The Reality of Knowing Nothing at All -Jim Meirose

The Reality of Knowing Nothing at All -Part 3
Jim Meirose

No one knew the why, but my dear, there’s an ‘efinate process; yes, a process, a good process, quite fine; to returnback for—plant these rose—f’ recoinsideration ‘f any possibly mistake ‘f lack of presence of any character ‘f number forming any of the words—rose seeds—which, strung together, form the name of the thing less than present, and one unusual day the Paul came to work on time, all calmly putting palms down ‘n soothing gestures with, No, I am fine—I had a neck problem. Got hurt in the pool. I had to get surgery. I was gone for that reason, eh deftly swiping the next available excuse in the ‘x bin for fitting the ‘gory of universal no-show, the prior being, I went to the dentist for a cleaning—with the x’bility to be ramped up into, and I ended up with a broken—plant these rose seeds—jaw no I don’t know why they didn’t call you that’s just one ‘nother facette oof there indocompetenance, maybe they don’t know you exist—no I said no I don’t know why they didn’t try and find you out, dig you up, clean you raw, as existing I cannot answer for their dos, or do nots, and even so if had it been done, how the ‘eck ought they have figgered ‘ow to du-it. Then, as for me, after my wiring, I could not speak a syllable ‘cause this jaw’s wired immobile okay, okay, I know this’s off topico’ sinn et’s know not big shot Paul’s excuse, how dumb do I look I did hear you know that yes his was I had a bad spine, and yes his was also; I had to stop lay down and lookie heah’ listen, gaaa. Gaaaa! Stop, let him fix things using tools some long and sharp some short and blunt—these rose—some in be the ‘tween so. Stop, lookie here I do seem to you to be a different person now, say that you all wrong all that hey, ah? Is that—seeds—it? Well, bah. Ahh, you don’t know me. So you say? No, shut, listen. You may look at me. No, shut, listen. You may look at me. No, shut, listen. But you don’t see me. You don’t know eh o’ look at me. But me, you look at me, you don’t? Yes you do—but you can’t see me, don’t know me, now ‘r never. Hear me! I am Paul Repititian, I am here to work out my way! I am yes, the big Papa and Paul and all that, just like that. Let me work. And. He being ten. To. Plant seeds. Being ten feet. Of. Ten feet tall and half as less sametimes. Tall and tall and half-broad as tall, nobody questioned Paul any times over then,’bout any possible hoax, more afta’ that. Paul, the big Papa, and both of all others go’ resurrected, went on to sainthood, the one already, the other, no, not yet, but—surely soon after. There are those that—and sorry, but the scroll rips gone down diagonally at that point. And so that is it. But knowin’ half—if that be the number— ‘s better than knowin’ nothing at all. The reality of knowing nothing at all, is not I’m afraid, my dearie o’ dear-o, all there is, so no it is not all—plant these rose seeds—there is no not no. Yes? Not in any way, either. No. Accept things please no or all’s gone by’s been flat wasted. There he goes; plant these rose seeds.

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