We will return to the program after this fracture

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expert plastic voices barter my conscience
under those redolent, unnecessary eyes;
percolate waves of synapsicide like sleeper cells
through black-hole pinpricks in deep-set mask,
guilty, of understanding dead light
and little else of living, lying moments
solve et coagula--consume and multiply
"Is", "is." "is" — the idiocy of the word haunts me. If it were abolished, human thought might begin to make sense. I don't know what anything "is"; I only know how it seems to me at this moment. -Robert Anton Wilson



I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
— Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights