A very sick dream with a hat turned towards me and said:
“I’ll have you recruited in no time.” - (Ag Nom, Nong)
My colleagues were able to extract a number of symbols or characters from your recordings,” said the xenolinguist. “Could you elaborate?”
“Uel was used to solving crimes that nobody else could. He was an animal when it came to logical thinking – he could think himself into trans-waves. His latest assignment involved a massive case of ambiguity, concerning not only the perpetrator, who could or could not be X, but also the crime itself, that could or could not be Y. On the one hand, a piece of footage indicated that a young woman had been killed while visiting her grandmother’s grave, on the other hand no such indication was available from the point of view of the woman, who may or may not have been brutally murdered at a cemetery. Death had occurred and great suffering had been inflicted. Or had it? Other perspectives, however, allowed a radically different logical approach to the dilemma at hand. Uel had to involve an old NOR-matrix in order to get a grip on this constellation.
Other, far more precarious dichotomies were further complicating the situation Uel had deftly navigated himself into. The State Bank of Illinois was missing a considerable amount of gold. The police didn’t have the slightest idea how to retrieve the lost metal. A different voice, however, claimed that no gold had been stolen from the vault, for the simple reason that there was no such thing as a State Bank of Illinois to begin with. Uel was now getting somewhere, slowly, unsurely. Whereas his teeth were getting somewhere else.”
“So your predominant school of thought is something you call Golemism. Can you tell me more about how golemes play into your perception?”
“A beautiful woman called Anrim was seen as a ghostly reflection in the window of a shop where one could purchase theatrics. Uel followed Anrim’s reflection; it felt natural, grand, dazzling. Uel was in love with Anrim, which was not the name of the woman, but rather of the reflection that depicted a woman in a window. Uel tried to assess his precise feelings towards the female reflection and realized that there were none.
Obviously Uel was missing something essential. How else was it possible that infringement took place in a firm that had gone legit so many years ago? Uel conducted several deep interviews with the employees as well as the department manager. Nobody was able to give any revealing information concerning the aforementioned felony. Reality was becoming a mad whore that was about to bring in the pimp.
There was also trick meat involved. Uel thought he wouldn’t be able to get it done; the meat was feeding his dilemmas. Silently, Uel stared into the possibility of overlapping worlds.
Over the years, he had gotten used to his neighbor, an ongoing man named Niwin who thought he could do things. One day he flew deep into the skies and never returned. There was another man, Karl. Karl could move things from A to B by taking a mental picture of B and renaming it A in his mind: Suddenly the desired object would travel from A to A (= B) instantaneously. Uel got to know yet another man whose name is of no significance. He was able to make everything third. He had a third arm, came in third, he would tell Uel things always for the third time. When he woke up, he would have his third-person hallucination, which usually involved a fifth father with phenomenal legs.”
“The past being a function, or rather an amputation, of the future and present – how did it affect you personally, your ways? Apparently your whole perception is tightly linked to the Golemist origins, as is your pronunciation, which features what we’ve come to call golemic elasticity. Even your sudden hyper-movements turn out to be an ex-goleme in itself.”
“On the way to the morgue/church, Uel saw a father/yagg with his daughter. ‘Daddy/TPW,’ said the girl. ‘What is it, dear?’ answered the man/yagg. ‘Daddy/TPW, I swear I won’t let a single rain drop fly by me without recognizing its full superstring vibrato!’ What a wonderful, wonderful child, Uel thought. The numbers on his face let him smile an internal smile and the numbers in his eyes let him shed an eternal tear. Uel knew that his biceps would not be able to lift really heavy weights if it continued to be just another string of symbols, morphemes or pheromones. For he realized the sadness of the simple fact that the little girl couldn’t keep her promise, couldn’t keep anything at all.
