2011. A user on Twitter unwillingly enters the cave.
@SmallShopBlogR @IAreGeek I sure hope there’s #CaveTwitter cause until a few #CaveCoolers I’m socially cavetarded.
— geekleetist (@geekleetist) January 20, 2011
From then until April 26th, 2016 multiple users entered the cave without hesitation, the universe bending their time towards an inside they never knew; pre-theorisation.
Edmund Berger begins transcendental-excavations on April 30th, 2017.
Daily reminder that the ancient Deluge came up from within the Earth
[noise comes from inside the channel]
[outside is inside]#CaveTwitter pic.twitter.com/Q8MWsYwmpg— Edmund Berger (@EBBerger) April 30, 2017
Outside is inside. This is key. An objective exterior becoming a subjective interior, a seemingly ABCs preschool metaphysics, yet, no. And so we begin out descent…
You can’t just “have thoughts” on/about #cavetwitter. Fyi fYi FYi fYI.
The earth screams as it cracks and ruptures, its face scarred by plutonic insurrections. #RhettTwitter is #CaveTwitter a priori. – Vincent Garton.
#Rhetttwitter and #Cavetwitter brothers of a kind, an incestual relationship, #cavetwitter acting as the outside (inside) horror of the ‘known’ rhett. The production begins on entry and does not cease until death, each molecule a worker, each vein an assembly-line, each feeling a farm towards relentless production for the sake of; for we have always been at war with lack. From the lack production produces modes of production of its own, and thus a rhizomatic accelerative force of production springs forth; a fractal assembling itself into the form of a Chimera.
You are. Inside the club. You begin to Kave-hole. The drugs don’t work for more than only and in less than 48 hours, just. Your skull begins to rotate your brain, the mucus sack tears sending a thrill spinning out of your iris’, enter the decline of the West; before you, Spengler welcomes you to the Cave, a mixture of coke & pepsi in hand, stood atop a fractal-cabbage. C-Chaos.
Both Rhett & Cave are self-congratulating, self-fulfilling upon the entry of anOther and as such when you understand the ‘cave’ it is already over, you only have to walk through meandering halls of dead-time; the outside of dead-time, isn’t.
Plato begins to weep as he shackles himself to the wall, praying to the shadows. You walk on by, each step algorithmically ticcing in time with the nothingness suffocating you; the Cave loves you, kinda. A group of pagans greet you.
They’ve stopped already, pure deceleration to the point of minus-death.
#CaveTwitter is a chthonic Rhett function ::: anastrophic futurism is coupled to a reciprocal descent through geotraumatic deep time – Edmund Berger
There’s lies here.
“And that’s it. That’s plutonics, or neoplutonism. It’s all there: anorganic memory, plutonic looping of external collisions into interior content, impersonal trauma as drive-mechanism. The descent into the body of the earth corresponds to a regression through geocosmic time.
Trauma is a body.” – Professor Barker, ‘Barker Speaks’
A sisyphean labyrinth filled with rusted shopping trolleys and relics of worlds never born; a house-broken homeless man speaks to you – his language evolves, pure tempo instantaneously. A crowd follows you, you turn, they combust, you turn again they reform, different organs slotted into other bodies, a puss-filled heart is its end. You are searching, as even the walls do, you tell them off, they lie, they reset /// GAME OV|ER. The floor made from old VHS tape and CCRU dog-ends. Face begins to wrap around face. Corneas eroding into synthetic perspective; Spinoza asks if you need new ‘specs’ as he lunges his lungs forward to release his cause of death; the hallways fill with optometric lens dust, it mutates into failed pamphlets; most of them blank and wanting to be. You are in the underground of the outside, the cave is not cool. — “Communism is the BOMBunism” someone shouts.
“Shut up ma!”
Most of the sound is of Toynbee tiles being created and reruns of Thomas Pynchon coughing.
A cosmic campaign between region and non-region, between time and dead. A mise en scène of pure-trauma.
What are you going to say to the ants when they crawl under your skin? It’s their job you know? “Oh hello Mr 
” How’s my skin mr ” You’re a fuckin’ dick Mr Ant.”
Nah, you’re not, because they’re gon’ be munchin’ at the end of time; rotten rag-ended time flickering off into the presence of absence, anti-nutritious temporal meals for skin-bugs.
You know what we say of time at the dinner table kids, “pray with me.”:
“Her [Its] ass was peppered with wounds, and her[its] buttocks were so prodigiously slack one could have furled the skin around a walking stick; the hole of this splendid ass resembled the crater of a volcano what for width, and for aroma the pit of a privy… she[it] had never once wiped her[its] ass, whence we have proof positive that the shit of her[its] infancy yet clung there.” – 120
And so the ants of the cave eat at the juvenile shitty rag-ends of time.
Welcome to the cave. Don’t leave, please.
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