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So our brains are in people’s hair and unwashed clothes. Hardly hygienic. Also rather fatal, but at this point we are existing as a meme, so I’m not sure it matters.

However how we perceive things is supposed to be unique, therefore this couldn’t have happened. Besides, I’d rather break heads. So reality is going to fold. There will be a hiccup, and *pop*. There we are staring at a wall called purple.

“Maybe a black-purple” I say

She… she just shudders, I’m not the kind of person she want’s to be talking to, and she is touching me. It’d be uncomfortable if there was any attraction, but there’s not, so there isn’t a problem. We go our separate ways, and I have a burger for dinner… both causing reality to re-write itself, and spoiling my diet in one evening.

NOISE. That’s something that we haven’t discussed. The sound of your own brain exploding sounds like a wet popping noise, with overtures of gurgling snot to your own ears. I suppose I, and our erstwhile gallery owner, are the first people to experience that and remember it. This makes all the difference.

When we touched our perception of wavelengths reinforced each other. I know this is the case, because for a moment, with our enhanced perceptions, we were Gods (or one of the greats of our age*) and could understand everything, and remember one thing. We both chose to remember this, which was quite silly because she could have remembered this, and I could have remembered the meaning of life. We could have then shared after the event. There is a terrible lack of foresight there, for which I must apologise to everyone.

Anyway, back to the snickering-snack of perceptions augmenting. The data comes through rapidly when you can see everything, overwhelming the biological supercomputer you carry in your brain, and causing it to overheat. When things get hot, they expand… much like half of the sea level rise in the past 100 years. You see the sea level has risen 20 centimetres, 10 of which is due to the amount of water on land masses that has melted, 10 of which is due to the volume increase that occurs as things get warmer. Apply this to my/our brains. Bang.

This is still a surprise, because I would have expected a *crack* then a *slop*, as the brain expands, cracking the skull and then leaking out. However I am picking an explosion for narrative purposes. It’s a bit more blockbuster movie, you see.

… Tomorrow is the end. Maybe.

*See the epilogue, which thanks to the fold of space/blog/time was published yesterday.

In the diversity of the multi-dimensional space-time continuum, where reality folds, roles, and unfurls like a snapping ribbon, all the greats of our age sit around a large table considering what they have just watched being written. They confer:
“I knew if was going to end like that” one says.
“Mmm” adds another.
“Disappointment really” the one says again.
“Mmm” adds another.
“Are you even listening to me?” one insists, while asking a question, thus confusing the poor author who wants to throw question marks at it, but also wants to throw exclamation marks. Question! Exclamation? Insanity beckons.
“Mmm? Sorry, but we’re vaguely omnipotent, and there is rather a lot to watch” the other apologises, rather politely.
“Thank God* for that” The one concludes our story.

*And he’s possibly referring to themselves; As they are one, two, and many, and so on.

Looking at her, I realise I have forgotten her name. This is OK, because I have forgotten a lot of things in my life, and this isn’t the worst. What I can’t forget is that I really, really shouldn’t touch her.

She has overheard our conversation and reaches out and touches me.

My head explodes, as does hers, showering the surrounding with grey matter. Only is it grey? What I see as grey, you might not see as grey. Which is sort of the point really.

… tomorrow: The end, before you know how it finishes.

Purple. This is, apparently, the colour of lust and the aristocracy. I guess those two must go hand-in-hand somehow. Like love and marriage (as in they do, but they also might not. I have a friend who just got married and he hasn’t/didn’t tell anyone. This has somewhat upset the natural order of life. I’m not sure why). But purple that is actually black. The insanity!

“It’s black” I say.
“That’s what she said” one of the anonymous art glitterati remarks, gesturing to the gallery owner, whilst shockingly deigning to speak to me, thus defying some art clichés..
“Oh” I say.

Because Oh is where it is, or where I was. After all, I didn’t care.

This might come as a shock to some of you. Some lesser beings might take this opportunity to strike up an accord with the lovely lass, because classically that’s what she is… only that’s not what I think she is, and this, my friends; this is a story about perception. So my perception is now your reality.

And now she is wondering over to me, and the race memory is holding its breath, which is truly an exhilarating experience, let me tell you.

