The Mystery of Mysteries
There is no way to explain the mystery of mysteries in words, for it is even beoynd thought. It is very very subtle, ungraspable, extremely rarefied. From heaven up to the infinite heaven there are perfect people, most mysterious, by whom heaven is directed and earth is controlled. They understand people and things, the hidden and the obvious, to the furthest possible extent. They operatime time without any fixed track, and are invisibly in charge of the accounting ages. Sages cannot recoginize them as sages, spirits cannot recoginize them as spirits.
The mystery of mysteries is nonexistent, yet exists; it is empty, yet substantial. It is not more in sages, not less in the ignorant. Heaven is within it, yet heaven does not know it; earth recieves it current, yet even earth does not recoginize it. It penetrates the depth of all things, yet they go unaware. Its presence is not presence, its passing is not passing. How can this mystery of mysteries be concieved of, how can it be imagined? If you penetrate the essence, it is mystery upon mystery.
And where the fuck is Scott?
Who knows. That's the real mystery of mysteries.
I guess we found a Scott and now I have a keyboard that works. Three hip-hip-hurrays for the knowledgeble crew at Staples that don't know how to use their registers!
I found that this front page is missing something.. i thought for hours, and finally i found it!!
