And, by the bye, you don’t get the uninhabited island as is for just a ‘thank you!’ neither for a cute expression in your honest blue eyes. Ha! Seen there in heaps already.. Nope. The trick fails to raise the response counted on. The island mulishly awaits till you conquer it. Moreover since it’s equipped with a complete system of canalization behind each convenient bush in the state of the art readiness and so full of natural davenports. Aye, aye!.

Yet, all these heavenly niceties are available only after severe struggle and surviving at the two preliminary levels: The Ivory Tower and Unconquerable Autism. Yep, exactly in this order.

Well, on the whole The Tower is not an over-complicated thing for egg-heads only, no. All you have to do is just to stay totally immersed in your post stamps collection or whatever is dear to the crux of your soul’s temperament and do not give a fuck about anything else. Simply reduce it to an external hum however boring and foreign to your life completely dedicated to the thing you entertain your soft spot with.

Sure enough, they’re all too eager to derail you by every kind of “go buy bread please!” or else “Run! It’s an air raid!” Don’t let them distract you and hang on till “You Win!” at the level’s end.

Level Two, at first sight, looks a kinda simpler job. No need to give a fuck about any-fucking-thing whatsoever.

Now, the gimmick is to lock yourself off and seal all of your five senses firm enough so as to pass the whole thing successfully.

However, be warned of physical harassment – they will make you keep sitting on the toilet or may as well clutch a cup with your fingers and pour its contents into yourself, “See? This how it’s done! Will you never learn nothing? You dumb damn stupid ass?” Don’t talk back and be patient for the sake of “You Win!” after which you sure get to Uninhabited Island after all.

O that’s what you call the paradisiacal cream! Rhythmic swell of lolling surf of the Digital Ocean, light warm breeze from the electric blower under your feet, sexy moans of gulls through your headset and other fit attributes checked on as your choice widgets.

The functions under your command are simply innumerable here, on a par with Almighty’s level. And why so? Ha! Since we’ve lived up to a tangible jubilee already.

Remembered now? Right! The Internet is 25 today! Ho-ho!

A quarter of century ago the scientifically minded public started to call each other to exchange text files over the wires. Not every cat did get it then, all of a sudden, whereto steered so quirky a telephonicality. Still fewer could, at that pivotal moment, catch the jazz being charged with much cooler stuff than even entrance to the cosmic era when all the nation bust their ass to give a couple of citizens a chance to get high and hang up there, in the weightlessness, on their orbit before the invariable return to normal gravitation.

Quite different kettle of fish, in toto, with this here Internet where everyone may have an opportunity to individually (yet still en masse) get out of the state where you belong as a taxpayer (what? you haven’t even suspected? yes, sir, they’ll tax you and get you and fuck you without you ever noticing when and how, the state will, which you own quite a few sacred debts—if you Old Ones don’t settle the issue with a doctor on the draft medical commission) and where you’ll be used for other needs thanks to you state affiliation.

And all of a sudden – yay! The independence breeze stirred up! The sweet word “freedom!” echoed from afar.

Yeah, o, yeah... NetScape, AltaVista – the legendary, glorious, long since forgotten names of genus-starters in the line of search engines… It’s them who paved my way to virtually visit the USA Congress Library full of the matter of fact information instead of filtered staple oatmeal broadcast by the TV news program Vremya and Mayak, the All-Union Radio Station the bigger half of my life.

Thus flopped the mission of the “screaming” silencers in the range of short radio waves. The crafty contraptions who had kept the USSR citizens corralled and hedged from the subversive influence of the outside world by means of the static noise while the endemic mass media brain-washed the Soviet people 24/7 carrying out the prophylactic mentality sterilization and turning the population into dumb cattle. All those measures could not prevent the disintegration of the Soviet Union (whose death preceded the birth of the Internet) and now we can freely choose our way of being formatted into shithead consumers.

That’s why all the salesmen disseminating nostalgia for the golden days of Soviet era are considered by my low-grade fuck*ing promoters of the Restoration. It’s only that I don’t stroll around with a Mauser pistol because of the built-in pacifism both in the motherboard and other spare parts’ firmware of my personality.

Presently, text hunting is looked upon as an oddball twist to your minset, some funny atavism, sort of. Who’d ever need the suff? Wake up, bro! The Net’s swamped with freebie dolls nicely applicable for jerking and warfare for edging any bent of taste be it War of Tanks or Aviation, or bare Strategy awaiting for customers of any quirk and preference in any way of masturbation.

And that is just fine! Because while they keep jerking or shooting the Internet roots into inextricable depths which keeps up my optimistic hope for getting free pdf files and a “thank you!” in the bargain.

Me personally, the Internet had sure liberated from book-buy expenses. What’s the point in outlay while in the Net, running high and boldly, there is everything, including books you’ll never find even for ready money? Both goodies and best things since sliced bread to be paid for only by the time you spend in the online search-and-find, if not too lazy.

Arise, brother, and catch on, firstly, that the first page of search results Google fills with the addresses of the customers paying Google for their ads and who want now to harvest, in their turn, the gravy off you, while the rest 1,630,000,000 results in 0.62 sec are presented downstream where you not at once guess to check (well, no, I don’t dig deeper the fourth page of results) and where there surely sits the book in question, PDF formatted, but you do have what to open a pdf file with, right? And it won’t be a problem if you don’t because in the Net there is any opener whatsoever and free of charge too, just look for it deeper than the first page served up by Google.