There was a man in the church/morgue who was equipped with seven legs and a secondary head called caputtino. That man wasn’t breathing, his two heads weren’t moving. There was a red dot protruding from an ear-like opening on his left side. Uel explored the man’s body, its various features and featurettes. There was some sadness coming out of that eye-like hole on the front side of the second, smaller head. Although no signs of life were detectable, Uel wasn’t able to deduce this man’s death. There was a definitive dilemma involved, the basic nature of which couldn’t be explained in the usual terms of logical exclusion. On the one hand, there were many indications of a brutal, relentless murder that had taken place right there. On the other hand, murder involved somebody or at least something becoming dead, which didn’t seem to be true. It would be an exaggeration to state that anything that Uel was observing at the moment was obvious, which wasn’t the case at all. However, probability was an important aspect of the man’s current state of affairs. Uel went into a mode of hyper-close strangeological exploration, which enabled him to draw incredibly precise conclusions from the superstring echoes that were reverberating inside the ribspace continuum. By applying his masterful organs of zooming in and listening to each of the two dead (?) heads and each of the seven members of the man’s body, as well as to the red dot, Uel started immediately collecting valuable, first-grade information leading him to a small belief system, which has to remain unnamed due to its provisional nature. This auxiliary belief system was based on the premise that every part of the man’s dead (?) body was connected to the possibility of death as well as to the possibility of immortality. The connective tissue – Uel was beginning to fall in love with it – was not as precious to Uel as his power to ag nom, nong things. He deepened his explorations into the dualities of things, applied psychopathics as diverse as the funnymen in his head circus, as perverse as the skepticism that he had led to clinical perfection. The body beside him started to jerk. There were breathing sounds, microscopic murmurings of sorts, bad teeth leading nowhere. This is when Uel produced a small, elegant quantum hammer which had a fine reverb to it. He used to work most of his cases with this subtle tool, dissolving nasty dichotomies by hitting the right molecules at the right angle. By striking the head and the eyes of the body that was still sort of break-dancing on its death bed, Uel established a solid status quo: The body finally embraced the concept of death and faded to black. Uel was sweating, his heart expiring like a nervous sun. His brain continued to rotate, maintaining levitation inside his skull.”
“But what about abstract things, like … due? Or names?”
“The curator of the famous WUN gallery reported a crime – one of the most expensive paintings from the current exhibition had been stolen. At least it wasn’t there anymore, at least not where the curator expected it to be. As it turned out, the curator’s mood was swinging like the 20s, thus promoting theft and robbery.
Uel was more than willing to go over dead bodies in order to find one that wasn’t dead yet, but when he talked to the curator of the internationally renowned gallery, he couldn’t help but notice that the curator’s voice wasn’t originating from his (or its) mouth, which wasn’t moving. The curator’s lips were taking baby steps towards opening and closing, but without noticeable results. The talking was obviously done by something in the background. Uel, psychopathically skeptical by nature, zoomed in on the curator of the internationally renowned WUN gallery, especially his (or its) head, and realized that he had been talking to a mirror the whole time. Once again, a case could be solved simply by applying the Rule Of Four.
Uel moved on, but not without checking his agenda first. The next item was a young girl that had gone missing. Her parents, John and Jeanne Buras, were literally dying from pain of not-knowing. First, there was the not-knowing of the current location of their beautiful child who was not only missing, but also heavily missed by its caring parents. Secondly, nobody knew who had abducted their daughter and why. Once again, Uel’s main rule for investigative work of any kind came in handy, thus providing him with the most important not-knowing of all: Were Joanne and John Buras actually parents, or was their daughter, as they called the entity supposedly most precious to them, in fact nothing more than a delusion created by the need for dramatic narrative? Uel’s skepticism kicked in the doors of perception and revealed the young couple as a piece of melting ice in a glass of ginger lemonade. This moment of goleme-ex-vagina was accompanied by the apparition of a gnarly monstrosity with five teeth and unreal thin legs. It had a small third rudimentary leg between the two normal ones, thus subtly parodying the concept of genitalia.
Only two houses farther, a horrible manslaughter had occurred, and Uel was called in for deconstruction purposes. A convoy of Dadaistically modified vehicles was to make sure that Uel arrived safely at the crime scene. The primary challenge was to find out whether the term ‘crime scene’ was adequate at all. Firstly, a crime was needed. No crime could be detected. Secondly, an appropriate location was needed. No location could be detected.
Uel watched the kidnapped girl die in the arms of the dealer with a heart of platinum. He used to know the guy from so many transactions gone awry. Uel’s red hands were consumed by the histrionic particles that were flowing from the past into the future and viscera versa, exchanging quantum vibratos, bleeding nicely into one huge goleme called existence. He remembered the pathetic words spoken by his grand master Ag Nom, Nong, imagined how his misdirected teeth were melting through the time-flesh continuum, rendering everything and everyone nonsense. The noses of so many innocents stolen right in front of their faces, the irregularity of verbs had also made a lasting impression on Uel’s estranged ‘mind.’ He kept, however, doing what he was best at – and resumed those cognitive biases most needed when solving a crime.
