#JUDGE THEM WORTHY OF YOUR ENDLESS PRIDE

[corseque]

It's really crazy how every elf I see is just the most unhappy and abused person. I don't remember meeting a single happy elf in the entire series. They're all enslaved and lost and suffering and browbeaten servants. Solas please destroy the world please. don't even hesitate. right now immediately

[yandere-daydreams]

Can we have a general yandere typing for the TW dorm leaders or your favorite dorm pls?

This is very, very general (it has to be, if I’m going to fit seven different characters into the same post), but I hope it covers what you’re looking for! I’ve been meaning to write a ‘darkest fantasy’ drabble for the dorm-heads but,,, this’ll have to do, for now.

The NRC Dorm Heads as Yanderes.

TW: Physical Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Dehumanization, Implied Kidnapping, Unhealthy Relationships, Mentions of Non-Consensual Touching, Mentions of Blood, and Implied Violence.

~

Riddle is Domineering.

He can’t change what he is, and even if he could, he wouldn’t see the need to. Riddle loves you, he loves you so, so much, but to him, you’re so reckless, so impulsive, so inept, it makes his underclassmen seem cautious, in comparison. He worries less for your safety than he does for your carelessness. He doesn’t think you’ll impale yourself on a banister or trip and manage to break your neck, and yet, he’s managed to convince himself that, the moment you’re left into your own devices, you’ll twist, distort, manage to take something that’s so precious to him and turn it into something perverse, something that doesn’t deserve to have a caretaker so devoted. If he has to take a few hours out of his busy schedule to make sure you understand why he’s so adamant that you obey him, then so be it. He’d rather have a perfect, prized doll who can’t meet his eyes without trembling than someone he doesn’t even know, someone he can’t even love. Someone who won’t let him love them, even when he’s made it so clear that if he suffocates you, it’s only because you've forgotten that you can only breathe because he lets you.

Leona is Jealous.

It’s such a classic younger-sibling complex, isn’t it? It’s not that he’s possessive, he’d be more than fine with carving you up and handing out the pieces if he knows who he’s sharing with, but he’s had a say in so little, he’s had so much snatched out of his grasp before he knew better than to let it go, he can’t stand the though of losing you like that, too. He needs to monopolize your time, your attention, he needs to monopolize you, because if he doesn’t someone else is going to come along to do it for him, and he knows they won’t treat you half as well as he will. It’s why he’s so quick to pull you away from conversations he didn’t give you permission to be a part of. It’s why he can’t seem to go five minutes without insulting your friends or implying that you could cling to him as much as he clings to you, even when the two of you have been along for hours. It’s why he’s so desperate to bite into your neck and burrow his nails under your skin and leave proof of his existance, if only to satisfy that repressed, buried, primal part of himself that just wants something he can own. And he will own you, by the time he’s done. He tends to be thorough, with the things he’s so determined to see play out.

Azul is Paranoid.

There’s a connotation with this kind of alignment that might be a little misleading, when it comes to Azul. He’s manipulative, too. He’s obsessive and he’s controlling and he’s so many other things, but above all, he’s terrified by the idea that one day, you might decide that he’s just some pathetic, pitiful bottom-feeder and move on to someone’s who’s worthy of you. His mindset seeps its way into his behavior visibly, tangibly, blatantly, whether or not he’s willing to admit it. A dozen locks on your bedroom door, a new contract he’s gone over a hundred times, a thousand kisses and a thousand promises and a thousand hours spent clinging to your waist, his face buried in your chest as he begs you to never make him let go. He feels like you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold you close, like you’ll find a loophole or a way to leave him and he’ll never be able to get you back. It doesn’t help that he responds so reflexively to any change he didn’t acconut for. He can make all the plans in the world, contrive as many schemes as he’d like to, but all of his preparations won’t stop him from reacting so harshly when you say something he doesn’t want to hear or do something he didn’t see coming. Above all, he needs you to love him. He won’t respond well to any evidence of the contrary.

Kalim is Smothering.

You have to understand, he really, really thinks he’s just being the best boyfriend he can possibly be. Kalim is naive, like that. He loves you, and he doesn’t know better than to show that love off any way he can and every way he can. It kind of sweet, if you look at it like that. How is he supposed to know you wouldn’t enjoy receiving his gifts as much as he enjoys piling them onto you? You never told him how much his endless parties overwhelm you, so why would he ever stop throwing them? You always bite at your lips and look away and try to cover yourself when he gives you something pretty to wear, and Kalim just thinks you’re so beautiful, so wonderful, it’s only natural that he’ll - playfully, of course - pull you into his lap and go on about all the many reasons he loves you, layering on compliments so thickly, it’s only a matter of time before they start to seep into your lungs and force out the air. Remember, he’s blind to anything he doesn’t want to see, so by the time he finally crosses one too many lines and forced you to snap, he’ll be so caught off-guard, so heartbroken, he won’t know what to do besides buckle-down and give you more, force you to take more. He’s a simple man. If his antics were enough to make you snap at him, surely, more gifts, more attention, more love will only make things better.

Vil is Narcissistic.

This one speaks for itself, really. You might manage to worm your filthy little way into his heart, you might find a way to root yourself there and drive him to the point of near-insanity, but no matter how dear you are to him, no matter how much he loves you, you’ll always be second to the man himself, you’ll always be less than, compared to Vil. It shouldn’t be such a problem, he already acts like he should be the pinnacle of all mankind’s aspirations, but it’s taken to a new extreme when it comes to his closest companion. He expects to be doted on, to be worshiped, and when you’re not busy tripping over yourself to tend to his every desire, you should be hanging off his every word, letting him do whatever he’d like to because you’re just so honored he’d take a moment out of his day to look after you. If it takes a love potion or several, he’ll find a way to live with it. That’s the thing about a mentality like Vil’s, an obsession focused inward that just so happens to brush against someone it’s not meant to - he doesn’t really care about the parts of you that don’t lead back to him. Your health, your happiness, it’s all on the table if he has a chance to take hold of what he wants. He’s always been ambitious. You shouldn’t be surprised when he approaches your love with the same cut-throat attitude.

Idia is Possessive.

If it’s any help, he wants to lock himself away from the rest of the world just as much as he wants to isolate you. You’re the one person he can stand to be around, the one voice he’ll never get tired of, the one pair of eyes he knows will never judge him, even if he’d prefer that you call him more affectionate nicknames, as he explains that he’s just trying to keep the two of you content and alone. He’s greedy, when it comes to you, but that’s not his fault. He gets… sensitive, when you start to focus on other people, when you let other men touch you like they have any right to put their hands on something he deserves to keep to himself. It leads him to some habits he’s not proud of, some reactions that don’t exactly encourage you to indulge his more questionable habits, but while Idia still wants to be able to hide in your arms and ramble on to the only person he knows will listening, he stops caring about how much you want to embrace him, eventually. The world’s already so unfair in so many ways, and no one knows that more than Idia. He doesn’t think he’ll mind if you begin to think he’s as much of a disgusting freak as he already knows he is.

Malleus is Apathetic.

He wants to care. Don’t forget that - he really, really wants to care about your feelings, your interests, your happiness, all of it! He tries to care, too. Not a day passes where he doesn’t make an attempt to get you to smile, to coax out a hint of fondness from your scorned little heart, to sort through all the betrayal and the hurt and the pain and find something redeeming, something that proves he’s not making you any more miserable than he has to. He’ll give you what sparse freedoms he can, keeping your leash as slack as he can afford to, but when you take a step too close to an open window or refuse to hold his hand or he just decides it’s been a few minutes too long since you last swallowed your pride and showed him the affection he strives after like a touch-starved puppy, he never hesitates to pull you back to his side and ignore how violently you’re choking as he takes whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. He never feels guilty, either, not for the act itself. He’ll fret over the hatred in your eyes, he’ll loath himself whenever you flinch at the first signs of his touch, but in the back of his mind, he knows he deserves what he rips away from you. He’s doing you a favor. Humans are so fragile, so delicate, so easily tricked, and as a prince, a prodigy, a source of unadulterated power, he’s the only suitable candidate when it comes to keeping you safe, to guarding you as fiercely as dragon guards its hoard. He protects you, and he treats you like royalty while doing it, so he wants something in return. He doesn’t think he’s asking for a lot, considering how much he’s been denied.

You should just count yourself lucky Malleus might feel a little bad, by the time he’s done. At least he won’t leave you as bloody as he could, after he’s finished.