At times the search takes up to a couple of days because of piggy mercantile schemers. Know what I mean? Yeah, sure, those sites mutely hollering “Hey! Hi! Here! ANY PDF FOR FREE!”

You, naturally, rush there to run into a smaller-font notification “for registered users” and the registration is certainly nothing else but free. Yet, after a click or two, there pops up the form for entering the number of your credit card. Some fine howdy-do.

No-no-no! They won’t take a penny off it and the procedure is just their long-established custom. And where on God’s green earth would I fetch the required card from? An untilled patch (right, it’s me), who never has had anything to do with the like cards? A sinless virgin yokel (me over again) who has never tumbled in the hay of that particular field?.

Well, a couple of times I tried bilking and entered a fictitious number from my imaginative ass. But no-go, Mr. Pariah Outcast.

Since then wherever registration includes the form inquiring of my card number I sucker punch the “X” in upper right corner of their site page – look for some other twerp, sir Hooker! Go an’ fuck yourself, you tricky corrupt SOB!

But your search target waits for you at archive.org or Gutenberg project if not at z-library. And that is right because the best things in life are free – the air, when not polluted, and love which is not a part to Goods-Money-Goods shebang...

The first computer machine I happened to meet at 40 when “Internet” word was unheard-of.

I recollect there was a lunch break at some office yet which namely I cannot call to mind. The stuff went out forgetting to turn the machine off and for about an hour I sat before it and mouse-clicked the button “open file” in the monitor. On the button-click the monitor would wink and hop slightly as if in doubt: to open or not to open? yet keep to where it was, eventually. One whole hour and it never got tired, faith! Then the stuff members came back breaking the spell of my intercourse with the wonder of technology.

On leaving the office or, to be more precise, at the first crossing after leaving it, I met Sam, the most advanced cat in town on such matters and asked him how that frigging file could, by the bye, be opened with the mouse.

Well, he looked at me the way as if I asked about how to put your right foot before the left when walking yet, nonetheless, patiently explained that before to click the button the file you wanna open should be highlighted in the list.

O yeah! Windows 95 was a mighty cool operational system the present Windows 10 sucks at every point when compared to that...

So, on the grounds of the current status quo allowing for texts availability, there sprouts and crops up a curious enough suspicion: what if books—following the example of the vinyl disks by the Flow, Song, Flow! band—will also disappear in the bottomless bin of Past to the heap atop the mentioned garbage because of the rise of laser disks and pirate sites all over the globe where you are welcome to download any hit, be it Lemeshev’s “Will arrow hit me and pierce, and kill?.” and up to “Hit me, Baby, one more time” performed by Britney Spears?

To which with all befitting soberness I declare – fuck, no!

Were they even to convert each and every printed volume into an audio book or turn it into a movie like they did to Harry Potter and The Steel Hardened That Way, or steep it in all kinds of widgets both to reproduce the aroma of the prairie in bloom and the stench off your dorm buddy drunk blind (following the plot), and enable it to convey tactile impressions in line with the sex orgies served by the whores from the Red Mill, as described by the author, or even virtually imitate the taste of any delicacy up to Zhigulevsky beer snacked with a briquette of molten cheese for 13 kopecks a piece, still and yet – fuck, no!

Because there is some (what would I call it?) magic (yes!) in books which is beyond imitation by any 3D (or be it 696D if they choose it)!

Got it what I’m about? Quite so! The words! Those black ant-like-critter-signs in the white field without smell-taste-color, like the distilled water, but making you tighter than all them sweet wines...

But then again only if you know the trick of getting the adequate intoxication from them those ants, sure thing.

Good news that skills could be developed when needed, which lately brought about my getting high from classical music, at least some of its pieces. Take The Hairless Heights by Mussorgsky if you please where witches fly to to land under the soundtrack cooler than the chopper Valkyries over Nam.

Yet Alfred Schnitke still remains as remorseless guts ripper as he always was...

No doubt, freedom captivates anyone but since that villain Hegel had shackled the world with his unbreakable chain of unity-of-opposites it (freedom) got turned into prison as well.

Handcuffed by the edging smartphones teeter poor Juliets never spotting Romeos around who—their brows vindictively downcast—flicking the beans of Steve Job’s HER’s or someone else’s Samsungs.

Each medal has its backside. Dark Side of the Moon in action.

However, let’s drop the subject for some other guy to blow up the Net with because this morning by the try and error check it was detected that you can stuff no more than five A4 sheets into a bottle.

Which is not a cinch, by the bye. And do not forget leaving some room for them (A4s) to piggyback because of oceanic dampness. Some booked, so to say, volume.

As for bottles it’s not a crunch on Island since that maverick wreck of galleon got stranded by the storm last week. No crew, no nothing but the screwed-up vessel driven into the bay by the northern cape of Island, however, the chest in the Captain’s cabin stayed intact with all the stuff inside. Jamaican gin, bottled, follow me?

Well, one of those had to be emptied for the experimentation tries’ sake to see the bottle’s capacity when getting stuffed with A4 rolls. No more than five, as it was mentioned. Exactly where I plan to shove this here part of my blog up.

The uninhabited environs did have made of me an expert in thoughtful practicality because not every day will a fried dove fly to you brought by the favorable breeze n addition to a freebie galleon, you know what I mean, huh?

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