$25.00
# **RRY RIGHT — *Me For Is As*
A Quasi - Disoriented Story in Four Movements
(c30, with Insert and Impossible Graphics)**
The tape begins before it begins—spooling itself in reverse, brushing dust off the moments you haven’t lived yet. When you press play, the room goes slightly out of order: first the smell of burnt circuitry, then a feeling of déjà vu for something you’ve never understood, then the soft mechanical voice:
> **“Me… for… is… as…”**
> as if grammar itself has collapsed into a puddle of orders you can’t follow.
On the table beside the deck, the **insert** twitches like a trapped moth, unfolding into diagrams that resemble organs, circuits, and clock faces arguing with one another.
---
# **42 — Fourth Movement →
*God’s Anxious Loop: Time Is a Leaking Organism***
God, or whatever version of Him exists on side A, is pacing in a loop so tight it frays the edge of existence. Time leaks from His footprints—thin streams of uncolored seconds dripping like condensation down the walls of the universe.
A diagram appears on the insert:
```
[GRAPH D-04: RATE OF TEMPORAL LEAKAGE]
time_loss↑ |\
| \
| \ (failure threshold)
| \•••••••◆
| \
0────────────────→ divine panic
```
The narrator (you? a different you? a you misplaced in shipping?) tries to patch the leak with old minutes, but they refuse to stick; they slide down the metaphysical drain like uncooperative mercury.
In the distance, a pulsing broadcast repeats:
> **“You are losing time faster than you are using it.”**
---
# **43 — *When the Sky Bled Orange Over the Forgotten Circuit* (4:20)**
The sky changes color not the way skies usually do—not a gradient, not a fade—but a sudden arterial *burst* of orange that drips downward onto the world like paint melting from a furious brush.
Beneath it lies the **Forgotten Circuit**, a continent-wide motherboard built by extinct engineers who worshipped voltage the way old civilizations worshipped rain. Their ruins hum with leftover electricity, sparks drifting like fireflies that never quite decide if they want to stay alive.
A map is printed on the insert:
```
[FORGOTTEN CIRCUIT, ZONE 7F]
┌───────────⚡───────────┐
│ old traces →→→→ │
│ broken nodes ✖ │
│ memory pits ▓▓ │
└───────⚡───────────────┘
```
You step forward. The circuit beneath your feet remembers someone—
**but not you.**
---
# **44 — *Two Comets Danced, Then Screamed Themselves Into Dust* (13:05)**
They were lovers or rivals or siblings or ancient reflections of a catastrophic thought—no one can agree. But the comets were loud. Their tails entangled, orbiting each other in a ballet so intricate astronomers fainted trying to chart it.
When they finally collided, the scream they released was not sound but *geometry forced through panic*.
It looked like this:
```
[SCREAM VECTOR FIELD]
↑
↗ │ ↖
→ → ◆ ← ←
↘ │ ↙
↓
```
The dust that remained tasted faintly of petrified nostalgia. You inhale some by mistake. It stays in your lungs and asks you constantly whether you remember a future that never happened.
---
# **45 — Alpha Centauri — First Movement →**
## **I. *The Wind That Sleeps Beneath Alpha’s Bones***
The wind here is alive, but exhausted. It sleeps under fossilized star-ribs that span the horizon like a fallen cathedral. Every few minutes it twitches in its sleep, stirring up sand that glows with leftover starlight.
Your shadow stretches impossibly long, touching bones older than memory. When the wind sighs, you feel it tug at your thoughts like a nurse adjusting an IV drip of forgotten dreams.
---
## ***The Womb Where Stars Learn to Drown* (20:00)**
Deep beneath the surface: a lake made of liquid equations. Stars come here to drown deliberately, to erase their brightness before rebirth. Each star submerges with a sound like a needle dropping on a record of pure sorrow.
You dip a finger into the lake.
It rewrites your fingerprints.
---
## **II. *Pale Machines Lament the Geometry of Orbit***
Robotic monks circle a crater, tracing the orbits of ancient moons on chalkboards the size of continents. Their hands are made of light, trembling whenever an equation refuses to remain obedient.
One machine whispers:
**“Ellipses are just circles that lost confidence.”**
You almost laugh, but the gravity here is too sincere.
---
# **46 — *Before the Light Remembered Its Name* (18:00)**
Before light knew what to be, it wandered—colorless, flavorless, identity-free—like a confused pilgrim drifting through pre-existence.
You witness it from inside a temporal bubble: photons stuttering like children unsure of their first word. Eventually one flickers with decision:
> **“I will be illumination.”**
Upon that declaration, shadows are born behind you, even where you don’t stand.
A diagram unfolds itself:
```
[PHOTON NAMING CYCLE]
undefined → hesitant → proto-glow → identity crisis → LIGHT
```
Your eyes sting. Not from brightness, but from the effort light took to become itself.
---
# **47 — *The Hollow Choir of Quantum Ghosts***
They gather in chambers smaller than atoms, singing through probability rather than through throats. Each note is a maybe. Each harmony: a superposition of regret and triumph.
You can’t hear them normally.
You hear them behind your thoughts, echoing in the gaps between your mistakes.
One ghost appears, all outline and no intention, and gestures toward your chest. Not your heart—your *timeline*.
It reshuffles a few seconds.
Just to see what happens.
---
# **48 — Origin of Supernatural Probabilities →**
## **She Spoke in Probabilities, and the Universe Listened (20:12)**
She doesn’t speak languages. She speaks likelihoods:
> “0.37 chance the world bends today.”
> “0.12 chance you remember the wrong childhood.”
> “0.99 chance this sentence collapses before it ends—”
Reality adjusts itself politely to accommodate her.
The insert includes a fold-out chart:
```
[PROBABILITY DISTORTION MAP]
certainty↑ ■■■■■■■■■■■
███◆███
██ ██
————————→ chaos
```
When she looks at you, your possible futures glitch like corrupted video.
---
## **IV. *God Wears a Clock Made of Teeth***
Not His teeth. Not anyone’s teeth.
Just *teeth*—grown spontaneously from the gears of a divine mechanism that misunderstood “cog” as “fang.”
The clock ticks in chews.
Each tick takes a bite out of a second you were planning to keep.
As it gnaws at time, a small bureaucratic advisory blinks into existence:
> **DIGESTIVE ANOMALY BULLETIN – DREAM REGION 12**
> “Temporal indigestion detected. Expect gas build-up in local seconds,
> bloating of unused hours, and rare episodes of causality reflux.
> Severe timeline discomfort may require intervention by a qualified chrono-physician.”