[harrowharkboygf]

Game Night

a short post-season 5 oneshot. read on ao3

——

Catra liked to think of herself as a dedicated person. There were a lot of things she still hated about herself—the therapist Perfuma had recommended to her had said during their first session that it would take time to fully forgive herself, to get out of the “self-destructive mindset” she had spent so long embracing. But she at least prided herself on her resolve, her resilience, her determination.

However, it turned out that in terms of determination, she was nothing compared to the princesses’ crazed desire to hold as many social events as physically possible.

At first, during the initial celebration at Brightmoon and the stream of Thank You For Saving The World, Princesses! parties that were thrown in their honor as they traveled across Etheria to help with rebuilding efforts, Catra thought that this was just because of the circumstances. Everyone was clearly thrilled to be alive and happy that the princesses were back to being heroes, and they wanted to commemorate the occasion with festivities.

(It was still weird to think of herself like that. As a member of the Princess Alliance. Would it ever get less strange?)

But then Catra learned that the princesses were just like that. There were endless game nights and iceball tournaments and flower crown-making circles and picnics and trips around Etheria just for the purpose of seeing the sights. Late night planning meetings that turned into sleepovers, and visits to their allies under the guise of “checking in” that held no tactical purpose in the end.

This was so foreign, so beyond her reality; she had grown up in the Horde, where her idea of free time was just more training. Her only celebrations came in the form of stolen moments with Adora and extra ration bars, which she hoarded like it was water in the Crimson Wastes.

But despite how skeptical she acted, deep down Catra loved it, even the flower crowns. She discovered that she was very good at iceball—so good that she and Adora were banned from playing against each other on the grounds of being too competitive. (Thankfully, Glimmer and Frosta were equally worthy opponents.) Spinnerella and Netossa were more than happy to teach her all their tricks; Catra found the couple oddly comforting, a nice, stable, older presence that she’d never had before.

But above all, Catra loved the quiet moments the most. Late sleepovers with the Best Friend Squad (her attempts to change the name to something more badass, like the Kickass Comrades, had been shot down) had, much to her surprise, become one of her favorite things. The old Catra would have scoffed seeing her now, eating sweets and giggling late into the night, but she didn’t care. Arrow Boy and Sparkles had actually become her friends, dignity be damned.

And of course, there was Adora. Beautiful, amazing, wonderful Adora, with her sparkling blue eyes and soft lips and strong arms that always ended up wrapped around Catra. She could hardly believe it was real, that Adora loved her. She wondered if she would ever be able to wake up and not stare in disbelief at the sight of Adora lying next to her, staring at her with soft, loving eyes. If one day she would stop fearing that all of it was a dream.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Glimmer shouted. “Quit being gross and get over here so you can finish helping us!”

They had spent the last two weeks in what had formerly been known as the Fright Zone, and what was soon to become Scorpia’s kingdom. The still-newly-minted princess had decided to use it as a refuge for former Horde soldiers who were looking to turn over a new leaf. “After all,” Scorpia had said, “if Catra and Adora and I all changed, everyone else can, too.”

But unsurprisingly, the place was still, as Catra put it, full of shit. So the Princess Alliance decided to clean it up and redecorate.

“You said we could take a water break!” protested Adora.

“Yeah,” said Catra, smirking. “We’re so thirsty.” She blinked innocently up at Glimmer from her perch on Adora’s lap, one arm slung around her shoulders and the other hand playing with her blonde hair.

Mermista, who was carrying a stack of boxes nearby, rolled her eyes. “Yeah you are,” she muttered. Behind her, Sea Hawk gave them a thumbs up.

Glimmer put her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “I said you could take a water break when Adora tried to lift a literal tank without shifting into She-Ra. But that was twenty minutes ago! Let’s go, you two. Chop chop.”

Adora’s gaze was fixed on Catra, a soft smile sliding across her lips. “Just a minute,” she told Glimmer, not breaking eye contact with Catra. Gently, she tipped her head upwards and kissed her. Catra let herself dissolve into the kiss, closing her eyes and exhaling.

They pulled apart only to press their foreheads together. “I think we’re annoying,” Adora stage-whispered.

Catra barely kept herself from giggling. (Giggling. What the fuck, honestly.) “You think?” she asked.

She heard Glimmer say, “Bow! Come help me!” Then she felt hands wrap around her as Bow and Glimmer bodily lifted her up off of Adora’s lap. She hissed in fake-annoyance, squirming in their grip.

“Don’t pretend you two are much better!” she shrieked as they deposited her onto a pile of stacked bedrolls. “I saw you feeding Sparkles at breakfast!”

Frosta scoffed as she used her ice powers to hang a lantern. “I get it, you’re all gross! When can we be done? I’m bored!”

Scorpia delicately set a plant down on a nearby windowsill, mindful of her claws. “Soon! Thank you so much for your help, guys. The place looks great.” Everyone beamed, pausing to look around and admire their handiwork.

It did look great. The walls had been painted a lighter color, and the hallways were now well-lit, filled with softer, more pleasant decor. The clanging of machinery still echoed, but gone was the smoke and pollution; Entrapta had spent a long time working on a more clean form of energy, one that was better for magic and the planet and whatever.

Speaking of the pig-tailed princess—“Where’s Entrapta?” asked Catra. “She didn’t want to come and invent some bot to help us?”

Perfuma adjusted her girlfriend’s placement of the potted plant, trying to give it as much sunlight as possible. “She’s very busy with all her new ethical science projects now—”

“Semi-ethical,” corrected Bow, rubbing the back of his neck.

“—But she was invited to our celebration tomorrow night! Hopefully we will see her then.”

“Another party? It never ends, does it?” Catra said to Adora, who had come back to stand at her side.

Perfuma clasped her hands together. “Oh, this one will just be a small get-together. We’ll throw a big party once all of Scorpia’s citizens move in, but this is just for us princesses!”

“And Bow and Catra and Sea Hawk,” Mermista reminded her.

Perfuma shrugged. “Honorary princesses!”

Adora cleared her throat. “Alright, team, let’s get these last few things in place. We can pick up the little bit that’s left tomorrow morning. I think it’s bedtime.”

——

“And then I said, “Uh, your ship’s on fire!’”

The room burst in laughter. Catra wiped a tear from her eye as she cackled—there was something about Mermista’s deadpan delivery that made all her stories way funnier than anyone else’s. “And did you ever run into that pirate again?” she asked.

Sea Hawk spread his arms grandly. “Why, of course! He approached us a short time later to tell us how our genius and fighting prowess inspired him, and how he had decided to become an artist and build statues in our honor. To this day, his children sing our praises around campfires.”

At the same time, Mermista shook her head and said, “Nope. Never saw him again.”

This unleashed another wave of giggles. Still snickering, Catra leaned forward in her seat and took a cookie off the plate on the table in front of her. As she did so, Frosta opened her mouth wide and pointed wordlessly at it. Catra rolled her eyes and tossed a cookie at her. She caught it in her mouth and gave a muffled cheer as she chewed.

Bow rubbed his hands together. “Okay, guys, let’s get started.” He gestured at the table in front of them, which would soon be the center of Scorpia’s strategy room. Tonight, however, it was covered with a big game board and several playing pieces, dice, and stacks of cards. “Here’s how we play—”

“We’re here!”

Entrapta practically bounced into the room, Emily close at her side, beeping cheerfully. Wrong Hordak followed close behind them, smiling his typical sheepish smile and holding a tray crammed with an almost-impossible amount of tiny pink cupcakes.

Adora stood up to greet them. “Hey, guys! Welcome to…”

Her voice trailed off abruptly as the last guest entered. Catra felt her heart begin to pound; she stood up too, curling her claws into fists. Melog, who had been sleeping next to the sofa the Best Friend Squad was sharing, sprang to its feet, hissing. The rest of the group froze, exchanging shocked glances.

Hordak (the real one) stood in the doorway, somehow managing to look both awkward and stern. “Hello,” he said shortly, his deep voice echoing slightly.

When no one answered for a long, tension-filled minute, Entrapta looked rapidly between the group and Hordak, her eyes wide with confusion. “Sorry we’re late,” she said tentatively. “Did I…did I bring too many people?”

Mermista buried her head in her hands and let out a muffled scream. Sea Hawk patted her arm sympathetically.

Catra struggled to choose between saying What is he doing here and Absolutely fucking not and just straight-up attacking him. Judging by her facial expression, across the table Frosta was thinking along the same lines.

Entrapta twirled one of her ponytails around her nervously, her smile slowing sliding off her face the longer the silence dragged on. Next to her, Wrong Hordak shifted from foot to foot. “Uh…”

Perfuma hastily jumped up, a fake smile plastered on her face. “We’re so glad you could come!” she chirped, flinging her arms around her.

