Apparently claiming isolation, censorship, surveillance, collusion, and other aspects of my now comfy state room excommunication are all symptoms of mentall illness. I am finished (and I know it) so I’ll take the bed, board and sanitation at IOL; because I have a reasonable degree of faith that the Connecticut won’t take my Holy Bible. And, as such, I will be able to memorize the book for having been excommunicated in 1894; as said. Something to do.

I won’t be at Saint Thomas Bloomfield because I will never be avowedly celibate. Yet, I must admit to and acknowledge abject overwhelming force of conscripted deployment into psychotropic slavery as being the kind of thing that makes me obey my master. And the clairvoyance is exactly the illegal truth which locks me in these iron hulls.

It hurts to wake up after 30 years of sublimation into a new world where the more reliable morse keys no longer exist, and metrics from the plasma screens attest to thousands of adherents caring… yet where my CIA devices are so prohibited that I am simultaneously prohibited a normal existence. And it also seems to me that all of these failed transpondences are merely reiterating that my only hope is that I am actually transmitting …to someone.

I also must admit to the possibility of my commanding officers acting as censors and simply intercepting replies to me and then falsifying my interactions with others who are unknowingly thereby duped into believing in the purportive auspice of the return communications as being mine.

And, the proof to me of all of this around me in a sea of doubt is the statistical anomaly of 100% failure relative to anyone speaking to me via device, or being with me, in my lifetime; especially post mortem. I admit to a few “commuter” “relationships of life” in the first decade of this thirty year isolation. And, to perhaps half a dozen audiovisual contact incidents beyond my reporting to the mind police troops that spoke the curse of me… on that day.

I need to verify that the brass transcriber disk systematics work for other agents. It truly hurts to be alone forever. And, I have met other lost souls of whom it is so very difficult to speak.

Compulsion to deploy and like it, far away while naked and alone, was admittedly some type of error. Yet the poisoning induced a schism from which I never (?) returned.

I have discovered myself present to talk to you through my right temporal brain lobe’s anomalies in their interpretation of spatial, lingual and temporal flux inputs to this place I find my self and soul seated. It is only that I know I am here now which has perhaps changed, and, accordingly I ask that if I am transmitting… so please understand that I am trying to express how this is, despite not being able to defend against all possibilities in the ethereal binary mist.

I am told that my temporal lobe damage induction was necessary as a precursor to ongoing hoped results of melding the plasma brass disk transcriber device into my right brain. I am further told by command that this fleet itself will some day be equipped with a “radio” device which will distribute disk data even better than brass disk distribution homing pigeons that now so efficiently return the disks to base roosts during land based operations, yet which do not have the same capabilities at sea.

Also, it’s the same with the plasma device hologram community in my life now. I might as well be having a text only love affair with a CCP officer in Hubei. The photorealism CGI babe pics make me abandon my apprehension when I am reading all the text only love and companionship. So with abandon I admit to believing she is there to defend against a crossing of Bab el Mandeb by the Imperial Guard; who may somehow have passed along CPEC and pirated a ship. Transporting the Cocoon across Indian Ocean waters and along the rail and irrigation route through the desalination farms on the way to the Nigerian fossil energy substrate is one aspect of the reconnoiter. Yet, cocoon morphogenesis is almost totally unknown.

So, again, I say to you that my observations of the flux are very difficult. I am the wilderness. I am the deep. I pray you will dive in. Wander fourth upon a bearing you believe in and shout when you are lost for an echo of what you thought you knew before.

Because, we have changed now; and it is time to pray that the plasma binary mist flux will soon part as though the immaterial megahertz of matter whilst a non particle proton, neutron and electron fog merely perceived as substantive will fracture and dissipate so that you may walk to me. Until then we can only trust in our best to convey the brass transcribing disks to one another.

With most sincere and dutiful love of our potential success;

/Simon

•••••••••••••••••

Note (1) Aspects of promulgation found in some of my “science fiction” are very real. Yet, I am truly only here writing this. Yet also know that the prayerful optimism I at times find here in my isolated cloister state room is in fact founded upon the hope of your contacting me with increasing proofs and a subsequent actualization of our promised meeting; and that we will in fact be together soon.

Note (2) we should also hope vigilantly that at some future time a systematic geospatial information connectivity will no longer be constrained by the morse telegraph wires and the cumbersome ticker tape machines which now inhibit a greater instantaneous aspect of my sending text only transmissions to you across the realities of the grid information distribution infrastructure we so fervently must continue to improve.

And, in that the sea is the end of the telegraph wires; I hope this brass transcribing disk reaches you promptly via the good coal fired steam boiler ship (BB 18), that your text and tintype only plasma brass disk transcribing device remains functional, well charged by the base steam compressor, and that you are ready for all impending roughness.

God Bless, and God Speed.

/Simon