... Stop here and go to your tea and biscuits. For tomorrow you'll be picking parts of my Brain out of your hair, and that's not an experience you'll want to read through again.

I was walking down the isle of the grimy gallery. I understand that the gallery itself is one of the richer artistic institutions, and yet seems to revel in its seamy underbelly status. Sadly it does carry the stigma of the fo-seamy status. There is money here, and no amount of thick coats of pre-applied grim is going to hide the smell of success. Likewise, no matter what she wears, the gallery owner can hide the well manicured hand. There is a girl who never did a days work in her life. I nod at her through the crowd. She doesn’t see me, and I don’t care. I only know her from the magazines anyway.

Not that doing no work is a bad thing, because I am, of course, referring to having done no manual work. I understand that this level of success doesn’t come without some form of graft; you can’t be this good by only having calloused knees. Sorry, my mind wonders while I walk. Sometimes I whistle as well, but that’d stand out here. I’ve never been to a quieter gallery showing in my life.

Then I’ve never really been to one at all either. I have seen them on TV, and they are noisy and full of Champaign. This is not the case here, and again Hollywood has cheated me.

I think the silence has a personality as well, because it bubbles and ripples. This could be because our race memory has dug something up from its deep and darkest depths; there is potential here. Potential for what, we don’t know, but that’s understandable, because race-memory is theory, and we don’t know if it really exists. Anyway, we are right where we need to be, because here there is a black wall marked “Purple”.

Here’s a hint: This is important to our true story, it’s not just artistic pretension. You’ll find out some more tomorrow, until then, read some more books.

Round faced people. They look like the moon. I wonder if this means we cannot trust them quite as much as we should, or do, or whatever. This, however, is not what I want to talk about now. I want to talk about tea. Or rather the colour of tea.... but then I realise I've spoken about it before. Where? Well I know, and yes... I could have permalinked to it here. I could do that, or I could make you do the work if you are interested. If you want the tea colour reward, then you must do the work. Use the search function. Because there is a search function, and we love that. Or you love it, rather.

Colour is very important in life, so it's fascinating to me that I don't see the same purple as you see. It's all wavelengths... wavelengths and data; information striking your perceptions and stroking you cortex in a predefined, yet unique, fashion. Given that this is unique, I wonder what would happen if it, well, wasn't.

This is where we'll start our little story.

True story, swear to god...

... And more tomorrow, I promise.

Magnificent sprawl of bountiful clouds carrying a delicious payload of sweetness-in-water.
Noxious fumes blocking my sweet sun?

Not sure, but it's a nice photo I've taken. However a lesson in the evils of instant photography; you still have to take time to compose, which I almost did, but nearly didn't.

The tree and the building and the whatever else tainting my art shouldn't be there, yet I was with it enough to have the light, the subject, in the middle.

I could edit this, but that'd be cheating.. and I don't like cheaters.

I hope I look this good when I'm older.

I wonder if it annoys you in the afterlife, y'know the not having organs thing? I wonder if it's frustrating, all that lumbering and such that seems to be the obligatory for the mummified undead? I'd like to be the stealth-ninja of the undead. The decomposing Mummy Ninja of whirlwind death.

Perhaps I could be the mutant decomposing Mummy Ninja of death? With extra arms. Wait. No. I'd have a mutation like throwing lightening. The extra arms will just be other mummies that I have killed with my ninja ways. I'll get them stitched on by an assistant, possibly called Igor. Not sure about that yet.

But I would sleep in a glass cabinet because that's trendy and new age, and then everyone could see me and be AFRAID.

I can't help but wonder if this is what the future will look like. Some distant part of me hopes that it will... but then that distant part is quite far away, possibly smoking crack given some of the things that it seems to like.

So this building has become a monstrosity and I hate it very much, thank you kindly.

I hate it because I like it, and because it tries to be all industrial. I don't like it because it tries to impress. I want to burn it down as I'm frightened that we'll end up in some hideous metropolis future where all the movies are silent and old, and hardly anyone dies in amusing ways.

The spirit of Christmas is dead and I killed it. I killed it because Christmas themed episodes of your favourite TV shoes blow. Smallville I'm looking at you.