Wrong Hordak joined the hug. “I have missed you, brothers!” he told them tearfully.

At Perfuma’s pointed look, Scorpia and Frosta made space for the newcomers, bringing over more chairs.

“Will you be joining us, Hordak?” Catra asked icily, sneering at him.

“Be nice,” Bow whispered to her.

“She has a point,” Glimmer whispered back.

Hordak glared right back at her. “Entrapta invited me. Am I not welcome here?”

Adora managed to pick her jaw up off the floor. “Uhhh…no, um, take a seat. Bow was just about to tell us how this game works.” She sat down, pulling Catra down with her.

Bow started to explain, occasionally being interrupted by Frosta, Perfuma, and Sea Hawk, who all had their own opinions on how the rules should be interpreted. Meanwhile, Catra hissed quietly, “Are we seriously just going to play a board game with Hordak of all people?”

“He’s changed, I guess,” Adora murmured back.

On her other side, Glimmer rolled her eyes. “Allegedly.”

After the war had ended, the Rebellion didn’t really know what to do with Hordak. Sure, he had saved Entrapta and turned against Horde Prime, but they weren’t just going to let him sit back on his throne. Originally Catra had been in favor of dumping his ass in the Crimson Wastes, but Huntara was having none of it.

So eventually the princesses settled on letting him live in Dryl with Entrapta, as long as he swore never to hold any political power or territory for the rest of his life. An oath they would make sure he held, with magic to ensure it, if necessary.

“I don’t trust him,” Catra murmured.

Adora placed a comforting hand on her thigh. “Me neither, but Entrapta trusts him. And whatever makes her happy, we’ll support.”

They watched Hordak sneer as Perfuma tried to offer him some fruit juice. She frowned back at his rude behavior, huffing in that trying-to-be-dignified-yet-offended way of hers. Frosta looked like she wanted to stick his head in an ice block. Meanwhile, Entrapta was in full science mode, spilling out a detailed lecture about dice and probability.

“Even if the thing that makes her happy is Hordak?” grimaced Glimmer.

Adora sighed, rubbed her forehead. “Even so,” she said glumly.

Bow clapped his hands, signaling the end of his rules explanation. “Okay, does everyone get it?”

“Yes,” said Catra.

“Totally,” said Glimmer.

“Yeah…” said Adora.

Bow gave them a look that suggested he knew they hadn’t been listening at all. “Okay, let’s get started!”

Thankfully, Catra was able to figure it out as she went. The game was fairly simple: the players had to try to be the first one to make it around a map of Etheria, while fighting mythical monsters and challenges along the way. She leaned forward, smirking, her competitive nature taking over. “You’re all going down,” she said, making a show of cracking her knuckles.

Glimmer scooped up the dice and began to shake them. “As if!”

Scorpia laughed and shook her head. “No, guys, Perfuma is the champion at this game. She’s beaten me every time, she’s that amazing.”

The flower princess blushed a deep crimson. “Oh, Scorpia!” she trilled. “You are amazing too!”

Catra watched this play out fondly. Despite her and Scorpia’s…rocky history, she was genuinely sorry for all the pain she’d caused her. Although Scorpia had said she forgave her, there was a while after the war where things had been awkward, uncomfortable. She was happy to see that the former Force Captain had found someone who could make her happier than Catra ever could.

Hordak made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. It took her a minute to realize that he was laughing. “This is a childish competition,” he announced, sounding annoyed.

Mermista rested her chin on her palm. “You’re just mad that you couldn’t conquer Etheria and now you can’t win this board game.”

Hordak stiffened. “How dare—”

“Okay!” Bow interceded, his voice hinging on hysteria. “Glimmer will start!”

They went around in a circle, their game pieces slowly advancing with each roll of the dice. Catra was not thrilled when Glimmer rolled four tens in a row and she kept only rolling ones and twos. Thankfully, she was able to get Sparkles back when she pulled a Brightmoon-themed card and “teleported” her to the little red and yellow spot on the board that was supposed to represent the Crimson Wastes.

Scorpia was, unsurprisingly, the best sport about this. While everyone else soon succumbed to playfully cursing each other out as they scrambled to keep their game piece ahead of the group, Scorpia was the one congratulating everyone even when they fucked her over.

Even Perfuma huffed when Frosta got her stuck in the “Northern Reach”. “This is a betrayal,” she sniffed dramatically, crossing her arms. “I will never, ever forgive you.” A moment later, she cracked a smile and winked at the younger girl to let her know she was joking.

Wrong Hordak landed on a “Magic Zone” square and whipped out a card. “Do not worry, sister! This piece of paper says the Sorcerers’ Guild has granted me the power of…time travel! I will reverse your plight!” he declared. He reached down and daintily picked up Perfuma’s piece so he could place it back on the path.

Perfuma giggled. “My hero!”

“That was supposed to be used for your piece,” Entrapta pointed out, fidgeting with a small gear as she waited for her turn.

Adora shrugged. “Eh, let him do what he wants,” she said. She leaned back and not-so-casually draped her arm over Catra’s shoulders. She leaned into her girlfriend’s touch happily.

Entrapta pulled out the recorder she clearly kept with her at all times. “Observation number two hundred and fifty-three: when playing games, rules are to be broken at the player’s convenience.”

“Now you’ve got the spirit!” chuckled Sea Hawk, who was currently attempting to steal alien chips off of Mermista’s plate. Every time she caught him, he gave her the most lovestruck eyes he could pull off until she let her snag a chip.

Wrong Hordak handed the dice to Actual Hordak. “Your turn, brother!”

Hordak took the dice emotionlessly and rolled it. A five. He moved his game piece to the appropriate square.

“You landed on a runestone!” Perfuma cheered. “That means you get to move ahead five spaces!”

Hordak frowned down at the tiny drawing. “This pathetic image looks nothing like the real Black Garnet. It fails to capture the strength, the raw power that eminented from my runestone. How comical.”

“Your runestone?” Catra repeated, raising one eyebrow. “It’s not yours anymore, Hordak.”

He glowered at her. “In a better life, it was.”

Glimmer narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying that—”

Entrapta scooped up the dice. “My turn!” she chirped.

Adora hastily stood up, gripping both Glimmer and Catra’s arms tightly. “We are going to get more fruit juice!” she said. “Bow, will you come with us?”

His grin was particularly strained. “Of course!”

They both looked at Glimmer. “Fiiiine,” she sighed, before transporting the Best Friend Squad to the nearby kitchen.  

Once there, Adora immediately turned to Catra and Glimmer. Melog slunk in after them, not wanted to be separated from its owner.

“He’s a terrible person!” protested Catra, already knowing what she was going to say. “I want him out of here.”

“Everyone did terrible things while they were in the Horde,” Bow reminded her gently as he poured more fruit juice into cups. Including you was the unspoken meaning behind that sentence. She looked down at the ground.

“But,” Bow said, handing her a cup, “what matters is that they’ve changed.”

Glimmer took the juice pitcher out of his hands, kissing his cheek. “I agree with Catra,” she told him as she poured. “Hordak might have said he was sorry, but he doesn’t act like it.”

“ And ,” added Catra, emboldened by someone siding with her, “he’s just straight up gross. How someone could possibly find that greasy-haired stick-up-his-ass attractive is just absolutely beyond me—”

“I know! He’s all—” Glimmer deepened her voice, hunched her shoulders. “—‘Pathetic princesses! You know nothing of true power! I am Hordak, Prince of Evil! Mwahahaha!’”

Catra laughed so hard she choked, and almost fell over.

Even Bow, who was rooting through the cabinets looking for more napkins, chuckled. “That’s cute,” he told her.

She winked at him. “ I’m cute.”

“You are.” He pulled her into a hug from behind, pressing his lips to the side of her head.

Adora took Catra’s hand. “Just please try to refrain from killing him for tonight,” she asked. “Afterwards, you and Glimmer and Mermista can start an I Hate Hordak club if you want.”

Catra tugged playfully on her ponytail. “Don’t tempt me. I will run that club.”

Her girlfriend poked her cheek in return before helping Glimmer and Bow stack the cups of fruit juice onto a tray. Catra grabbed another bag of alien chips, just in case.

“Alright,” said Adora, carefully balancing the heavily-stacked tray and ignoring everyone else eying her worriedly. “Ready?”

Bow winced as the tray wobbled dangerously when she took a step. “Adora, do you need—”

“I got it!”

