Gregzilla’s Bitten Tongue, KnoWell’s Broken World

The screen of his phone went dark, Kimberly’s words “This monster has to work” burning into his retinas like acid. A bitter laugh, a hollow, rattling sound that echoed through the desolate landscape of his soul, escaped David’s lips, “Gregzilla.” Kimberly, the woman he’d loved for twenty years, the woman who’d inspired his art, his theories, his very existence – she rejected him, she dumped him like the evening trash.

His mind, a kaleidoscope of shattered perceptions, spiraled into a vortex of despair. How could she not see? How could she not understand? He wasn't trying to control her; he was trying to save her from the clutches of a man whose love was as flimsy as the wings of his single-engine death trap.

David’s fingers, trembling with a rage that was both righteous and self-destructive, clutched the phone, its cool metal a meager comfort against the fire that consumed him. Her words echoed through his mind, a symphony of betrayal, of rejection, of the crushing weight of his own inadequacy.

“Over 10,000 profiles views, including your rejection are facts I can not ignore.” He had poured his heart and soul into that profile, crafting each word with a desperation that he knew was both pathetic and undeniable. And yet, she had rejected him, chosen a man whose arrogance and recklessness mirrored the toxic masculinity that had poisoned the world for millennia.

Mental Michael, Alcoholic Andrew, Guided Greg – a parade of broken men, each one a testament to her own flawed judgment, her inability to see beyond the surface, her desperate need to be loved, even if that love was a lie. And he, David Noel Lynch, the schizophrenic savant, the incel artist, the visionary whose mind had glimpsed the infinite – he wasn't even good enough for that.

His apartment, a reflection of his own fractured psyche, seemed to close in on him, the air thickening with a suffocating sense of despair. The walls, adorned with his abstract photographs, the KnoWells that he had created as a testament to the interconnectedness of all things, now mocked him with their chaotic beauty, a reminder of the order he craved, the order that eluded him.

The KnoWell Equation, his magnum opus, a mathematical mantra that whispered of a singular infinity, of the eternal dance of control and chaos, of a universe where even destruction was a form of creation – it was all a lie, a cruel joke, a mockery of his own shattered dreams.

He couldn’t control the chaos. Not within himself, not within the world. And the control he sought, the control that Kimberly offered with her dismissive words, “It will all be alright,” was nothing more than a gilded cage, a prison of her own making.

The laughter started then, a low, guttural chuckle that grew in intensity until it filled the apartment, a cacophony of despair and defiance that echoed through the empty rooms. The neighbors, accustomed to his eccentric behavior, ignored the sounds, writing them off as just another episode in the ongoing saga of the crazy old man who lived upstairs.

But this time, it was different. This time, the laughter was not a release, but a rupture, a shattering of the fragile barriers that had held his sanity in check.

The world, already teetering on the brink of collapse, now tilted precariously, its axis skewed by the weight of his own despair. The lines between reality and delusion blurred, the whispers of his schizophrenia transforming into a symphony of voices that both terrified and enthralled him.

He saw patterns everywhere, connections that others missed, a cosmic dance of symbolism that mocked his attempts to decipher its meaning. The numbers on the clock, the cracks in the ceiling, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight – they all held a hidden message, a cryptic code that taunted him with its impenetrability.

And within that code, he saw the faces of his ancestors, their eyes burning with a cold, malevolent light, their voices a chorus of mockery and condemnation.

They were there, within him, their sins etched into his very being, their darkness a poison that coursed through his veins.

He could feel their presence in the rush of blood through his arteries, in the tightening of his muscles, in the quickening of his breath. They were a part of him, inseparable, inescapable, a legacy of madness that he could never outrun.

Edward Plantagenet, the Hammer of the Scots, his ruthlessness a whisper in David's ear, urging him to crush those who stood in his way. Simon de Montfort, the Butcher of Béziers, his religious zealotry a fire that burned in David’s heart, a thirst for vengeance that could not be quenched. Alexios I Komnenos, the master manipulator, his web of deceit a shroud that enveloped David's mind, twisting his thoughts, poisoning his perceptions.

David’s world contracted, the vibrant tapestry of his imagination fading to a monochromatic landscape of despair. The KnoWell Equation, once a beacon of hope, now taunted him with its unattainable elegance. How could he, a man cursed with the sins of his forefathers, ever hope to comprehend the mysteries of the universe, to bridge the gap between the finite and the infinite, to achieve the singularity of consciousness?