A mole named Garry the Shifter was found guilty of trying to have certain activities. Uel was the first detective to arrive at Garry’s luxurious home, where lots of technological breakthroughs had been made possible due to the fact that Garry the Shifter was a supernatural when it came to tight anuses. But what exactly had he perpetrated? Uel was welcomed into the house by a meandering robotic arm that was fixed to the fourth wall. The arm was capable of gentle gestures and grand schemes, combining both into an experience that made Uel disappear and reappear ultra-loyal: Thus he realized that Garry the Shifter was a brilliant, benevolent soul who could not harm a fly’s anus, and that his technological adventurism was giving future generations astounding birth jobs that were paradigm-shifting beatific. Garry’s private army of goleme-like sticks, of which he was very fondly, listened to each and every word of their creator, granting him every possible wish instantly. There were not enough words to describe the non-existence of crimes that certain forces were trying to attach to Garry’s micro biotic nano-organism.
When Uel was in school, he used to play poker with all of his friends and teachers, admirers as well as haters. It was quite baffling how he was able to read his opponent’s mind, nobody could fool Uel, no poker face was enough to bluff him, it was breathtaking. Everyone was trying their best to deny Uel’s psychological genius, but Uel was winning every single poker game, again and again and again. Even if nobody was playing. He had crystal nerve endings and could talk anybody into thinking that a poker game was on when in reality there was no poker game at all. People around Uel started to question the definition of their worlds. There was no distinction between poker and non-poker, people started forgetting what the relevant properties of poker were. They were laughing and singing and yelling possible and impossible things, all of them resulting in poker games sprouting out of sleeves like mushrooms out of the ordinary. Weird whispers were getting more and more rebellious, poker was the new thing apparently. Long after Uel had become a PI, his friends and teachers were still playing those old poker games – without teeth, mouths, eyes, heads, lungs, bluffing – endless poker sessions to the nth degree.
Uel had problems with his red hands again; it was something of a miracle that he still could control them. For it is a known fact that red tends to block messenger proteins and enables friendly fire among neurinos.”
“Please tell me more about your most influential manipulator Ag Nom, Nong. What was his approach to Golemism in particular and to de-structuralist processes in general?”
“Uel fell suddenly asleep. He wasn’t part of anything as of now. His glasses were falling, everything was involved in a downward movement. But Uel wasn’t part of this anymore. Crimes of all sizes and colors were happening around him, children were being kidnapped, cats decapitated, innocent bystanders tortured by members of special trocar units gone rogue. So many bad buildings (riddlings) were trying to get under Uel, to become Uel, but Uel just wasn’t part of them. He missed all his messages, he ignored all the questions and riddles that had attached themselves to the different instances. When Uel finally awoke, there was nothing to be taken care of, not a single unsolved case, nothing mysterious had remained. Everything was now clear to everybody, and everybody was clearly innocent. And that’s how Uel knew that no crime had ever happened before. But as soon as he regained consciousness, the crime rate rocketed into the heavens: Havoc God, hay wired to do certain things …
Uel was on his way to a crime scene that needed immediate evaluation. A lot of hearsay, disgusting things about a man beyond the Bruising Woods … Immediately after that Uel got very tired and decided to take a long walk. He had a lot on his contemplate and needed time to think, to reassess. His stroll took him one step beyond the Bruising Woods where he found guilt to be just another fruit hanging from trees. His eyes were wider than ever before, yet all he saw was ripe, lush, juicy guilt. But where are the crimes, sins and vices that go along with all this guilt, he asked himself. Not one wrongdoing was to be found, not one woman assaulted, not one elder-goo bludgeoned … Uel was pretty much exhausted, yet he somehow mobilized his very last power sources and followed the trail of guilt that had been left by the animals around him. Like swines they were, swines of brutal death and depravity, disguised as motorics of infinity. Uel thought of Ag Nom, Nong and his mischievous, diverse teachings. Golemes, he used to tell his students, can glide with you into the guilt’s den, and right in the middle of it you’ll find your personal happiness. Uel’s left eye was slowly closing now, he could see only half of the picture. He began to understand that he was the one, he had always been the only one to commit one last crime to end all crimes.”
“Once you had realized there was no difference between connotation and denotation, you were able to develop physical golemes.”