Glimmer shook her head. “Maybe we’d better walk back to the strategy room. I don’t know if those cups can survive a teleportation trip.”

“We’ll be fine!” Adora assured her, and then promptly tripped, sending the tray flying.

——

“I’m really proud of you,” Adora told her as they waved goodbye to the group. They all had to return to their own kingdoms; it still wasn’t stable to be gone for too long.

Catra looked up at her. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, you—” She was cut off by a yell of frustration coming from the direction of the skiff waiting to take their friends back to Dryl.

The two of them watched Wrong Hordak and Entrapta attempt to bodily lift Emily onto the skiff, which was hovering a few feet above the ground. The bot was nothing more than deadweight, beeping irritably.

“Her programming is due for an update soon,” Entrapta explained. “Sometimes she gets sulky like this.”

“She doesn’t wanna say goodbye to her friends,” Frosta said. She seemed particularly pouty herself. She had become particularly clingy after the war ended, and probably wasn’t happy about having to go back to her own kingdom alone after spending so much time with everyone.

Catra could relate.

“We’ll see everyone again soon,” Glimmer reminded her, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We’re throwing a celebration once Perfuma and Scorpia get everyone settled here, remember?”

“Yeah,” said Frosta, sticking out her lip grumpily.

Wrong Hordak shrieked as one of Emily’s appendages kicked him in the face. He dropped her with a thud.

“Emily!” scolded Entrapta. “Not nice!” Scorpia and Perfuma moved to help them, which definitely made things more successful. Meanwhile, Hordak watched the whole scene unfold from inside the skiff, not bothering to offer his help.

“As I was saying,” Adora said, still chuckling, “I’m really proud of you, Catra. I—I know it can be hard to keep your anger in check when you’re dealing with…”

“With the former dictator of our childhood?” she finished. “I know.”

“You’ve come a long way.”

Catra laced their fingers together, leaned against her shoulder. “So have you.”

Mermista called Frosta over to their skiff, where Sea Hawk was helping her load up their bags. The game night victor gave Glimmer a hug, then Bow, Adora, and, to her surprise, Catra. “See you later, Horde Scum,” Frosta said, parroting her mentor.

Catra grinned back at her. “See you later, princess.”

From the skiff, Mermista tossed a wadded-up piece of paper to Catra. “I look forward to it!” she shouted as Sea Hawk helped Frosta into the skiff.

“Me too!” Catra shouted back.

Adora looked curiously at the paper ball. “What’s that?”

Catra handed it to her without saying a word, smirking. Adora unfolded it, revealing a flyer.

The I HATE HORDAK Club

Calling all Etherians!

Do YOU hate the former Horde Lord?

Do YOU fantasize about ruining his day?

If so, this is the place for you!!!

Meetings will be held at Brightmoon Castle. Any questions, please see Catra or Princess Mermista.

[1piece-for-you]

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭 — 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

[𝐀𝐒𝐊] - 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨😊𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 — 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐒𝐋... 𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐄𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐊𝐢𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫?🙏🏼 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬𝐬𝐬

[𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄] - 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐀𝐒𝐋! 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐊𝐢𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫. 𝐇𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲. 

━━ 𝐄𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐊𝐢𝐝𝐝

— In the eyes of the public, Kidd is indisputably an uncontrollable savage; a menace that is shrouded in death and terror. He stands with an unwavering form that spits ichor and acid towards every authoritarian, barbarian, and civilian in his path, and his crew proudly shares the same sentiments as their captain, for they are just as ravenous and power-hungry as Kidd.

— And as his lover, a sense of pride thrums beneath your skin whenever you read headlines detailing the Kid Pirate’s most recent bloodshed. It is a thrilling sensation, knowing that Kidd possesses such monstrous strength, yet he treats you so wonderfully gentle with the right degree of roughness. 

— The strong grasp Kidd has on you are both enthralling and welcomed. The implication of being kept in his hardened arms with no escape never ceases to send biting tingles down the curve of your spine. His possessive behavior towards you is no secret; the mad scowl resembling that of hellhounds were enough to signal to all the unworthy individuals that you were undoubtedly claimed by him.

— Though selfish mannerism is befitting for the walking explosive that is Eustass Captain Kidd, the word jealousy never did quite seem to belong in his vocabulary. 

— And you were inclined to believe such a notion; Kidd is incredibly brazen with his earthly desires and greed for treasures he deems worthy of belonging in his collection. There never existed a reason for him to be jealous since the planets were constantly aligned in his favor. Whatever his target was, it will inevitably end up in his clutches.

— But the truth is, that attitude was only retained until you stepped into Kidd’s life. All the people he held in his bed before were for cheap, fleeting pleasure, and the materialistic goods in his possession are nothing more than replaceable, inanimate objects. You do not, nor ever will, belong in either of those categories; you are too precious to be labeled as anything other than Kidd’s treasured lover. 

— And so, after officializing your relationship, an unforeseen development was occurring within Kidd’s psyche. In the open air, where his sharp eyes take notice of the lingering gazes and judging stares your presence attracts, a newfound threat looms behind him. The sickly green claws of jealousy ropes around his neck, clawing at his throat to shout threats of murder towards any and all of your pursuers. 

— He would never admit it, but the slumbering insecurity buried deep in his metallic heart had finally awoken, rearing its ugly head whenever jealousy seeps into the cracks of his frame. 

— While you are considerate of Kidd’s feelings and would genuinely never wish for him to feel even the slightest bit of distress, your more sadistic side is a little too tempted to garner this reaction out of him. And as destructive as his rampages could be, which hinders the livelihood of both the innocent and Kid Pirates themselves, the entertainment you derive from them is intoxicating.

— There is plenty to notice of Kidd’s hostile behavior during his jealous outbreaks; the prominent veins throbbing on his neck, the faded white on the knuckles of his clenched fists, the feral eyes of a beast that craves red to be spilled. It is these same details that made Kidd so alluring in the first place.

— The most notable event of Kidd lashing out was when journalists for the News Coos had sought you out for an exclusive interview on your boyfriend. It was during one of those rare occasions when you had the privilege of self-isolation whenever visiting a relatively secluded island. Being asked to an interview was certainly a strange occurrence, but otherwise, you gladly accepted their invitation, just for the pure enjoyment you would receive when Kidd learns of this; it was sure to be a spectacle. 

— And oh, how right you were. You would even dare to compare the next morning of cotton candy and yellow rays to a night of vivid, scattered fireworks. The imaginary sparks that flew from the grinding of his teeth and the vicious glare that was scorching the newspaper to char as he traced the front headlines; the sight alone had undoubtedly left you high on cloud nine. A shame that Kidd did not share your view on the matter. The article was entirely laced with inflated lies and pompous descriptions courtesy of you, which the journalists easily lapped up, but those details were not what pressed Kidd’s gears.

— The picture accompanying the interview was none other than one of you; a quaint, charming photo that encapsulated your smile. It seemed that the editors deemed photos of Kidd to be both unnecessary and tasteless; he is a renowned pirate, his fiery red and crazed snarl is engraved into everyone’s mind. And so, that day’s newspaper had essentially settled you in the limelight. For that, he was livid beyond the orbit; he was furiously seething. You were swarmed with harmless threats, stuttered quibbles, and poorly disguised compliments for nearly a week.

— “How can you interact with these nobodies?” “If you wanted to talk about me, then I’m right here to listen, you know!” “Why would you let someone take a picture of you? Now the world will see how-! They’ll know about your existence!” “How dare you look so- look so damn cute!” - How brazen of you, to find a riled up Eustass Kidd be your guilty pleasure.

— But you know his limits, as any lover should when it concerns their partners, and to calm down that brute of yours, you resort to the two most effective methods; hushed whispers of sweet honey and melting wax, or close contact of bodies with not even a hairsbreadth of space in between. 

—But really, it never matters what you do, Kidd is always happy to indulge your needs and his own, especially if it rids that grotesque, sliver of doubt that nips at his mind as he drowns himself in the nectar of ecstasy. As long as you remain by his side and in his embrace, he will be content, and the same goes for you.

━━ 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

— Killer is a dangerous man. He is the manifestation of dreading silence and disguisable malice; his mere presence of which that is both suffocating and daunting never ceases to send his foes onto trembling knees. It is honestly a shame that people allow his estranged mask to cloud their better judgment and underestimate his true strength, for they would be no different from mindless sheep wandering into the wolf’s den.  