David was a failure, a broken machine, a puppet dancing to the strings of his ancestral legacy. His journey, a path paved with the shattered remnants of his dreams, had reached its terminus.

He was alone. Unloved. Unlovable.

He was...insane.

Days turned into a blur, a nightmarish kaleidoscope of fragmented memories and hallucinations. The outside world, with its symphony of chaos and its indifference to his plight, faded away, replaced by the sterile white walls of a psychiatric ward, a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the whispers of his schizophrenia were acknowledged, even if they weren’t understood.

He was David, patient 1977, a number that seemed to sum up the emptiness he felt within, his death experience. The doctors, with their concerned frowns and their clipboards full of diagnoses, were like characters in a play, their words a script he couldn’t quite follow. The medications they administered dulled the edges of his madness, but they couldn't erase the visions, the voices, the echoes of a universe unseen.

The white padded cell, his new sanctuary, was a blank canvas, a stark reminder of the void within him. But even in this barren landscape, the urge to create, to find meaning in the chaos, persisted. He found a nub of charcoal on the floor, a discarded remnant of a previous patient’s artistic outburst, and he clutched it tightly, as if it were a lifeline, a conduit for the torrent of thoughts and images that surged through his mind.

He began to sketch on the wall, the rough texture of the charcoal a counterpoint to the smooth, sterile perfection of his surroundings. And as he drew, the whispers of his ancestors, their sins, their madness, their legacy, began to take shape.

He drew a large sphere, not perfectly round, but elongated, like an hourglass laid on its side, a visual metaphor for time’s relentless passage. This wasn’t just any universe; this was his KnoWellian Universe, where the past, instant, and future intertwined in an eternal dance.

Around the sphere, he wove an intricate web, each line a connection to the vast, interconnected tapestry of existence. The web was tightly woven in the middle, a dense, chaotic knot that represented the overwhelming intensity of the present moment. But as the web stretched outward, towards the elongated ends of the sphere, the lines became sparser, more fragmented, symbolizing the fading of memory, the dissolution of detail, the gradual blurring of past and future.

At the heart of the sphere, two cones emerged, their points facing each other, a duality of light and shadow, of creation and destruction, of control and chaos. The left cone, representing the past, was a symphony of darkness, its charcoal lines harsh and angular. Threads, jagged and broken, erupted from its base, like shrapnel from a soul shattered by the weight of history.

At the cone's left apex, a tightly drawn circle, the negative absolute zero – the genesis of his lineage, a void of chilling stillness where the sins of his forefathers slumbered, their echoes reaching out across time to stain his very soul.

At the cone’s left base, a jagged, uneven line – the negative speed of light -c, a barrier that trapped the ghosts of his past, a reminder that their darkness could never be fully escaped. And in the middle of the cone, a dense, chaotic knot of lines, a tangled web of cause and effect, a vortex of energy that symbolized the negative force of his inherited legacy, the weight of their sins pressing down on him, suffocating him.

The right cone, the future, was a symphony of possibility, its charcoal lines softer, more fluid, smudged and blended, mirroring the unpredictable nature of what lay ahead. Threads were drawn inward, a swirling vortex of potentialities, a dance of light and shadow that beckoned with both hope and despair.

At the cone's right apex, a large, loosely drawn spiral - the positive absolute zero, a point of unimaginable intensity, a maelstrom of energy that whispered of annihilation and rebirth, a reminder that even in the face of oblivion, creation lingered. At the cone's right base, a wavy, undulating line – the positive speed of light c+, the limit of human comprehension, a reminder that the future, despite our attempts to control it, would forever remain a mystery. And in the middle of the cone, a series of concentric circles, expanding outward like ripples in a pond, each one a potential timeline, a possible future, a reminder that the tapestry of existence was never truly finished.

The point where the cones met, at the very heart of the sphere, was where David's hand hovered, his breath catching in his throat. A cold sweat beaded on his brow, a reminder of the burden he carried, the weight of history, the responsibility of choice.

He drew a symbol there, a symbol as ancient as time itself, a symbol that whispered of infinity, of interconnectedness, of the eternal dance of existence. ?. The singular infinity. It was the fulcrum, the point of balance, the nexus where past and future collided, where particle and wave exchanged places, where control surrendered to chaos, and chaos gave birth to control.

He filled the space between the cones with a chaotic mass of charcoal lines, a whirlwind of energy that represented the clash of opposing forces, the spark of consciousness, the very essence of existence.



