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void* Randomness ( )
/* How are you gentlemen? All your James Joyce are belong to us! */
{
/* December 18, 2003 */
/* PISCES: You will continue in your hopeless round of blind dates with dugongs, presumably always in the pious hope that this one will be better, somehow, more special, than all the others...

(You're the one on the left)

[[ Bondage equipment and melted chocolate are optional. This is an in-joke. If you're not Toby, don't even try to get it. It'll only stop you from sleeping at nights. ]]

[[ You... you... dugong ]] */
/* December 12, 2003 */
/* The Moderately Insane Stack Based Language is working. As tradition dictates, I hereby include "Hello world" and "n green bottles" as examples. Be afraid.

{hello world} \out

#100 #1 { .\mv #-1 \+ \dup. \dup. \dup \dup \dup \not { .{No} .\swap .\rm } \*if { green bottles hanging on the wall} \+ \n \out \dup \dup \not { .{no} .\swap .\rm } \*if { green bottles hanging on the wall} \+ \n \out {and if No green bottle should accidentally fall} \n \out \dup \dup \not { .{no} .\swap .\rm } \*if {there'd be } \swap \+ { green bottles hanging on the wall.} \+ \n \out {} \n \out } \*while

HTML eats indentation. Oh well. It was difficult enough to read to begin with. */
/* December 7, 2003 */
/* It's interesting how one can create so many narratives without even trying. For example:

It is often the case that I say things suddenly and for no reason in the middle of the night, then for some reason find it necessary to explain what I just said, or clarify it, or fictionalise it, and so on...

""They're my little bits of entropy!" he said, turning to the tree of golden apples on his desk and rubbing his fingers together" he said, trying to work out how to make this sound even faintly amusing on his blog...

he typed...

and so on. The problem is that thinking about something - at least in my mind - inevitably spawns thought about thinking about that thing, and so on ad infinitum, or until I get bored, whichever is sooner. Like russian dolls stack indivisible thoughts divided. In this paradox complete.

</pretentious loser> */
/* December 5, 2003 */
/* When the frost is on the ground, and when one breathes out it makes little puffs of non-smoke in the cold still air...

And when it's so quiet one can here one's own movement through that air, the little sounds of displacement and replacement...

And when in this peace one is at peace, with idea sitting around perfect and whole, faceted and of which you can see sides which are all different colours and textures and shapes...

It seems so easy to believe that healing is separate from breaking, that one is working towards a greater whole and one working to fragmentation...

But would you really want to live in Parmenides' It? That which is, is, and that which is not, is not, and never the twain shall meet?

... because healing and destroying are often two sides of the same coin, like Heraclitus' opposites-as-one, like a mobius strip with two sides that seem to be facing in opposite directions, but are really the same one ...

I wish that weren't true. The better I get the worse I get, and vice versa.

*/
return 0;
}

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