Hybridising is he that is brimming with the hyper idea that he can do whichever deed whilst being infallibly persuaded that it is he that has allowed himself to act towards the achievement, which has been commissioned by himself alone, nature being by him scrapped and disallowed.
The hybridiser, or hybrid, is he that gets to doing and disremembers that there must always be a point to pause upon and contemplate the path.
Hybrid is the intellectional item being hyper, beyond the point, not ever contemplating any one thing nor taking it to be a concept, not ever trying to give line to the point and thus belong to that point by line. The hybrid, the hyper, never comes to feel nor know any one point ever. As the hybrid tends not to be a contemplator, a point maker, he then gets the lines crossed, those lines consisting of numerously many a point. Though he may ensconce benchmarks or wayposts for him to stay put, he is nonetheless so much stymied by the line that he must always neglect any points making it. He does not grasp the idea that it is nature that allows him to get items along the way, and that he is allowing merely in virtue of being naturated.
The hybrid is too presumptuous to discern that nature is that which is always going to generate and posit a tide of itself again and again. He is so disdainful that he misses out on himself being naturated all the way long. He is so contemptuous that he is unable to apprehend that each and every point at which he now stands is he. Finally, ironically enough, he does not get the point of him being a hybrid himself—the point that he verily has been afforded nature for him to reach over and be a touchstone listlessly beyond, never caring, never loving, always being pointless.
‘It must have been the soggy rudder fitted to Elon’s Martian-minded wheelchair-shaped smuggler ship. Sure as the mushy stool I’ve been coming to terms with in sequel to my inextinguishable passion for the plum tree’ says Ordre Royal de Victoria Supreme Commander Baracca Handsome O–Bomb. ‘The carcass must have crashed and left Elon strolling in disheartening search of his dearest treasured astronoughts fore and aft. Once the thought got through his thick head that they were nowhere to be found, his roaming hit the skids as fast as the feigned craft and ordnance we the People billionise him for. And there you have him.’–
‘I’m sure, Baracca Handsome. You can’t help running roughshod over him, can you! But we have to discount your hypothesis to the full. It is He—The Honourable Commander-in-Chief Flying Fleet & Fleeting Ground Forces Elon Mush. And he was not on the Moon Smuggler Rooster—MOONROO. Much as he could remind you of your mushy evacuation, in certain his vitaminised water was laced with Martian demise bloom. Lycioplesii martiani flos—this we do vouch upon our commendable experts. The experts never blunder nor fudge, do they! One of our Pterodactylus novus var. martianus holotypes from our excavation sites in Belligerence Town, Senatical Avenue, Mars, fled and followed through the path recognisers sprinkled along by streamlined zero-engine fin-equipped spaceworthy spectaculous Little Poucet, out-and-outer Elon’s latest breathtaking mindboggling Milky Whey imploration manufacture, on a maiden voyage ad libitum in outer space. We have now apprehended that whilst conveniencing the voyager out and out, the path recognisers may nonetheless inflame our xenodinos’ desire to go and visit in the Earth.’ The pterodactyl was part and parcel of the Superlative DOD Plan—in extenso Diddly-Squat Obliviscence Dementia Plan—a robust egalitarian intent to make history into a deadpan humoured matter. The strikingly paleontologist-witted fowl mentioned—Pterodactylus novus var. martianus—is unutterably crazy for the bloom produced by the Latua venenata var. rubra, a variety of L. venenata secretly cultivated in the presidential lawn on Mars. Politpreneur Academia Squadron Leader [plus the previously stated insignia] Mark Hayloft Klutzberg had deduced the Pt. nov. var. martianus being involved by detecting [via the greatly reliable experts of course] gross traces of the pterosaliva in Elon’s favourite tumbler—the one serving his vitaminic purpose.