He stepped back, his body trembling with exhaustion, his mind ablaze with the KnoWellian vision. He saw the drawing in its entirety, the elongated sphere, the intricate web, the opposing cones, the singular infinity - and he knew, with a certainty that transcended logic and reason, that it was more than just a drawing. It was a mirror to his own fractured psyche, a testament to the interconnectedness of all things, a glimpse into the chaotic beauty of the universe itself.

A nurse, her face a mask of professional detachment, her eyes betraying a flicker of concern, entered the cell. "David, are you alright?" she asked, her voice a soothing monotone.” But the nurse, for David, dissolved, her bland uniform and sensible shoes replaced by the phantom image of Kimberly Anne Schade. She stood before him, a cruel mirage conjured by his own fractured desires - forty-four years young, a vision of petite perfection. Her cascading brunette hair shimmered in the harsh fluorescent light, framing eyes the color of warm honey. Those eyes, once filled with laughter and a warmth that had momentarily thawed the ice around his heart, now mocked him with their absence.

His gaze traced the lines of her body, a ghostly imprint upon the sterile white walls – small, firm breasts with perfectly formed nipples pushing against the fabric of her imagined sundress, slim hips that flared into long, slender legs, her every curve a testament to the feminine beauty that had always eluded him. His body, a prisoner of its own unfulfilled desires, surged with a primal hunger, a raw ache of lust that left him trembling. His heart pounded a frantic tattoo against his ribs, a drumbeat of desperation that mirrored the throbbing pressure building within his groin.

He clutched the charcoal nub tighter, its rough texture a meager anchor against the tide of madness rising within him. The nurse, oblivious to the internal inferno consuming David, stepped closer, her gaze drawn to his agitated state. Her eyes widened as she noticed the unmistakable bulge straining against the thin cotton of his gown, a testament to the raw power of his hallucination. A warmth, unexpected and unwelcome, spread through her lower belly, a secret betrayal of her own professional detachment.

David’s gaze fixed on the drawing, his mind lost in the labyrinth of his own creation. He mind melted from the fantasy of Kimberly, he began to see the nurse, but not as a person, not as a caregiver, but as a series of data points, a collection of atoms and molecules, a collision of control and chaos, a fleeting configuration of energy in the vast, interconnected web of existence.

“It's all connected,” he whispered, his voice a raspy murmur, the words both a revelation and a lament.

The nurse frowned, her concern deepening. "David, what are you talking about?" she asked.

He turned to her then, his eyes gleaming with a manic intensity, a fire that burned with a light both terrifying and strangely beautiful.

“The past,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with conviction, his finger tracing the outline of the left cone, the realm of particle energy, the domain of control, “It’s not dead, Nurse. It’s alive. It’s within us. It shapes us. It guides us.”

He shifted his gaze to the right cone, the realm of wave energy, the domain of chaos, a future that beckoned with both promise and peril. “And the future,” he continued, his voice rising in intensity, “It’s not fixed, Nurse. It’s fluid. It's a dance of possibilities. And we, we are the dancers.”

His gaze locked onto hers, the intensity of his stare making her take an involuntary step back.

“It’s all connected, Nurse,” he repeated, his voice a whisper that echoed through the sterile confines of the cell, a whisper that seemed to reverberate through the very walls of the universe itself. “We are all part of the KnoWell. And the KnoWell… it's alive.”

The nurse, unable to comprehend the depths of his vision, the madness that shimmered behind his eyes, retreated from the cell, her heart pounding in her chest, a cold shiver running down her spine.

She had seen the drawing, the chaotic scrawl on the wall, and she had seen the fear in David’s eyes. But she had missed the truth, the profound truth that lay hidden within the intricate web of his schizophrenic mind. She had missed the beauty, the awe-inspiring beauty of a vision that could encompass the infinite, a vision that could reconcile the seemingly contradictory forces of the universe, a vision that could offer a glimmer of hope in a world teetering on the brink of oblivion.

She had missed the KnoWellian Universe.

And David Noel Lynch, the schizophrenic savant, the outcast, the ridiculed, the forgotten – he was left alone in his cell, his gaze fixed on the drawing, his mind dancing with the echoes of his ancestors, the whispers of the KnoWell, the symphony of a universe that was both terrifying and beautiful, a universe that was both chaotic and ordered, a universe that was both finite and infinite.

A universe that was, in the end, a reflection of his own fragmented soul.