many 'appy returns and interests!

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Paldies! Life is bearing me, and interest is generally growing.

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These pure and natural reverberations brought about by the Glorious Introduction of 1588 settled the primitive colonialists into entities ready to be subjugated within the flow of tribute at a level adjusted to Article 1694 of the MasterStrict Directive. Ourstory of this time was sealed for direct implants in 1680 and is sacrosanct and implacable in Grid.

Although those within Segment 6 experiencing Peat will find no insight into the natural and pure movements of that time; there is, within the recommended limits, random ambiguity in the perception of the clone of these reverberations in the transformation of thought into primitive novel form with the nascent ECONART application. ProConfessor Bacon (1752 – excerpt from Implant OE 52):

: We are squeezed into a claustrophobic world of the present, in which the clone is physically moved by the Movement, yet is, with rare and notable exceptions, utterly unable to articulate it. This is quite natural: he is a primitive being with primitive concerns: concerns which chronically cripple proper and acceptable thought. For those unfamiliar with this interior thought world of Sapien 3.2, this can be tedious and stifling. Witness, the thought after a dialogue at the border of Letzonia and Norland:
"Clever cunt that Kapsars, though full of shit most of the time."

Such pointless yet obssessed expression of thought spills sexual symbolism onto the rationality of the Grid, and clearly shows the effect of the redundant genetic material still abounding in the sixth generation clone.

It should, of course, be understood that the interest Peat holds is primarily threefold: firstly as an attachment to Ourstory of the time and space; secondly, as the sole record of thought of Sapien 3.2; and thirdly, as one of only a few remaining results of the E CONART application to transform thought caught in the spike into novel form.
Students of Ourstory of this time and space will simply enhance their implacability in sealed comprehension; there are no discernable tremors to be experienced here. For beings, however, chanelled to record Sapien 3.2, this is a trove. This issue of the Sapien, though necessary for common purpose, is clumsy of thought, irrational, and sexually plagued: a redundant rutting dullard whose failure to grasp and accommodate the movement would be pitied, were it not for the knowledge that, for its kind, the movement should not and could not be assimiliated into its action and thought.
And yet, there are moments when it touches on the protofound themes – almost inexplicably: witness the dialogue between the Latin and the clone which ends with the following question: “Yeah, but what if they can clone consciousness?” We are in the realm of the unknown here. Could this be the genuine thought of the clone, or is it a manipulation, either by the E CONART application, or by the researchers at the Centre? It is without question that the E CONART application continually attempts to force themes awkwardly onto the thoughts in a generally risible attempt to give meaning and structure; therefore a vague, passing, barely conscious understanding could conceivably have been amplified by the application for narrative purposes.

We are passing through the town of Pure when Nuchi sees him crouching by the bus stop and holding the left side of his face with his hand. He gives a soft whistle and asks me to stop the van, which I do.

After five minutes of their low and mumbled discourse by the verge, the three of us are heading to the border together; Nuchi smoking by the passenger window, our newcomer in the middle almost doubled over at the waist, and my good self at the wheel.

Vanuchi can’t help but smoke in what he calls his ‘high cinematic style’. After each camp exhalation into the speeding cool spring air, he settles his gaze on our newcomer with a slightly arched right eyebrow.

“Nu Nuchi, fuck…”

begins our newcomer, and then ends it by straightening himself, burping and putting his right arm across my shoulder.

“Your Nuchi would be over there.” I inform him.

He’s slim, silver-haired, with an urban suntan, and when he smiles and informs me that he “was just orientating myself” I see that he’s missing a couple of his front teeth: one from either row.

Vanuchi offers him a cigarette, but the newcomer waves him away, and placing his right arm in his dirty denim jacket, he roots out a bottle of Hemingway. He twists the cap off and takes a slug (‘in earnest’ as the ad goes).

“I’m after, after….”

“What are you after?” says Vanuchi, stressing the ‘you’.

“You wouldnaunderstan – though yuhshould.” He replies, not stressing anything: the words wafted on a swift sharp drunken sigh.

He stares ahead with head lowered, and then starts slowly and deliberately twisting and stretching his head as if it was a steering wheel in the hand of a drunk, soaked with determination to get himself aligned on the road ahead. “Listen” he says looking up at Nuchi “I lost my patch - give us yours, … please?”

Nuchi picks his phone out of his jacket pocket, and hands it over, where it is held in both of the newcomer’s hands and studied intently: the distance between forehead and screen undulating with the rolling road.

“A Nuchi – you’ve Eve’s number here?”

“Eve? Oh my God, Eve!” Vanuchi laughs, but the ripples of it are just out of time somehow; and then he just sits there stiff and frozen, the fag burning away in his hand.

The newcomer turns his gaunt, silver lined face away from me towards Nuchi, so all I see is the back of his pissed up head rolling and nodding with the road.

„You think it is wise in, in your condition?“ says Nuchi a little more quietly.

„Nuchi…“

„Okay“ Nuchi throws the cigarette out of the window, takes back his patch patch, rolls through his contacts, and then holds it to his ear.

„It is ringing.. just wait for whatever it is you are after, okay? „Eve, Hi it’s Nuchi. Look, please excuse me. Were you up? Look…“

But he doesn’t finish because the newcomer has his left hand folded around the glossy black stub of technology. He then slowly takes it from Nuchi as if it is a loaded gun and they were actors in some partisan-era thriller.

“Ieva?” he asks, lingering on her name. “Iev - it’s me, Ieva, listen. I’m coming… I’ll be there soon.”

There’s a pause, which he ends softly, “Eve, sunbeam, Ieva. Understand me, I’m begging you. Eve, I’m after, I’m after… fuck it, Ieva, … I’m after paradise.”

He begs her to wait for him, and then she hangs up.

We stop at the crossroads at the end of town.

“Where to?” I ask.

He hugs himself tight, and kicks out at the underside of the dashboard.

“Where to?” he mumbles copying my faux business-like manner, “fucking whores, you don’t understand – you just, fuck the whore, you just sit there. I’m after paradise, and you just sit there.”

He falls into silence - the back of his neck stretched forward and his chin resting close to his chest. I turn right, and we drive on to the river, the darkness spreading with the evening, tightening my vision ever closer around the beams of the transit’s headlights.