— But perhaps there is some delight to be found in the fact that the masses remain ignorant of Killer’s more feral side, which lies beneath his metal veil of mystery and obscurity. Though, the real pleasure of it all truly descends upon your core when you are graciously given the chance to witness him succumb to the boiling heat of jealousy.

— Killer may be the level-headed one of the crew, with his silent bravado and hardened resolution, but that simply means he is more capable of hiding his true intentions. In a sort of absurdly humorous way, Killer could be compared to the infamous Pandora’s box; dare yourself to probe the enigma and be rewarded the gift of miserable consequences. 

— Typically, it would be an utter chore to garner any sort of instinctual response laced in ire from Killer; his patience and composure do rarely snap, but then again, it may be due to the iron pride he latches onto that refuses to falter in the face of his enemies. Well, whatever the incentive is, Killer effortlessly deflects and counters any shunning whims and mockery throttled his way, no matter the level of triviality in the situation. 

— And yet, when those supposedly trifling incidences drag you into its cesspool of festering problems, a rivulet of frigid panic whirls within him. There was something so prolifically revolting about heeding his lover involved in such situations, and that bitter inkling only deepens when he finds some weak nobodies casting empty promises and vapid flirts at you. The confinement in his chest would be too tight, suffocating his velvet rope in endless unease; it was impossible for him to ignore it, to ignore the desire to show you were his. 

— Now, Killer will never act out so intrusively at a scale that would cause you discomfort; he greatly respects your boundaries and privacy, shown through his timid head tilts and hovering hands as he waits for your confirmation to coddle you in tender intimacy. But sometimes, Killer’s need for a release from the thrumming tension and frustration distorts his reasoning, whether in the form of cloaked malice or blatant aggression. 

—  If it is the former, Killer would quietly come in between you and the other party with feigned formalities and subtle contact. His bold assertions range from small doting to shameless proximity; a brush of his bronze skin against your own warmth, a possessive embrace around your waist to pull you back against his steel frame, a shift of view to his mask, where you knew that Killer was riddling you with all his passion and reverence through his masked gaze.

— Ah, even the smallest of his grazes has your mind muddled in pink sugar.

— But as much as his fervid touches leave you teeming in a swirl of rousing electricity, there was no denying that the sparking sensation utterly surges when he follows up with a more assertive approach. And oh my, how his killing intent permeates the atmosphere when he is edged on by the crawling eyesore of your flatterer laying their sullied claws on your petaled features.

— Really now, just who did those specks of grime think they were, to project themselves upon you so invasively? Slamming an object down may be enough to scare off your contriving admirers, but the temptation to simply utilize his raw, brute power to ensure they never awake from their slumber was just too much of a rush for him to reject. However, Killer is more civilized when it pertains to social settings, so brawls prompted by him are not a common affair; but you could still list the numerous times he punched somebody for more warranted reasons, especially when they unmindfully slip themselves into your space by force.

— But the part that swoons your heart into torrid oblivion are the aftermaths of any of his invidious turmoils, when your ever so reserved giant, who can be reduced to melted chocolate and thawed hearts with a touch of your own, returns to you with a shameful expression. Through the veneer for his unmerited insecurity, you could vividly picture the confliction swimming in the depths of his cerulean eyes. 

— As unreasonable as it may sound, Killer is entangled in the firm belief that you had this sparkling image of him where he is this reposeful, yet formidable pirate who also happens to be the ideal boyfriend. It is this same notion that spurs Killer to play the role of a perfect lover; the unfortunate product of his childhood, where he spent years in hiding out of self-doubt. And so, when he finds himself reacting senselessly violent towards a mundane situation, fueled by nothing more than petty feelings, he is inclined to believe that he somehow has broken your trust.

— So it is in your best interest that you remind him of just how perfect he already was, how you adore his qualities, his potential, and his flaws; Killer does so much to deserve that melodic reassurance. Imagine, the radiant blissfulness that would cocoon his being once your comforting voice sends honey swirling through his body. And besides, his possessive arrays are enticing performances, because everything Killer does for you was just so profoundly romantic, even with the couple splashes of crimson here and there.

— Of course, there are other traits of Killer’s for you to wholly cherish him for other than the ones that lean towards his violent streak, but how can you gloss over such displays of ferocity without proper appreciation? He deserves at least some slick pressure poured in with unbridled love and infinite urges, from the top of his crown to the underside of his jagged jawline; perhaps even lower if you are ever so daring.

[alexiethymia]

regarding erina

title: regarding erina

after the blue, mana and souma have a conversation

ooo

“That was quite a marvelous dish, but I don’t know if I should be insulted by the fact that you weren’t trying to win.”

If Souma was surprised to be addressed so suddenly by the famed mythical Bookmaster of the WGO, he didn’t show it. Nakiri’s kaa-chan was a lot like her, or was it that Nakiri was a a lot like her kaa-chan? Point is, they had this imperious air about them that just demanded servility, or expected it even. He smirked before what she said caught up to him.

“Hey! I was going there guns blazing and in it to win it.” There was Yukihira’s at stake after all. To Souma’s mind, his plan was fool-proof. Shake Nakiri out of this weird funk she was in with a dish so delicious that he’d have complete victory over her. There was no way he was going to win if she was like that, looking so subdued and helpless. That wasn’t Nakiri at all. That wasn’t the goal nor the shrine he was working towards all this time. 

She was Nakiri Erina with as much fire in her as ice, and it wouldn’t be them if she wasn’t acting all high-and-mighty and insulting him every step of the way, equal parts laughing and angry. Anything was fine as long as she was no longer crying.

Mana raised one finely groomed eyebrow at that. “Oh? So you completely disregarded the customer you were supposed to serve and the order given to you in order to cook something for your opponent, and you still wanted to win? My, my, now who’s being greedy now?” Mana couldn’t help but be amused at the boyish look of indignation of the young chef in front of her. 

Truth be told, Mana doesn’t know what to expect from this Yukihira Souma. It’s just that as soon as she tasted his dish (and she’d say he was rude for serving Erina before her, the actual judge, but she doubts he’d care) she was able to see his personal flavor and through that know more about him than she’d otherwise have. 

Yes, she could taste that overwhelming desire to win, but it wasn’t because of The BLUE, or her as the Bookmaster, but purely and entirely because it was Erina he was facing. It was a unique dish in that she didn’t get to just know him, but also got to know Erina through the dish he presented - their whole history leading up to that point. Despite it not being Erina who cooked the dish, it felt like she was there to see her during those moments Mana was not present in her life and it crushed her with the overwhelming gift and guilt of it. 

If Erina’s dish was purely the mother she missed, then the face that came to mind when she was eating Yukihira’s Souma’s Queen’s Eggs Benedict was Erina’s, her sweet daughter’s. A dish that was created with the force of emotion and pure hearted desire for the sake of one person, and coming from a chef so young, Mana wonders if the boy in front of her even realizes what he had done and the implications of it.

“I couldn’t help but notice. During the regiment de cuisine, if I recall correctly, Erina cooked an improved version of what you served her during your entrance exam. So is that what this was then - a way to get the better of her?” Mana is genuinely curious but then the boy suddenly smirks. 

“So you have been keeping tabs on her.”

Mana, there is no other word for it, sputters,”It is my duty as one of the heads of the culinary world to keep abreast of the events surrounding promising chefs, and Erina is among those chefs, if not the most promising.”

To Souma, it just sounds like she’s bragging about her daughter but he guesses most moms are just like that. “Yeah, yeah. You really are parent and child. The both of you should just be more honest with each other.” 

Mana wants to remain indignant, but something in Yukihira’s tone softens her. “You should say whatever you want to each other while you still can. After all you don’t know what will happen in the future.” She guess it’s an uncharacteristic state for him to be in, because he continues upbeat, “And if you can’t say it with words, there’s always food.”

She wonder if that’s how the two of them have been communicating, a language all of their own. Not for the first time, she feels a pang of pain at all that she’s missed when it comes to Erina. Perhaps it’s too late to act like a mother now, after all this time. But she still has to ask.

She intended to ask, ‘what are your intentions towards Erina?’, but what comes out instead is, “What do you think about Erina?”

Surprisingly, he seems to be putting some thought into it, with his head in hand, then blurts out, “She’s prideful, and bossy, and is a bit of a snob,” he continues, listing insults on his fingers one by one and Mana starts to feel unsure about all of this, “She drives me crazy and insists she’s better than me even though she’s obviously not. She won’t tell me she likes my food even though she obviously does. She’s angry all the time, and smiles only when she thinks no one is looking. She’s beautiful when she cooks, and even more when she laughs.” “She,” And here after everything he’s said that leaves Mana speechless, here he pauses, “She makes me a better chef and she’s the best chef I’ve met. I want to beat her and make her say ‘delicious’.” He looks relaxed as if finally getting it off of his chest. What surprises Mana the most is how blase and matter-of-factly he says it, as if he didn’t say anything profound and what basically amounts to a - what, exactly? 

