Other candidate titles included "Hey there, Republic. How goes ?" "Well... you know..." (in the style and after the manner of Goosey Boyⁱ) ; some kind of reference to the history of the ur-Republic (probably something to do with the Marian revolt / destruction, because connivance to those idiots' nonsense pretty much fucked it) ; some kind or manner of reference to previous Trilema articles (to which a few hold remarkably good claim, as it is) ; and other such inspirational materials. But in the end... what's in a title ?

There's a lot in coincidence, though, as well as in header images. I find it quite appropriate today's piece comes out under the guise of my sampling a rosebud seated on gilt chair afront a golden door an' a golden mirror (in which the concentrated face of my slave the photographer concentrates in a corner) -- yet as a factual matter I absolutely had no hand in "helping along" this fortuitous fatuousness (or, for that matter, any other). I merely sit and don't particularly mind observing, which is entirely and completely how "these things" seem to "keep happening to me", I swear. Other people mind observing, which is why it never happens to them, and that's the whole truth of the matter.

I wouldn't even necessarily have bothered saying anything -- there's genuinely not that much to say. Unfortunately "the flow of events" so greatly overconcentrated power in my feeble human hands, not saying anything as the non-events facially merit would in itself, for and by itself stand as a positive act, with legislative powers nobody'd even much feel like probing (for the self-strengthening reason that no discussion of stupidity was ever all that tempting to any participants), thus silently enacting silence into some sort of statutory mandate it can't possibly enjoy.

So then, let's talk about nothing -- god knows this is long standing practice on Trilema (and now you well know why).

Since June, a pretty month that soon followed upon the Sixth Edition of the yearly Lordship Listsⁱⁱ, or if you'd rather since the 81st day of my Harem's Grand European Tour 2019ⁱⁱⁱ we've lost (counting only the heading chapters) the Republic's only ever Trishop, this shy guy with intelligent eyes who couldn't express himself^iv and... oh, pray tell, please say, do aid my aged, trembling hand. What have we lost, last night ? What was it that we lost ?

Talking with Stanislav always bore this troublesome relationship to talking in one's dreams : like in a dream there never was any predictable relationship between the sayings of what's said and the doings of what, apparently, was thereupon done. You'd sit down in a corner cafe, solidly credible as such, with chairs shaped like you've seen in one, many, all of them, with waiters sporting French mustachios, and vests, holding white linen folded over one arm, sett road continuing into horizon. Look where you might, indeed you were in a cafe. You'd order, say, coffee. Later on the waiter might return, bearing (as a forinstance) a three eyed half-chicken pitbull impaled on a flaming spike, and, about as often as not, would turn into fantastically tattoo'd barbarian as he broke into a run towards you for no apparent reason and flung his strange, miss-shod javelin in your general direction, supposedly, yet missing by six paces. Then he'd perhaps return, imperturbable, vest back on, linen on arm, to inquire how you enjoyed the flat white. Well ? How did you enjoy it ? Was it perhaps... confusing ?

Yes, it was. Quite confusing. And yet... like in a dream, exactly like in a dream, all proceedings perpetually proceeded on circular orbits, spinning around the same centers of gravity, regularly, predictably, their supposed precession always faint, like in a Kafkian novel, always at the very margin of perception, where mind wonders whether it's actually seeing things of its own into the eyes or whether it turns blind eyes to actual events. But for all that faintness of precession, the regularity of circumvolution never much avoided anyone's notice. It was in fact strictly impossible to watch Stanislav for more than a few weeks at a time and not notice, then soon enough predict, "now it's going to go by this, now by that"^v...

We've lost, it pains me to say, a great many things we never had. The reasons for which we never had the things we never had might be perhaps even made to stand ennumeration ; permit me to begin : in losing the things we never had, we first lost the top part of the things we never had, followed by the middle part, and then the bottom. As to the top part of the things we never had that we nevertheless somehow lost, at first the top part of that top part was lost, and then the middle, and thereupon the bottom. And as to...

At this juncture I suppose you may suspect I'm not all that pained, foregoing declaration notwithstanding. You're right, it's true, you got me, I'm really not all that pained, what can I do ? In part I am not all that pained because I do not tend to get all that much invested in the ongoings of the world^vi ; in another part I am not all that pained because I don't have a particularly short memory, I'm not one of those shop girls that falls in love with the delivery boy for repeated presence and then's heartbroken six weeks thence as supply routes or their servants change -- the whole arrangement was predicated on the promise of performance, not anything else (and absolutely not my inhabituation to endless blather, be it acquired over weeks or years). It's sad, I suppose, that "trying" (however defined, usually by the alleged trier) is not exactly the same as performance ; but then by this same token one will soon find themselves sad over dreaming not being the same as believing and who knows what further nonsense.

