Being merely an overgrown boy, I do know I am unlikely to be taken heed of on the matter of love; much more so would I be shouted down were I to voice an opinion on the matter of decency of dress. One old schoolfellow used to mock me because I would often tell people to bring the proof for whatever they were claiming.
Reductio ad absurdum is a phrase synonymous with the word satire.
In the coeducation (or co-education, we're a bit uneducated) school system, if inspection is only given a once-over by a gruff teacher, who marches henceforth to see a man about a dog, the marks of one group might suffer. Which would seem to be about as cheap a way that exists, or has ever been taken advantage of, for one group to get a leg over another group in order to obtain bragging rights on the matter of mean intelligence.
It has been told me, with words that people unfamiliar with statistical ones will use, that my intelligence is more than mean. I have found that words can fuel an obsession, and the difference between the good and the bad only has to do with the whether the words are carefully chosen so as to make sense either way.
One who was inspired to sing of flesh-coloured Christs that glow in the dark, was accused of rattling incomprehensible dream scenes. But they were raised by people who rattled off incomprehensible nonsense about the reproduction of sound.
It may so be that some people are incapable of comprehending the imagery given to us in what is nothing less than the productions of God.
Designing a gui app requires us to contemplate clothing.
Some generous people have called me no less creative than I am intelligent; but opinions on the matter of the creativity must involve the matter of choosing what to wear. What are the colour of dried tears?
The web offers an ideal way of prototyping apps. As can be seen, we live in the age of things which don't go beyond the prototype stage being declared winners and losers. And the winners can't help patting themselves on the back by making incongruous changes.
Trying to stop a well that amounts to the matter of the creativity involved in what we might adorn our faces with, I ask back-patters to contemplate the identifier Hz, for some people didn't give themselves time to contemplate the difference between cartilage, muscle, and bone, and thus don't know where ugliness comes from.
The web involves code, data, and scriptelage: we like the rhythm of having words of one, two, and three syllables. Whether we know the difference between what they refer to or not might well depend on how much we've given ourselves to the end product.
Any product requires a final authority. It might be pleasant to live in a mathematically defined world in which mathematically defined barbies are proved to be correct by mathematicians, but this would require nothing less than a world in which mathematicians have become enslaved by revoltingly ugly people who insist that mechanics also has its place.
I'll give you a pointer: stick it up your arse.
Treating the web as a final product brings people to insist that the production of scriptelage is as in the manufacture of a handbag: whether you are the kind that insists that one thing is code and another thing is data or not, the possessor of the shebang only insists that you keep wiggling the joystick-mouse and bashing the buttons until you're satisfied.
I prefer wiggling the neck of a bottle when it comes to questions of customer satisfaction. Friends of old owe me for my fertilization services. I can't help thinking that the man who told me to get on my motorbike in this state, was a man indeed; though he was a pastor: I can't help knowing that I learnt thereby the importance of colour in the user-interface called a road.
Unfortunately we came upon evidence that there is such a thing as evolution. And some of us were about two thousand years more evolved than the people we had to make money from. And some people, born of the more-evolved, bethought themselves that whether you call it a pocket or a handbag, the only thing that matters is the getting of a good feeling.
This rambling preface is necessary, though I can't say it won't change next month.
Structure is our elephant when considering containers and the possessors thereof.
Who owns what, is what we call business logic. Some of us would certainly like to bring back the death penalty for those who create a fantasy world in which possession and ownership are different things.
But that in itself is a fantasy world.
Cutting myself from a fantasy world in which people in denial refuse to admit they are simply contrary, we come back to the feelings of a gentleman who knew the difference between code and data but could only explain it to mathematicians.
Mathematicians are scarce. Some of them, it is believed, try to drink themselves to death. Many of them don't give a fuck about the theory behind computers because they can't code for shit: none of them will call me a mathematician because I don't give a fuck for the Leibniz Integral.
I do give a fuck about what is actual and what is real: I do recall someone passing me who seemed to be a replica of a friend of mine, who didn't pause in his cycling as he went passed me.
That a replica would not recognize me is obvious.
But this brings us to thinking about the replication of emotions: King of a country I would sentence everyone to death who suggests that emotions are data. Or even people who begin to argue how many dimensions make up the emotional vector.
Bringing ourselves back to the year three-hundred thereby, in which we contemplate the stillness of the trees and misk fluctuations, we might come back to the abstract idea of a tree.
The amendment of a tree is a skill, obviously. Even were we to fell it, in order to give our lot a new beginning, we might find ourselves at our wits ends in our attempts at removing the roots without calling on grey men otherwise known as contractors.
A tree is a type of relation: we might find ourselves committing ourselves to the idea of replication at the mention of the word relational simply on account of people who made an imperfect copy of a mother; which brings me back to dried tears and makes me impatient with my own preface: when we have a graph the first thing that comes to mind is the matter of the shortest route.
The document tree is something which was discovered by a Nerd. But we live in the age when tinkerers don't get credit. We live in an age when people look at the muzzle of a gun when they realize just what they've been doing by talking about business logic to a mathematician-programmer.
I'm not interested in fame. If someone can get past that last paragraph, they're welcome to come for coffee. I'd prefer it if they bring a bottle of whiskey along: I like technological drinks.
But at present we're looking at a kind of liquor called language. And I'm looking at a Beast with too much experience.
Filesystem trees aught to be worked upon; but this can only come of being able to contemplate still trees and misk movement of things which do not have actual roots.
Ownership of data then may be considered.
But this webdoc has one owner. I'll show you something nasty if you talk about inspiration. I call it a webdoc and not an HTML file because, while it is a tree, it does not require an explicit root. And because the resigning ourselves to only being able to use scripting languages is not a matter of selling ourselves out if we pay attention to the matter of recursion as it applies to intrinsic memory allocation, and do our best to pay attention to the feelings of those who religious people call lost souls.
Calling someone a lost soul is a bit ridiculous, isn't it. I mean, where the fuck are we?
As a lost soul I looked at the parsing of CSS. This technology can be represented as a tree. As can any programming language.