Despite this, Mana still has to be sure. She has to be sure she can trust him.

“You are aware though, of the risks of the God Tongue? Are you sure you want to stay by Erina’s side even knowing her possible fate?”

He narrows his eyes slightly at her, but his tone is light, “I’ve already told this to the Headmaster - well former Headmaster, I guess he’d be your father - that the Nakiri history sure sounds complicated, but it has nothing to do with me.”

Mana bristles at that.

“My goal back then hasn’t changed, and nothing now changes what I have to do. I just want her to say ‘It’s delicious’ from that mouth of hers.” He smiles and it’s a bit like the sun at dawn melting snow. “And isn’t that perfect? I just have to keep making dishes that wow her and are worthy of the god tongue. Even if she tastes some awful dishes here and there, she won’t break. And no offense lady, but maybe you shouldn’t underestimate your daughter.” He smirks.

‘She’s stronger than you,’ Mana hears what he doesn’t say out loud and rather than insult her, it incites a full-belly laughter, which confuses the normally unflappable boy.

Maybe it’s just simple-minded naiveté on his part, the confident words of a youth who hadn’t yet experienced the world, but it was his simple straightforwardness that cut through to Erina, and gave her daughter the strength to accomplish the impossible. She wants to trust this boy, the same way Erina trusts him.

“That’s all I wanted to hear, Yukihira Souma. Thank you.” For everything.

part 1 of snapshots in the life of an ice queen and a demon king

a series of interrelated and semi-chronological drabbles on what happens next, because the storm is endless but they don’t have to go through it alone. for nakiri and yukihira-kun what happens next only happens to be the rest of their lives.

next; regrading souma

erina and another slumber party

[yukiobeyme]

Hi there! Just wondering if you could possibly write hcs for trans Beel or trans Satan? But if you can’t that’s fine.

I am supposed to doing my Civil Engineering HW? Yes.

I am coming back from the dead to answer this? Yes.

Can I talk about Trans!Beel and Trans!Satan all day? God Yes. Please ask me more talk to more about LGBTQIA+ and how it fits in Obey Me!

Thank you so much I hope I do this some justice. I am sorry how it got so long, but I got in the groove for this and I just came up with other ideas

Beel has some implied body issues, mention of top surgery and T-shots

So you more or less got Satan’s coming out story, I could have just written it as a fic and it would have probably been shorter and more concise. But I did add other headcanons as well and accidentally hc how Satan got his everyday outfit.

*Also disclaimer: Satan’s hc focus a lot on Parrotfish by Ellen Wittlinger being a gateway for him figuring out his identity. I have heard of it and seen both good and bad reviews. I recognize that some bad reviews implied that there are possibly inaccurate stereotypes but was a good starting point to introducing Trans Characters to fiction. I have never read it and can not confirm or deny what the reviews say.

Beelzebub:

From a young age he wondered why and how Belphegor were twins when he was a girl.

It caused a distaste in his mouth but more often than not he pushed it away.

 It wasn’t until the Fall; did he finally act on it.

The first time he was called “sir” his heart almost burst out of his chest

 He immediately told a sleepily Belphegor about it, he figured he wouldn’t remember in the morning

 But boy was he wrong, it turns out Belphegor laid awake after Beel told him that. In the morning they talked about it again. Belphie offered his full support.

Belphie became Beel biggest piece in his support system. Like sure a lot of problems, he said maybe a nap or food would help. But it turns out he was right? (Well for the most part) but whenever Beel felt like everyone hated him and judging him, Belphie would wrap him up in the softest blanket in the house and they would take a nap together. Or when Beel seemed to be angry at everything and hated everyone, Belphie pulled him to the kitchen and made his favorite meal.

Randomly one day Belphie asked about how Beel felt about himself. “Like it doesn’t matter if you pass in someone else’s eyes or not, but do you like how you look?”

That’s when Beelz really got into bodybuilding and weightlifting

While he didn’t necessarily come out to the rest of the brothers, but none of them came out as cis so he wasn’t going to go out of his way and come out as trans

“working your legs naturally helps build more testosterone, so does eating eggs,” it was Satan that told him shyly behind a book if Beelz noticed that Satan was eating more eggs and even doing leg exercising he said nothing

Satan and Beel would have random conversations about gender and identity. Most times Belphie sat in on it. Asking questions or making comments.

Before he got top surgery, he would wear full-body binders, he had a standard black and white, but he also had an orange one. Completely confident to wear them by themselves.

 After top surgery, he showed off (as he should)

Takes pride in his body and the work and effort he put into it. To make it his own.

·         T shots doesn’t help with his appetite at all, the horror that went through the house when the avatar of gluttony appetite almost doubled. After a few weeks, it averaged out to be just a little more than pre-T but the brothers none the less both impressed and mortified

Belphie immediately opened his closet to Beel, like Beel occasionally stole clothes before, but this time Belphie made sure that Beel knew whatever he wanted he could take.

Asmo was definitely down to help Beel with shopping, but he turned him down. Favoring to go with Belphie

Faced little backlash, only some sports watchers had problems with it but were quickly shut down. Though even after all these centuries some people still have problems. But Beel has learned to keep his head high but knows he is allowed to be upset and hurt by their words. But he also knows he can go to any of his brothers for comfort and to regroup.

Beelz doesn’t get the same attention and attraction that Satan does, but he doesn’t mind. Though when he sees younger lgbtqia+ looking in awe at him at the gym, he usually swings by to see if they have any questions or need tips.

Okay, wait hear me out… Definitely created a club specifically for lgbtqia+ to have the gym and exercise together. Whether it was leading a class, he has gotten Asmo to lead a few yoga/ meditations or letting them break out into groups and giving them tips on stance or what exercises could build muscles to help them pass. But most importantly teaches/reminds everyone that their body is their own. That no matter what happened to them, their body is theirs. It can look however they want and even if it doesn’t look perfect, it is still is worthy of love and self-care. “The only opinions that matter is your own, it is your body. Claim and make it your own. No one can take it away from you”

Satan offered to let him borrow Parrotfish, Beel isn’t too interested but Belphie wanted to read it to him.

Overall Beel is confident and comfortable with his body and his identity. On his bad days, he knows he has endless support from Belphie and his other brothers.

 Satan:

You know that feeling when something clicks and its that chilling calm that covers your body? Satan was reading a random book, Parrotfish by Ellen Wittlinger.

First came out to Asmodeus, because Satan knew Asmo would accept him and help him in whatever way Asmo could.

And of course, Satan was nervous because Asmo couldn’t go to the others not yet. Satan planned it out that Lucifer was on Earth and expected to be there for a week, so Satan had time to execute his plan.

Asmo was worried when Satan came to him all serious. Well, Satan is always serious but this time the nervousness and lack of confidence made Asmodeus sit still and hold his breath. Asmodeus was attentive as Satan slowly stumbled through his prepared speech, which mainly focused on talking about the book he had just finished.

 Asmo didn’t understand until he saw how heartbroken and lost Satan looked. He was frantic in a sense and blurted out something along the lines of, “So, you wish you were a parrotfish?” while it wasn’t necessarily the best thing to say, the laugh it go out of Satan and the uncertainty in his smile was worth it.

Asmodeus took it upon himself to go shopping for Satan, getting him new more masculine clothes.

It was Levi that got Satan’s his first Binder, “A lot of cosplayers wear them, so you should be okay for some light exercising in it”

Soon all the brothers, well except Lucifer knew and the day Lucifer came back, Satan hid and avoided him.

Satan should have known better, but he was still surprised when Lucifer summoned for him

He was terrified.

When he entered the room, he couldn’t meet Lucifer’s eyes. But when he spared the glance, he saw the disappointment in Lucifer’s eye. Satan tried to swallow around the lump in his throat and ignore the burning in his eyes.

“What are you wearing?” Not exactly what Satan thought Lucifer was going to say first. “Was it Asmodeus?” “Ugh” Lucifer shook his head and strolled to his closet and threw the door open and went searching for something. “Ah, there it is,” Lucifer returned with a yellow sweater. “This would be more suiting for you,” Lucifer offered the sweater to Satan.

“You aren’t mad?”

