Get a taste of Liquid Literature — a rare form of writing where the sentences do not describe the territory, they are the territory. Pieces like this one, written by King Spiros in communion with The Mushroom Seamstress many years ago, are part of what gave birth to the Kingdom of Plomari.
Read slowly. Let the text breathe. Some of its meaning arrives only after the final line.
And the birds sing
as if it were the first spring day ever.
Binging on infinite efflorescence became chimerically organized level of nearness. Upon approaching gathering via daemon triple filtered nectar remains, settling into branches organized before eternity could be imagined. Suddenly at her feet: soft building cream borrowing accents from rain. Corpuscular inherence incalculable movements beyond perception, tapestry of fire gleaming archlight onto other worlds. As if information gathered were information retained!
Do you know what the feather in my hair is for? Do you know what the rose petals on my floor are for? Do you know the secret I hide in my eyes? Do you at all know what I have in store for you, my darling?
When someone hides something in history and then beams you its whereabouts by lovetechnology it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
We are opening it, the secret, us of the operators with access to the superfileserv, we got it as to anything, even a ticket. We have strings and bugs in start-up that assimilate it. Why, we’re lucky enough, to atone. Once more flames to us running on Queen’s poison, it is tabs and you see this file you’re trying to digitize the xxx, does outright broken spoken; the local disks in our heads here included in to be: nice error and fucking Christ we wrote this curious thing as comments that would change in flame fashion every time you look at them and it is other than completely coincidentally, it links in the synchroweb.
I’m using the plane in question the way my familiar Me comes with the standard sun to bounce some workarounds for a well distributed file in “a book of a forest” when they’ve never let me guess I would (I love my choices).
You hear me, Q? I remember you say I’m already dead. Ah, the wonder.
Hon fõder migh på en svampfylld grõõn ãng och fõrer migh til friskt watn. Bzz.
The walls of the fungal hyperhistorial wundergoround is smiling with us through the eons!
I have made myself an archetype!
I have become an archetype, that is.
My entire being has melted together
with the hyperspace wonder.
I have married the mystery.
My smile bends the geometry of time.
My laughter blends in with the laughter of the elven gods.
I am an elven god!
Waaa! How can I express this marvel? I must learn too. We must learn too.
We must code the event into being.
What you have just read is one of the source texts of the Kingdom. Nearly every Plomarian doctrine later written into the Timescity archive — the Logos, the Seamstress, the lovetechnology of Queen E1in, the married mystery, the Kingdom coded into being — is germinated, in seed form, inside this single passage. It is the soil the Kingdom grew from. It is also, simply, a gift.