eating red beans and rice the clown thinking about how he doesn't know what he's doing or why he's doing it most of the time. he lets the fat black cat lick the bowl when he's done and returning to typing not p0em for the benefit of no one.
it comes and goes it seems.
he doubts any and all truth people try to lay on him. and there are so many. dig - their rationalogic reasoning comprehending a small fraction of what composes reality. what reality? which? whose?
he lights a cigarette contemplating either a nap or making coffee.

he makes coffee.

but they all will insist there is only one reality therefore only one truth and all that business. any other realities one may perceive is wrong and one should go see a doctor about fixing what's not right in one's head.

and he thinks about how he might be able to make what he writes funnier to other people who it would seem think it's serious for some reason, which ironically he finds funny.
or maybe it's not ironic.
but everyone's out to get him. they watch him constantly all the time.
they probably wanna know which side he's on. they're waiting for him to make a mistake, which he never does - yet.
he has the gods to thank for that. but there are no gods, not as we think of them anyways. not as we think of ourselves. anthropomorphic bullshit for the masses.
doctor what?

what doctor?
not until we make gods of ourselves in our own image, which is happening at an increasingly exponential rate. this is all before the fall of babylon, baby.
billions will die a variety of deaths.
be prepared. it's bound to be very exciting.

most of his teeth are breaking apart. he will be one of the billions who die. he keeps losing the wireless for some reason he has yet to figure out why. he's trying out a different USB adapter. the one in the computer is probably going kaputnik. so far - ok.
_^__^___^___

the clown supposes people believing in one truth is not such a bad thing if it seems to give them comfort and strength when they need it. that is sorta why he made up gazorbnik (if he did indeed make it up, or just heard or read it someplace sometime he doesn't now remember where or when if). humans are programmed to be this way.
it's just that he's been beaten over the head with other people's truth more than once or twice and so has some amount of negative feelings about it. and they keep right on a-coming. the gang's all here, baby.

/\/\/\/\//

when it comes to pass that the world agrees that the one only truth is gazorbnik, whatever it might mean to them individually, for truly it is such.
ain't it?
any idiot can recognize it. but maybe one has to be and/or acknowledge one is an idiot to come to realize that fact stranger than fiction.
an imagined whatnot. it is whatever. it is universal truth that might be applied to anything by anyone.
get with the program, people!

but what's the use? we expect none. but still we might believe. but what does it matter?
$$$ matters.
how can we profit from it? turn it into a religion? they make oodles of $$$ off their truth. but who will believe enough to give us $$$, as much as they are able? so much for that idea. haha.

but really, what a disaster for us if it were to happen, not just gazorbnik but anything being pronounced the one only universal truth, eh?

but fuck truth and all that comes with it.
for the clown the truth is that spaghetti with garlic followed by leftover birthday chocolate cake with chocolate icing do not mix.
he naps.

awakening and feeling better.
anything everything is truth. a dog turd is truth. passing clouds are truth. a sneeze is truth. what's the big deal about truth?
but he's probably missing the point.

he's missing something.
defective.
he misses his blue neptune home. nothing has been the same since he was kidnapped from there by space pirates to be abandoned here in this world. no wonder he's such a wreck. no wonder he never fit in. it's a wonder he's still alive.

he wonders.
about.
everything.
he wonders how it brings such joy and misery at once.
he wonders how jazz works.
but seriously, he wonders why he thinks up this shit too soon too late. everyone wants him to wake up. this is what he wakes up to, a mind whirligig in his head about senseless things. what fun it is. but there's no profit in it, so it is useless.
circling like a vulture over a dying carcass of truth savoring tearing into that dead meat. to each their own niche of the life cycles. ugly to some, beautiful to others. who are we to decide? who are you?
even gods withhold their judgment, right?

what does any of this mean? it means gazorbnik, dig?
what the fuck?
yes.