“As of now, Uel was moving boldly into the heart of immorality. In his wake he recruited thousands of golemes. Uel did the only thing he could do in a situation like this: He made a huge goleme out of everything he knew and respected, hated, adored, abhorred … ‘When you look at this, you go straight to Japany,’ he was told once. But Uel’s golemes stayed right where he was. His dad didn’t have the informational capacity, his mom was always saying that all is good the way it is. It was quite unnerving, really.
Uel kept improving his malignant creation, putting into it all his powers of good and evil, heaven and hell. Tons of nucleotides went into his accumulation of all sin and greatness, weakness of character, bravado, crazado. Soon, enough golemes would be ready to substitute the whole existence with homogenous chowder. The machine equations seemed to check out nicely, this was going to become the most brutal event in history …”
“So the number of syllables you use in a certain context has directly to do with the golemic density?”
“After some days of hard work, Uel rested and saw that his slave had become a master in its own right, fathering more and more slaves that would go on to become masters in their own right. Billions of trillions of layers of races, tribes, civilizations and subcultures. The cuteness of the world was gone, now there was the endless reign of Ag Nom, Nong. His manipulations kept guiding Uel through the mystic twists of European penal systems. Punishment came to all, for all are to be punished. There is so much punishment in this world, so many crystalline visions of penalty for sins far beyond …
Uel had many friends, one of them was Leg, his partner in crime. Uel had received his latest call a few minutes ago, it was about a crime that didn’t commit. The event needed to be evaluated and analyzed immediately as well as profoundly, but Uel felt that he wasn’t up to it on his own, so he called for help. Leg was punctual as always. He had his ‘solutroika’ with him, consisting of a stick, a little motor and a slimy dot. He was capable of combining those three elements in ways everyone else would consider unimaginable or uncanny. The tension he created between the aforementioned objects was key to understanding how they functioned. This particular case was approached by Leg in such a way that the slimy dot had to be put inside the motor which Leg then mounted onto the stick. As the motor started running, a girl appeared out of the stick’s head and stated, besides the obvious facts, two or three less obvious ones. For example: They were trying to reenact World War IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII, but ended up with something completely different. Quick, the cops are underway. Uel thanked Leg for his support which had always been as effective and fast as today. The ghastly girl disappeared and the motor-cum-stick fell apart. Leg was already leaving, but Uel realized that he still didn’t have the slightest idea what the crime in question was all about. Were there deaths involved? Decontamination? Extortion? Contortion? Conviction? Infliction? Leg stopped, turned around and promptly built a new object: By pulling the slimy dot onto a string and around the stick in a mirror-like manner, one of the motor’s apertures came in direct contact with the ‘en-slimed one.’ Somehow the rotation properties of the motor can be altered by slime, which was now spiraling around the stick, rendering it a tri-tech magic wand. Leg asked Uel to think aloud, and as Uel began to communicate his thoughts on many different subjects as diverse as jurisdiction, art, hauntology, etc., he realized that footnotes were forming out of thin air like strings of mold and landed in a condensed state on the floor. They seemed to be commenting on Uel’s thought processes, thus realizing his full crime-solving capacity. Interestingly enough, a thought about the advantages of hormonal dysfunction led to a footnote that said: Therefore this crime must be full of adrenal… and a random vision of monks finding their wholesomeness on an odious, far-away planet, in a galaxy yet unknown, was accompanied by this footnote: Cf. Jacob & Clyde, Siamese double-murder cases, p. 166. It didn’t take long to attach another big fat thank you to his helpy friend. When Uel felt that the case was slowly closing, he produced another of those helpful, translucent footnotes: 20 % of the whole population is supposed to be intelligent, but I know only 2 intelligent people: Uel & Leg. Uel wanted to ask Leg once again to help him out, to decipher this message – but Leg was gone. He had been gone since the day a chew-chew amputated Uel clean below his waist, taking not only Leg with him. The case remained unresolved. There must have been twin mutants involved, obviously, who had killed each other off one by one, or at least somebody who looked like he could be killed. But there was nothing there, the crime scene was a huge, tall, impossible, hanging from the goleme tree as it acted out every degenerate piece of software that had been installed there by Uel and his deceptoids.