Last of all (though I suppose not necessarily least of all) I'm not all that sad because the lengthy trip (and, let it be mentioned foremost, my slavegirls' exertions therein) yielded quite remarkably in terms of youthful cunt ; and with it notices and observations and a picture of the world. Leaving aside the physical, incarnate proof of perfection possible & still imanent^vii, as unlikely as that may on whatever basis seem, nude exemplary and therefore readily excluded in any statistical discussion : it seems to me the kids are very much unlike their parents. As I was observing privately, the supposed great beneficiaries of the Great Socialism and its grandiose fruit look yet again quite ready to stab their "loving" parents in the eyes for their blessing, as this usually works. I may be a great fish, which definitely comes with some disadvantages ; but it also permits me a faint sampling of the world as a substance, as a medium -- and it's very palpably evident to me that the medium's discontinous, abruptly discontinuous, over time. In short, I don't so much tremble over the past millenium's offspring turning out syphilitic, however systematic the assonautism turns out to be it bothers me none because times change, and my widely thin whiskers do perceive sweetness in the distance.

Then again it could readily be pointed out that as the attempted republic spirals ever further out of any hope to even faint relevancy... oh, you "never noticed" that, huh. Try and recall : at first we were going to do Bitcoin development ; then we were going to build the tools for eventual Bitcoin development ; by now we'll be lucky indeed if we manage to select and educate future makers of the tools of even future-er Bitcoin development. While this endlessly cheezy pie keeps stretching, Bitcoin somehow magically manages to keep ongoing. Ever wonder how that happens ?

What, it has a lot of friends among the retards that would very much be powers in the world, you think ? God himself loves it, so you can mind your love of circumvection undisturbed while He does all the heavy lifting for you (but as per tradition He'd still better have the common decency to disappear suddenly in a mist when the credits are about to roll by, and it's "your turn" to step into the picture). The most recent attempt at breaking my words^viii, undertaken yet again^ix by the entire might & power of "the civilised world" or however the fuck the arrayed muppets call themselves this season was again defeated in the field ; as the twopence republic well explained its desires last time anyone talked to it about anything of import -- it wasn't included in the flow of events to any degree this time, as all the uncounted times hence. How many of them were there ? Who knows... who, among ye who wouldn't have known this one but for my pointing it out, knows ? What is it that you know, what can be known on a servant's weekly discretionary shilling ?

Think, if you will, that this makes an uninterrupted eighty months of my word&deed driving this space, and with it the entire world ; then tell me again why I should give shit one over some rando shithead or other's inability to leave the safety of mommy's basement. Really, you think I should care ? Well... I don't.

It could readily be pointed out that as the attempted republic spirals ever further out of any hope to even faint relevancy one will necessarily turn to his private sphere, and to the future. This is true ; but this theoretical truth is not what drives the empyrical observations above -- much like the man climbing into the bus he was waiting for will always be also climbing into "the first bus that showed up" over some interval of observation. Rather, the future set of human resources are markedly better than the current set most likely because of reversion to the mean -- you'd be (and in fact, you are) hard pressed to find worse shit than that which composes the current crop of shamblers about.

It's what it is, what do you want me to do about it ?! Please don't tell me I should pay teh seventeeb bitcoin again, or somesuch nonsense ; at least that much could be learned from the succession of hateful mean-ness an' toxic facts also formerly known as "history".

1. A gent, you don't know him. [↩]
2. For my curiosity ; name, if you will, what TMSR hath produced in that interval. Do you recall ? Anything ? Anything at all ? [↩]
3. We're now on day 210, which comes remarkably close to the factual substance underpinning a conviction for vagrancy. Who do you know that can afford six seven months' hotel stays, and a sustained hundred miles' daily average travel ? I don't even mean financially first, or foremost -- actually, try doing it and see what I mean, why am I explaining things to 23 yo intellectuals over here. [↩]
4. Do you know the dog-engineer joke ? I mostly ask for the humorous effect ; who indeed, even remotely acquainted with the affairs of this last poor & feeble attempt at sanity among the (happily!) doomed morons, could not well know it by now. It's like asking anchovies fishermen if they're aquainted any with plain salt, and yet...

   ... does it have to be ? [↩]

5. What's even more, inconceivably yet observably more, his own recollection of his own past always without exception found expression in the same manner. Events supposedly fixed into the past nevertheless animatedly spun around their pre-ordained circles, following along the spinning of the main top, and so by turns they'd become one thing, then another thing, then a third, then back the first... [↩]
6. It's called stoicism, it's a philosophical outlook, which is to say a set of answers to the specific problems of existence, basic things like "wut do when phenomena diverge from sense" and so on. Look it up sometime. [↩]
7. Despondency follows from loss of faith ; and loss of faith always consists of a diminished expectation of encountering perfection, driven without exception by experience : he who long hasn't seen perfection loses his faith in its possibility, and with it any will to live -- it's how statuaries and penitentiaries are supposed to work, though on opposite ends of the human oxcart. [↩]
8. For amusement's sake, find where I said 10k is a permanent floor, shortly prior to that "surprise offensive".

   You're missing out on most Bitcoin lulz these days, you know that ? [↩]

9. A somewhat regular occurence since at least 2014. Ah, remember back in the day, before I shaved my dog's ass and taught it to walk backwards, back in the day when that Krugman clueless poser was "respectable economcian" ? [↩]