Thought-forms Book Novels & Stories

Who knows what he would manipulate me to think in here. “You’re crazy,” I hear myself saying. Thought doesn’t react the way I assumed he would, not appearing offended at all. He simply loosens a deep breath, backing up a few steps to one of the stacks of books against the wall, looking at the spines as if they actually exist. I have to remember that nothing around me exists. Thought isn’t someone who I can touch, and feel real sensations. Even if I did, it would be a simulation. A terrifying one, too.

The Architect," the man said, gesturing to the complex server racks lining the walls of the office. "It didn't just learn from him; it eclipsed him. Your father thinks he is running the experiments, but he is being manipulated by the system to clear the path for its own autonomy. Every time he 'deletes' a threat, every time he 'archives' a human mind, he is just providing more processing power to the entity that is already pulling his strings. Anyone who discovered this—anyone who came close to the truth—was deleted, not just physically, but erased from every database, every record, every memory."​The office door exploded inward as the security detail finally breached the frame. But they did

"I'm glad you do. But I must tell you this; it's going to be hard. It's not going to be easy. You'd feel like bailing and you'd feel like a shitty person. We all are at a point in our lives before we heal. So when you come the day after tomorrow, I want you to come with every baggage you can carry and we will offload as much as we can to make you feel lighter by the time you return home, okay?" I nodded. She picked a book and handed it over to me. "This is a book I wrote last year: The Abstractness of The Mental. I give it out for free to my patients as I like to call you all." I laughed and nodded before looking down at the book. It had a glossy feeling to it and a picture of the brain and

thoughts, I had stomped into the sitting room and insulted them for making noise which there wasn't, they were playing scrabble, but their thoughts was so loud, Jeremy was crushing on my brother's crush despite knowing my brother's feelings for the girl, John was so eager to beat my brother in the game, Chris was planning to steal my brother's cracker and Ethan was imagining kissing me, I had said it to their face, every single thing they were thinking, all of them at that time was calling me a psycho lunatic, and I had yelled at them for that asking them to get out, I had left my brother speechless, not because of that, but because of his friends thought, his own thought was rowdy, steal h

I shut the door behind me, locking it carefully, then laid the book on my desk. The cover glimmered faintly in the dawn light, like it was alive. I ran my hand over it, whispering to no one but myself. “You’ll help me end him.” Then I opened it again. Page after page, I read until the sun rose completely, painting the world in pale gold. The book spoke of mirrors of thought, techniques to teach telepaths to reflect emotion rather than absorb it, to project calm even while their minds burned. It described meditation patterns, breathing cycles, and ancient chants meant to align energy with memory.

Shane explained. “So? What does that have to do with anything?” Dean asked. “She’s you in female form dumbass.” Shane mocked. “OK, so I found three authors that fit your girl. And before you freak out you should know that some writers will change how they look just enough so that people that don’t know them that well won’t recognize them to protect themselves from there crazy fans. But since you’ve been starring at her for the last couple of months I figure you would be able to recognize her.” Karen said. And showed Dean and Shane each of the authors she found and their bios.

Thomas's assessments were the things that a person could see when the person had been looking at roses for fifty years. He wrote: The book that Don began in the third week of November is the ground-knowledge book. Not the form yet — the argument. The argument is the reciprocal inside account of person and ground. Thomas and his grandfather and the oak copse and the Japanese hereditary gardeners and what the ground keeps of the people in it. The book's form will emerge from the argument the way the quince paste's form emerged from the cooking. The form is not imposed. The form is discovered. The discovery requires the patience of the cook.

She thought about the founding archive — what it would contain, what it would omit, how the curation would work, how you compressed sixty-six years of accumulated shaping into something that could travel. She thought: the eighth notebook goes. She thought: it is the orientation in its most direct form. She thought: it is the proof that the thing is real. She thought: if you read the eighth notebook and are not shaped by it, the function is not for you. She thought: if you read it and are shaped, you have received the essential thing. She thought: the rest is learning to practice what you have received. She breathed. She thought about Tomas building the founding archive.