There was an incident in the theater the other day. Hes had come to help Uel out with a complicated case he had been working on his entire life. They were witnessing a very bad play about jugglers, written by a juggler, and it was pretty obvious that they weren’t the only ones who felt utter boredom and even disgust due to the play’s uncountable structural and poetic weaknesses. Hes and Uel, on the other hand, had been poets for a long time, and not without success. Secretly, they had already begun rewriting the play as it went on and on and got more ridiculous and unbearable with every passing minute. Their poetic tandem, however, had gifted them with brilliant lyrical fruits of fancy wisdom. Their poems included When Do You Go Forever? and How Would You Told You. They used to tour the greatest cities on the planet and were awarded many prizes for best tandem poetry. But then Uel became enamored with his very first investigative job which led him far away from Hes. The estranged duo tried to hold their friendship together, but Uel’s new passion, cracking complex cases wide open (like the one with the non-living guum that had all of a sudden landed in the backyard of a gay couple, who later turned out to be detectives themselves), was doing their relationship no good. Years passed by. Hundreds of unsolved cases and poetry recitals later Hes and Uel accidently met at a restaurant that both of them had never visited before. They immediately realized how they had missed each other this whole time and how badly they needed to be together again, to catch up, to plan strange lyrical undertakings, to be an integral part of the avant-garde underground that had been building up for some time now. They didn’t have to lead secret lives anymore, they didn’t need to hide their poetic properties and tandem ambitions. The only thing they needed right now was each other. And that’s how they ended up in that little off-off-theater, semi-enjoying a dreadful play about two jugglers who were romantically involved and made a very successful, internationally renowned juggling tandem, getting huge gigs in major cities all over the world, living their dream lives of independence, art and juggling. But then one of them, Leo, decided to turn his (and consequently their) life upside down by completely changing the course of action. Juggling didn’t do it for him anymore, so he invested his full attention and energy into the one thing nobody thought possible: mugging. Then the curtain fell. End of act I. Uel was eager to get the hell out of this masterful fail of a play and suggested to Hes that they should start working on their tandem again immediately. But Hes was skeptical. Her mood dropped in a second, she was a veritable witch now, treating Uel unfairly, letting him feel responsible for everything bad that had ever happened to her or to the world in general. ‘Beat it!,’ she yelled at him. Uel was perplexed. Everything had been going so well again, and then this brutal change of mind. He felt betrayed, like the juggler in the play. Then he identified with Leo’s mugging ambitions and ran off behind the curtain.”
“You told me earlier that Ag Nom, Nong had conceived a ‘kaleidoscopic halo’ to derange reality?”
“There was a very important visitation by Leg coming up, so Uel got himself ready. Leg came within an hour and brought with him a present so tender and sweet, Uel was moved to the bottom of his heart. It was a so-called ponderolus-tomato, Leg explained: ‘This tomato, my friend, is the best you have ever tasted or will ever taste. I’m not promising too much, my friend, rather too little, so do me a favor, corroborate the beauty ov ids taste!’ Uel was slowly becoming suspicious of the phrase my friend, which was utterly atypical of Leg. Was he trying to tell him something in a roundabout way? There was a great-looking tomato in Leg’s hand alright, but was it really all about its supposedly unbelievable tastiness? Uel moved his hand slowly towards the tomato and took it. He bit into it, causing juice to squirt and re-squirt. The tomato tasted like name. O’Neill-ish. A miraculous non-taste that had been created by some deity to divert our attention from the creepy facts of existence. Leg was watching Uel as he was analyzing the epic quality of the vegetable, devouring it at a rapidly growing pace. A caustic grin started to replace Leg’s face, which was slowly rotting away while the grin was usurping the most relevant parts of it. Uel stopped eating and looked at the tomato in his hands – he was eating his own heart. Leg was standing there like a beast-god soldier, his grin had almost entirely consumed Uel’s sphere of perception by now. This could not be Leg – and it was not.”
“And yet English remains a foreign tongue to you, as it is the case for me with Murango or yTyt, which I was privileged enough to study in great detail.”