“The only thing I’m relatively mad at is how offensive that outfit is,”

“I might have shoes too, but they might be a little big on you,”

Satan left wearing his new sweater and shoes on, laughing how he had to keep a black undershirt on, and the shoes flopped due to being too big. But he left with a lot of weight off his shoulders and high in spirits.

That sweater is the famous one you still see him wear today. He wonders why Lucifer would have such a bright color and when he asked Lucifer just made a face and rolled his eyes as he replied with “Asmodeus thought I needed to brighten my wardrobe.”

 Satan loves it, its soft and bright. It’s a little too low cut for his liking but an undershirt fixed that problem. And it doesn’t hug his chest and honestly, it’s his favorite piece of clothing

 Parrotfish is a permanent book in his room and he reads it once a year. And has special scenes marked, so he can go back and read certain passages when needed

Once Satan came out to Barbatos and Diavolo they both requested to read the book and met with him for tea to talk about the book and life.

Lucifer even snagged the book for a bit. (He tried to be sneaky about it and Satan pretended not to notice)

 Asmodeus and Mammon is chaotic with their support, it nice and needed but can also be overboard but he knows they do it out of love. Pride is a huge thing at the house and Asmo decided to do a gender reveal party for Satan

Beelzebub, Belphegor and Levi are supportive like they are ready to fight anyone who gives Satan any issues about his gender and gender identity, but they are as obnoxious as Asmo and Mammon. They will sit with him, talk to him, or just quietly listen. Most times they can’t offer help and admit they don’t know what to say other then they are here for him and willing to listen to whatever he needs to talk about.

Lucifer is quiet support. At first, Satan thought he didn’t approve but then Lucifer would make a random statement or ask for clarification that made Satan feel comfortable. Lucifer glared at anyone who even thought about giving Satan a weird look.

Satan’s go to binder color is a light grey and most times it just a crop top rather than a full-body one. Though he has an aqua blue one he wears occasionally. (I have a drawing of this somewhere lmao)

Satan tried to give himself his first haircut but Asmo had to come in and fix up the mess and disaster he created. Sure, his hair was way too short for his liking, but it wasn’t long anymore.

Over the years has learned the different meanings behind the looks he gets, whether it’s in disgust or that longing look that demons that aren’t out give him. He somehow occasionally becomes a dad to other trans! Demons. Whether it's long talks or if it's just quick tips that help him through the years.

Ironically enough, Lucifer is his biggest support or the one he relies on the most during days or moments when Satan feels terrible. Because Lucifer won’t be fussing all over him or beat around the bush about it. Sometimes he will state he too busy to talk but will leave and come back with hot tea and Satan’s favorite biscuits. Lucifer sometimes sends him away to grab his homework and they will just work in silence together. While Satan hates to admit how much he appreciates Lucifer for these moments, it helps a lot.

Last one! The first formal after Satan came out, he realized he didn’t have clothes for it. Out of all the styles and outfits he had gotten nothing formal ever came through. His brothers came through though. Asmo couldn’t convince him on any of his extra formal wear so he went around finding pieces that the other brothers weren’t using. Satan was only missing a jacket, but the outfit looked perfect. When he ran into Lucifer, Lucifer brought him to his room and offered him one of his simpler jackets and touch him how to pin it to tailor the sleeves to a better height.

[ikesenrambles]

Are you’re asks still open? If they are can I ask for kenshin, shingen, sasuke, yukimura and kennyo hc for what type of dirty talk would turn them on? I love your writing thank you so much!!

Hello~! Thank you so much for sending this request - I’m sorry it took me so long writing it. I hope you find it to your liking. ♡

If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi, ikesenrambles. I don’t have much spending money for Ikesen since I’m saving my paychecks to cover college. Supporting me on Ko-Fi would mean that I have pocket money for the little things that bring me joy, like Ikesen. I would be able to buy premium routes, which in turn means that I can learn more about the warlords & write even better stories for you to enjoy. ♡

The following is NSFW:

Kenshin

There’s no need to think so much about what to say to him in bed. Just let the words spill out naturally. Lust warms his blood with every whisper, each breath. He wants to feel you, to hear you, to taste the buildup of your pleasure each time you moan against his mouth.

He cares not much about what you’re saying as long as it’s only ever his name unraveling on your tongue when your bodies are intertwined, your limbs a tangled mess on the futon. Sex with Kenshin is always intimate, a culmination of white hot passion and dizzying desire, an expression of his reckless impulse and raw emotion when it comes to you.

So don’t stop making those sounds… The way you say his name when he’s inside of you is intoxicating, tasting sweeter on his tongue, going smoother down his throat. Like a finely made sake, he can never quite get enough of it.

Moan his name over and over like it’s the only name you’ve ever known, until the night is filled with nothing more than the sound of the creaking floorboard and your trembling breaths. It’s the only way he’ll know for certain that you belong to him and only him.

If you really want to satisfy him, tell him not to hold himself back either. Tell him that you’re not as fragile as you look, that he can dig his fingers deeper into your flesh, that he can kiss you harder, that he can push you further.

He’ll take you over and over again until your voice catches in your throat, until your words become incoherent whimpers urging him to keep going, until you’re out of breath. And even then, he’ll coax more moans out of you, his touch relentless and the thrust of his hips merciless, until the both of you come crashing down.

Shingen

What might Shingen want his goddess to say between the sheets? While he is one of the most romantic warlords when it comes to pampering his lover with compliments, what is important to him is candor, not necessarily extravagance. (This is canon from the recent event, Romance Under One Roof.)

In other words, he will find you absolutely sexy as long as you are being genuine with him. Just tell him what you’re feeling - it’s okay if it you stutter, if you stumble for the right words to say, if you struggle to form your thoughts into sentences.

Your honesty is worth more than any clever pick-up line and means more than any verse of poetry because it’s all you: unfiltered, unadulterated; pure, precious… It’s your heart. And you’re giving it to him. There’s more romance in that simple action than one might think.

Tell him what to do. Shingen is an experienced lover and an attentive boyfriend; he can easily find where you’re most sensitive, that tender spot that makes your skin flush, that makes you ache between the thighs… Still, even though he knows your sexual preferences, he finds it so hot when you take control and instruct him on where - and how - you’d like for him to touch you.

Similarly, if he does something that you like, compliment him! He takes pleasure in pleasuring you. Knowing that he’s satisfying you not only builds more confidence but it serves as a reminder for him to touch you like that again. 

There’s also something incredibly intimate about sharing your sexual fantasies together. He’d like for you to indulge him in your desires, no matter how dark or how deep. There’s nothing that he’s not willing to try at least once for his goddess. The fact that you’re willing to explore your sexuality with him, that you’re willing to confide in him something so personal, demonstrates that you trust him enough to be vulnerable with him. For Shingen, that’s the greatest gift he could ever ask for.

Sasuke

When you’re getting hot and heavy, tell him how badly you want him - how much you need him, now. His desire for you transcends rational thought. Hearing from you that you crave him as desperately as he craves you only serves to further fuel the hot passion he feels toward you.

Sasuke’s a dedicated learner even in the sheets. He’ll study the sounds of your pleasure until he has it down to a science. The way your breath hitches in your throat when he dips his tongue inside of you for the first time… to the way your moans become soft sobs as he holds your thighs to keep your body steady, his licks incessant against your most sensitive spot.

Each and every sound you make is important to him; he could listen to you endlessly and even after, the memory of your moans will guide him the next time he lies with you and haunt his sleep until the next night with you. The sweet, shaky, “Sa-su-ke…!” you cry out as you before you come undone against his mouth makes him smirk quietly to himself before he delves back in and finish you off.

If he’s doing something right… tell him! Compliment his technique. Tell him that how it feels like he knows your body like the back of his hand… Tell him how wet and warm his tongue feels inside of you, how good it feels when he’s on his knees for you, his head between your thighs. He wants to know that only he can make you feel this way.

As with Shingen, open communication is key. If there’s ever a kink you’ve been meaning to explore, a fantasy that you’d like to play out together… let him know. He’d never judge you or shame you for your sexuality. Telling him what you want him to do in bed and how to do it not only teaches him how to pleasure you but contributes to his own sense of pride in knowing that you share these desires only with him. Besides, he’ll be sure to deliver.

Kennyo

Kennyo often worries that he doesn’t deserve you. To him, your pure and untainted heart is more precious than anything of a man like him, who’s become so hellbent on revenge, could offer you. And yet, laying beside him at night, you are so brilliant that just the warmth of your body can fill him with such happiness.

