The Book of Not: The Book of the Blue Plymouth: The Un-named

In a flash of heterogeneity, the world fell into a blender of galactic proportions (of sorts). Creativity became quite tangible, stood up, became disgusted with the whole thing, and popped off for a pint of ale. This having been the most sane thing to happen as yet, Sanity got up and joined him.

Reality swirled in a wholly blue manner, revealing absolutely nothing of merit. Things flashed madly in and out of existence like some entirely other sort of phenomena. On a whim, Kurt Vonnegut imploded, taking a sizeable hunk of Massachusetts with him. However, seeing as Massachusetts wasn't entirely sure it existed, the chunk wasn't all that big.

The burning, wretching, kvetching, and undulating mass of upheav'd mortality fell upon the plain of conscious absolvence heavily. Without an idea of sin, the mass whirled in a sort of stop-sign-like pirouette. The damage had been done, Life had sprung from the forehead of Death fully grown and proceeded to take a nap.

Guilt was riddled with neglect, and riddles were gilt with apathy. The foil of humanity fell back in its chair in a fit of laughter, practically in tears. Wang me up from the hoonei, it said. Froplich nyem pon itch gaou tie!

Good judgement visited the scene, displayed a healthy amount of itself and headed off looking for the Pub with Creativity and Sanity in it. God died and then brought Itself back to life. The dead popped back for a spot of tea, then overthrew Congress. The Universe expanded to Infinite Infinity and then took its own derivative, found it wholly lacking in pith or quality and then collapsed into a ball roughly the size of a largish Haddock. Not that anyone cared.

I watched my head explode in a blaze of color, then come to rest in a Sea of Tranquility. I was infinite. I did not exist. I won the lottery without having bought a ticket.

It ended.

It began again. Things were different this time. The world failed to impress me as anything I should pay attention to. A lot of it had to do with Spackling and ceiling tile. I forgot Memphis. Life was liquid, like a dream on laser disc. Or maybe not. Justification followed means down a path that turned right after a quarter of a mile. Killing seemed to me to be only a facet of a greater death, not truly an action, but more like a reaction to the stimulus of truth. Realization of the joy in gladness and fear turned into a swimming haven for the Lockian respect a man shows to his God. I didn't feel it. Reactionary politics replaced free-form poetic revelation at a time when God was dead. Things got hazy after that. There was water... and light... and then there was reminiscences of a monastic life that was never mine. Belief collided with doubt and brought the spasmodic relaxation only found within the soul of an innocent. I dreamed the dreams of a god. I behaved as if there was no truth and that love was not reachable for fear of oversight. I was alone and yet the universe lived within me. My mind crawled with the heat and light of a trillion burning suns. Binary truth escaped my lips and became a dualistic symbology of vilified wrath.

I feared that someone might understand me and I died.

I lay alone in the Mojave desert. Lucidity visited me and told me who I was. Then the grace of God visited me and blessed me with forgetfulness.

There was a light. It moved from above my head to below my feet. It did this three times. I sat up. Life began again. Some time near August I walked back home. Dog wasn't there.

In the back of my mind I believe that Dog has transitioned to another plain of reality. I see him sometimes, in the places he couldn't exist.

He is truth

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