“It was almost too late when Uel realized that he had never been to a country show before. But he was lucky enough to get the last seat available in the Great Hall of Boom where Gme had a completely sold-out gig. Gme’s style was all about facetick, an original kind of facial magic. He would start his program by telling the audience: ‘Yes, that’s how I look, for real.’ Then he would go on and suck his nose out, stick it in his left ear and pull its tip out of the right one. This stunt was always a killer, or focus, as Gme liked to refer to his most seminal stage lunatics. Gme had gotten a scholarship with Dingoman, the great Austrian magician and entertainer. He had been artist in residence at the UKM, AFkdfkF, and KWN. Gme’s career was just starting to rise toward the heavens when suddenly implausibility hit: About 10 minutes into the set, Gme was pulling his own leg and taking it to the next level, when Uel realized that his hands and face belonged to an old crabman. He immediately left his seat and went to the men’s room to take a good look at his hands and face: both were gone. What had started out as a typical old-crabman’s-hands-and-face syndrome had evolved in less than one minute into a hands-and-face-gone syndrome. In the meantime, Gme was focusing on his mouth, which was filling up to the brim with members from the audience. Uel was suffering from the disappearance that was more disturbing than imagined. Meanwhile, Gme was playing a game of chess with his hair. The audience went nuts, literally. As Gme began his beloved nutcrack checkmate routine, Uel was losing the last and most important parts of his name, thus becoming ueless. Maimwhile, Gme had recruited a young man from the audience to be his existential noseboy. The man rose from the stage and shrank visibly, while levitating towards Gme’s face. After some flying around, the man-nose landed on Gme’s nasal receptacle like a fly on a sniper’s rifle. The audience was dying a slow, awesome death. But there’s no showmanship without knowhowmanship, so Uel needed to know how the fuck he could survive with only 0,0000004% of his original body mass intact. Slowly but surely, Gme’s extraordinary performance came to an end, which mangled Uel back into consciousness. He left the men’s room as a fully developed male organism. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself between two toes of a goleme he had built when nothing else would make sense.”
“But what exactly is the difference between Golemism and Plastilism?”
“Uel set out to recover from his loss. Over the last years he had lost so much, but most of it was not really important. Except for that one thing that really was. A beautiful woman that he had made for himself out of flotsam and jetsam. He knew how illegal such a drastic measure was, but what was he supposed to do against that feeling of cataclysmic desolation? He just had to do it. So he went out of his way to find the right materials for his little side project. He was still doing his detective work, he still read a lot about Plastilism. But he also gathered wood and old clothes and shoes and stockings for the fine girl that had yet to appear in his arms and in his heart. Day and night Uel was working relentlessly. He was now, however, not only protecting the law, but also breaking it in twenty different places.
Uel was alone, sitting on the train home. His mother had left when he was very young, and now he would see her for the first time. Uel’s mom. What was her name again? He didn’t know. He did know that his mother had left them, Uel and his father, when Uel was just an unborn paroxysm. She had left them for money, for fame. For good. What was her name again?
He got on the train which was a speed vehicle. From the last to the last and from huge to the latest, the brochure said. And then Uel and his mom would go on and redirect the Forest of Tremendous. Then it would follow the road up until the nane of Zoz, down to the market, reacting with some random noise, up until his mother would await him at platform number … what was her name again? Uel’s mother, she must have known. But what was it again, this sound of redemption, a morality play of sorts, that obligation towards the grey area between two orphaned brains. Uel’s mom must have been an orphan herself. So she thought she might give her son the knowledge that had been given to her. Uel’s mother has never had a proper name, obviously. She called out to herself in the mirror, and the mirror responded in an alien language which had to be translated by a highly specialized device called RAILGUN. Every time she called out her name into the mirror’s void, it would feed back negatives, making motherly stuff appear. RAILGUN communicated with the mirror’s time-lapsed organs in a number of voice-overs. Then it transported different micro-phonetic packages into its stem. Connecting razor-sharp blades with sys-mantic appliance, RAILGUN’s constant clicking sent the mirror back into his mother’s womb, the womb without a name. Uel was sitting in his train and rolling towards his mother and her nameless mirror. An accumulation of brain tissue had started in his left vest pocket, and when the conductor came to check his ticket, Uel produced a shiny nothing. What was the name again? The conductor watched closely, begetting more and more scepticism as the thread from Uel’s pocket grew longer and thicker. After a minute, the conductor started to migrate into a vortex of moral obligations and decadence, rediscovering his love for tunnelling. The eponymous syndrome got unveiled, re-activating the ethics commission in the mirror again, the RAILGUN pounding away on the weird womb. When Uel reached his destiny, he was nothing but a whisper in a cosmic ear …
