The Qualitative Dependance

Grainy fractions of delinquent observation is the compelling force behind human function. Breaking the delivery of stimulus down into conceivable parts. Parts influencing a whole. Influencing a whole. Not being the whole, of course because the whole is untouchable. We only see the parts. And the alignment of this collection of parts is completely subject to personal experience. Personal observation of the parts. The whole is an image projected onto the curtain. An imaginary and logical organization of the parts a person has seen.

It was Freed, Max and Panther in the car. Well it was a jeep, an uncovered jeep 4X4 deal and wheels with oversized traction. There was a girl too but she was asleep. Her name was Sybil. There was an intense collective heart beat and mutual alarm. The car seemed to be driving itself as two thousands miles of foreign, twisted territory surrounded them in every direction. The men were alert and planning. The dog was alert as well. His eyes were focused and his body was steady as he stood upright beside Max, thoroughly engaged in this epic journey with his comrade. There was an unspoken realm of understanding between Max and Freed, and Max felt relieved to have achieved this. As he always did when people challenged him. When people forced their world onto him, or at least had pieces to bring to the table. This is where his relationships began. The melding of two worlds, flowing and flickering in sincopation. Despite the vigilant attitude that this situation demanded, Max was keeping his mind jointly occupied, fiddling with a sweet viola sonata. (Zing!) The territory around them was subterranean. The atmosphere seemed congested and heavy and the weird looking plants seemed to be pulled by an ocean of water above them. Sometimes a hole in the ground would be seen in the distance with smoke billowing out of it. Max knew it was free laboratory space. Forgotten, uncharted and unwatched by any form of government. The hills that occupied the two thousand miles of radial land were just the same. Unwatched, forgotten and free. It was because of the quality of the land. It had before been a marsh, but ended up being covered with a sulfate compound, allowing a land fill to be built on top of the ground. However the documents and information concerning the land fill mysteriously vanished. And since the instigation of the land fill in the first place was a result of protocol, no one even noticed. It was the Indian drug lords or the people factory chairmen. Doesn't matter who stole the information, they were all occupying the land now, or were. Various accounts had been raised concerning the matter, but further investigatin of the land proved it to be untilable. The solfate compounds covering the swamp gave enough room for the water to breath and gradually produced enourmous bubbles of air to signify hills. There was nothing underneath the outer layer, and when you tunneled through, it was the biggest, brightest, most beautiful room that will ever be seen. Space, hidden quietly from the world by way of subterranean expansion. Some of these basements would be over four thousand cubic feet. And the ground was a dessert. An enormous collection of dust, debris from the surrounding plains of real earth. With random rickety organizations of wood planks and shingles scattered about and the plants that this weird fertilizer produced. Stagnoids.
Whatever, none of this stuff even matters. All that needs to be known is that Max knows a little about this land and what is underneath. He knew of it by feeling more than by sight. He did see visions of a strange realm. But nothing tangible came of them. It was just more deciphering forced upon him. He felt compelled and drawn, he was being led to this land by a mysterious rhythm. And some how he knew of this place's history, it's essence. He knew where to go. Max's reasons for this journey were remaining undisclosed to the other passengers. His reasons in fact would only confuse them more. He knows about the evil scientists in the secret laboratories concocting mythological adaptations of DMT that send you into the depths of a reality that exists within your mind, but are portrayed as a vast awakening to the spirit and to the universe. Sometimes there is not even any interaction or movement. Just pure and driven thought, supremely balanced by the subconscious. He knows of this and of the alternative purposes something like it can contain. He also knew of the stagnoids and the various types of chemical breeding that took place. Was that really pure tryptamine dripping from the pores of that plant? Max knew these things because he had been there at some time that he could not seem to remember. And now here he was again. Of the four people, Max was certainly the most genuinely alert. The others had barely heard stories and were only on their toes because they were told they had to be. Not because they had seen or knew what would happen if they weren't. There were three things that one had to be on the look out for. One was unusually large clouds. One was a jeep or series of jeeps or caravan or any motorized vehicle at all whatsoever. The other was delusions. The air around these parts was anything but healthy. The molecules shifting about were struggling to keep authority over the atmosphere. They were competing with a subatomic enemy and spreading their confusion through the brain waves of human beings. Breaking down barriers to the subconscious, enabling visual realization of your deepest truths. For some this is an incredible vision into the possible manipulation of innate desires. For others it is frightening. Some say it creates a lucid cloud as the structure for your essence. A tangled web of memories and hallucinations for you to presently experience. As if you had been thrust into the existence of a rock.
They were stopped now, nothing could be seen for miles. The sky had become molten and singed the retinas with a piercing lavender essence. Freed was crouched by the lining of weeds that seperated the fields from the condemned road way. He was looking away from the uncovered jeep. Behind him, Max had taken to igniting a spare torch. He was waving it around, building it's tolerant flame and sort of dancing with it. Sybil was awake now and didn't plan on sleeping again for six hours and twenty minutes. She was watching Max and indirectly wondering what he was doing. She watched him gracefully wander over to the jeep and dip the end of the torch into a large cylinder with elaborate tubing that flowed through it into the engine. A thundering pound came from the jeep and it started up. It kept rumbling and instantly, as if it had always been there, a huge flame shot out of the cylinder, powerful and stagnant. Sybil was amazed and looked over to see Freed on his back, eyes like a child. She noticed now that it was getting dark.