasrophe. The labyrinth has a plughole. Every om has an ouch. Every joy has a spurt of love juice, and one simply has to come. Best not avoid the coming and rushing ands compressing, they said, and git yrself a step ladder ahead of the old oilstuff, I wrote later that Wittgenstein could be understood through the hiatus he made in the teaching world for those long fourteen years; I never qwuite understood why death seemed to be around us until they the head and the prof and through a thousand tears and eyes and mirages finding that one man amidst the many burning bushes. I tried to explain it. I tried to savour it. In the end I just made art out of it. But heart, the dear ones and the flowersd in the inner circle insisted, there was more to evolution even there, even more than love is the love the creator has for man, for woman the goddess descending nine nights a year; for the man and the boy, the girl and the child, the bamboo shoot and the acacia, for the lemon yellow Donovan toting bag wearing hipster who had defied his own goodness in order to fit the cogs in the wheel had decided that the way up was Hadron and the collider was our