Uel’s get-together with the stars had been a very successful enterprise. They taught him how to read between the lines, any lines: As of now, Uel was their greatest student. When night came in, Uel stood between the darkness and watched the skies in anxious anticipation of the … Now he knew for sure that Ag Nom, Nong was one of them, the most remote of all. Uel watched closely the celestial morality plays evolve further and further from the truth, enveloping Uel’s infinitudes into the Book of Cosmos. There it was, the constellation of Golemism, fighting the never-ending battle between good and evil, two sides of a coin called Ag Nom, Nong. So that’s how he could be so wise, see so much more than Uel, whose eyes started to give out more and more often, until one day no starlight was reaching Uel’s soul. His teeth started to crumble under the weight of Ag Nom, Nong’s stellar pages, making Uel a kind of bookmark. Suddenly, something very important hit Uel like utter blindness is hit by all the light of the universe condensed into one perfect beam: There was no meaning whatsoever to the stars and their monstrous doings. Ag Nom, Nong had played him once again, made Uel run into this cruel trap of immensity – but there was just the projection of visions of shadows of replicas of shadows of movements of glitches of … Uel closed the Book of Cosmos once and for all, and regained his eye sight. A new power source came into being that night, and Uel felt secure between the darkness, confident as never before …
When Semyon Afigeev was 11, he jumped from a high place. He didn’t die, but landed on the cover of a very important magazine instead. He was able to lead a fulfilling existence on the cover, when two years later he suddenly found himself once again in a high place. He didn’t think twice and jumped again. And for the second time he landed on the cover of a magazine: Most Wanted Criminals Monthly, through which Uel was browsing just now, as he needed to stay informed in all criminal matters, naturally. When he closed the magazine, he realized that the cover had changed since he first opened it. Uel didn’t know Semyon, but his intellect told him that this might be just the kind of case he needed in order to rescue his faltering career. He thought fast and sharp, combining and shuffling all the facts and myths and theories he knew about faces, magazine covers and transformative occurrences. When he was done thinking, he had solved the puzzle: he was looking for a teenager born in Benzokolodsk. He had to find Semyon as soon as possible. But this is where Uel’s thinking was flawed: His detectors didn’t get him to the conclusion that he wasn’t holding just an unusually highly resolved photograph in his hands, but actually the missing boy himself. It would be too complicated to explain the details of how Uel arrived at his mistake, it must suffice to mention that he started looking in all the wrong places while at the same time forgetting more and more about the magazine and its exceptionally vivid cover shot. Once he had misplaced this issue, doom rose above Uel’s head and his case, which as of now had become impossible to solve. But Uel was unaware of it all. Instead he kept searching in foster homes, in children’s hospitals and video stores. But Semyon Afigeev wasn’t to be found, although his name was no secret anymore. Uel’s almost brilliant mind worked day and night, racing through the motions of hell called cognition. In the meantime, Semyon celebrated his 16th birthday by finding himself for the third time in a high place. He felt like a superhero, and he probably was just that – but he knew that flight (or super-strength, or even a subtly developed ability to levitate two millimeters above the ground) was not his power. He looked at the sky, he embraced the horizons and all of its poetic and pragmatic implications, and jumped for the last time in his short, wonderous life. This time, Semyon landed on the front page of a book, its title saying something like The Complete Failes of Uel, With an Introduction and Annotation by Ag Nom, Nonge.”
“So the mentality of nothingness is starting to outsmart superstrings, but it is obviously Time itself, with its so-called past and present and future, that is nothing but a huge, archaic goleme in deep slumber from which it could awaken any moment. Anything can function as a goleme trying to remove a piece of scripture from its palate just by having one of his maggots look at it. But what is reality other than a whirlpool of cascading maggot eyes watching us, producing pile after pile of observations and tiny maneuvers. Is that why you continue sending parts of yourself embedded in metaphoresy?”
“When Uel came back from his 40,000-year-long slumber, finding himself in the midst of debris, there seemed to be nothing there but: TUeT. Once he had known respect, now there was: TUeT. Once he had experienced love’s life, ritual’s thoughts, burden’s murders, drink’s machetes and case’s thefts, now there was: TUeT. Once he had felt grateful, staggered, heightened, besmirched, revitalized – but now there was nothing but: TUeT. How was it possible to remain in a coma or any other kind of unconscious state for so long? How had he managed to arrive where he was now? That maximum security camp fed into the bestialities of living hell just like that. A maximum security camp called GOLEMISM. Apparently, he had used his goleme’s eyes as a pillow and his goleme’s lips as a cover, so he could sleep through 700,001 civil wars, 40,001 catastrophes and 101 visitations from all over the universe. Stars had built retirement homes out of average fathers of two and their intrinsic dualities. But dualities were now just this: TUeT.”.