He caresses you once… twice… Each touch is hesitant, tender, but fire burns between you both as your bodies start to move as one. The shudder of your shoulders, the soft gasp of breath you make when his fingers seek you… is he hurting you? You clutch tightly to his arm, begging him to continue, and yet when he climbs on top of you… staring into your innocent, vulnerable eyes, he feels so unworthy of what’s to come.

He craves your love, your affection, your acceptance, but he’d never ask for any of it because it just feels too selfish to possess your heart and your body too. So reassure him. When he’s holding you in his arms, whisper his name as you trace your fingers along his chest, you taste his unending love in every delicate kiss and moan. Tell him how much you love him. Tell him how much you love to be loved by him.

He needs to know that you really see him. See him as the man he longs to become: a man who’s as deserving of love as anyone else, a man who can love and be loved, a man who’s worthy of your love… not the vengeful demon he’s come to embody. While you’re staring past those sad, charcoal eyes, gazing at the gentle soul that bursts with endless affection for you, tell him how precious he is to you and how happy you are to be his…

…And bring your lips to his in a passionate kiss that expresses all the words in between. The rest will follow. Everything he has to offer is yours.

Yukimura

The first time that the two of you were intimate, you had to be quiet as to not get caught. Now, when the two of you are spending the night together, you needn’t worry about holding yourself back anymore. Yukimura wants to hear you. He won’t admit it at first, but the sound of your voice turns him on so much when he’s touching you. Knowing that you can get so hot and bothered because of him… makes him feel so embarrassingly flustered in return. 

Hearing the way that his own moans sound is always an awkward experience for him… he can’t help but get red in the face and cringe when he hears himself moan. And yet yours are irresistible. He’ll get flustered so fast every time your lips part as you call out his name, your fingernails digging desperately into his back and your legs writhing around his waist as he holds you in his arms.

As he gains more confidence in his capabilities to make you moan, Yuki will start teasing you and coaxing you for more of those lovely sounds. He loves the way you lose yourself in him, the way your voice gets higher and higher before you come undone with him inside of you.

Say his name over and over as you’re clutching onto his shoulders, biting into his neck as the heat between your bodies becomes unbearable. It’s such an ego boost, knowing that he can pleasure you like that, that he can make you feel so good that you can’t keep quiet anymore. Lord Shingen is sure to tease him about it in the morning, but that’s the farthest thing from his mind as Yukimura lets the sounds of your pleasure guide his hips, his mouth, and his fingers against your body.

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

7th August >> Mass Readings (USA)

Friday, Eighteenth Week in Ordinary Time 

    or 

Saints Sixtus II, Pope, and his Companions, Martyrs 

   or 

Saint Cajetan, Priest.

Friday, Eighteenth Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: Green)

First Reading

Nahum 2:1, 3; 3:1-3, 6-7

Woe to the city of blood!

See, upon the mountains there advances

the bearer of good news,

announcing peace!

Celebrate your feasts, O Judah,

fulfill your vows!

For nevermore shall you be invaded

by the scoundrel; he is completely destroyed.

The Lord will restore the vine of Jacob,

the pride of Israel,

Though ravagers have ravaged them

and ruined the tendrils.

Woe to the bloody city, all lies,

full of plunder, whose looting never stops!

The crack of the whip, the rumbling sounds of wheels;

horses a-gallop, chariots bounding,

Cavalry charging, the flame of the sword, the flash of the spear,

the many slain, the heaping corpses,

the endless bodies to stumble upon!

I will cast filth upon you,

disgrace you and put you to shame;

Till everyone who sees you runs from you, saying,

“Nineveh is destroyed; who can pity her?

Where can one find any to console her?”

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Deuteronomy 32:35cd-36ab, 39abcd, 41

R/ It is I who deal death and give life.

Close at hand is the day of their disaster,

and their doom is rushing upon them!

Surely, the Lord shall do justice for his people;

on his servants he shall have pity.

R/ It is I who deal death and give life.

“Learn then that I, I alone, am God,

and there is no god besides me.

It is I who bring both death and life,

I who inflict wounds and heal them.”

R/ It is I who deal death and give life.

I will sharpen my flashing sword,

and my hand shall lay hold of my quiver,

“With vengeance I will repay my foes

and requite those who hate me.”

R/ It is I who deal death and give life.

Gospel Acclamation

Matthew 5:10

Alleluia, alleluia.

Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness;

for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

Matthew 16:24-28

What can one give in exchange for one’s life?

Jesus said to his disciples, “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me. For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it. What profit would there be for one to gain the whole world and forfeit his life? Or what can one give in exchange for his life? For the Son of Man will come with his angels in his Father’s glory, and then he will repay each according to his conduct. Amen, I say to you, there are some standing here who will not taste death until they see the Son of Man coming in his Kingdom.”

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

———————————

Saints Sixtus II, Pope, and his Companions, Martyrs 

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Friday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading

Wisdom 3:1-9

As sacrificial offerings he took them to himself.

The souls of the just are in the hand of God,

and no torment shall touch them.

They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead;

and their passing away was thought an affliction

and their going forth from us, utter destruction.

But they are in peace.

For if before men, indeed, they be punished,

yet is their hope full of immortality;

Chastised a little, they shall be greatly blessed,

because God tried them

and found them worthy of himself.

As gold in the furnace, he proved them,

and as sacrificial offerings he took them to himself.

In the time of their visitation they shall shine,

and shall dart about as sparks through stubble;

They shall judge nations and rule over peoples,

and the Lord shall be their King forever.

Those who trust in him shall understand truth,

and the faithful shall abide with him in love:

Because grace and mercy are with his holy ones,

and his care is with his elect.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 126:1bc-2ab, 2cd-3, 4-5, 6

Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.

When the Lord brought back the captives of Zion,

we were like men dreaming.

Then our mouth was filled with laughter,

and our tongue with rejoicing.

Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.

Then they said among the nations,

“The Lord has done great things for them.”

The Lord has done great things for us;

we are glad indeed.

Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.

Restore our fortunes, O Lord,

like the torrents in the southern desert.

Those who sow in tears

shall reap rejoicing.

Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.

Although they go forth weeping,

carrying the seed to be sown,

They shall come back rejoicing,

carrying their sheaves.

Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.

Gospel Acclamation

James 1:12

Alleluia, alleluia.

Blessed is the man who perseveres in temptation,

for when he has been proved he will receive the crown of life.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

Matthew 10:28-33

Do not be afraid of those who kill the body.

Jesus said to his Apostles: “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather, be afraid of the one who can destroy both soul and body in Gehenna. Are not two sparrows sold for a small coin? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father’s knowledge. Even all the hairs of your head are counted. So do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Everyone who acknowledges me before others I will acknowledge before my heavenly Father. But whoever denies me before others, I will deny before my heavenly Father.”

———————————

Saint Cajetan, Priest 

(Liturgical Colour: White)

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Friday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading

Sirach 2:7-11

You who fear the Lord, believe in him, hope in him, love him.

You who fear the Lord, wait for his mercy,

turn not away lest you fall.

You who fear the Lord, trust him,

and your reward will not be lost.

You who fear the Lord, hope for good things,

for lasting joy and mercy.

You who fear the Lord, love him

and your hearts will be enlightened.

Study the generations long past and understand;

has anyone hoped in the Lord and been disappointed?

Has anyone persevered in his commandments and been forsaken?

Has anyone called upon him and been rebuffed?

Compassionate and merciful is the Lord;

he forgives sins, he saves in time of trouble

and he is a protector to all who seek him in truth.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 112:1-2, 3-4, 5-6, 7-8, 9

Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

or

Alleluia.

Blessed the man who fears the Lord,

who greatly delights in his commands.

His posterity shall be mighty upon the earth;

the upright generation shall be blessed.

Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

or

Alleluia.

Wealth and riches shall be in his house;

his generosity shall endure forever.

Light shines through the darkness for the upright;

he is gracious and merciful and just.

Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

or

Alleluia.

Well for the man who is gracious and lends,

who conducts his affairs with justice;

He shall never be moved;

the just one shall be in everlasting remembrance.

Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

or

Alleluia.

An evil report he shall not fear.

His heart is firm, trusting in the Lord.

His heart is steadfast; he shall not fear

till he looks down upon his foes.

Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

or

Alleluia.

Lavishly he gives to the poor,

his generosity shall endure forever;

his horn shall be exalted in glory.

Blessed the man who fears the Lord.

or

Alleluia.

Gospel Acclamation

Matthew 5:3

Alleluia, alleluia.

Blessed are the poor in spirit;

for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.

Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

Luke 12:32-34

Your Father is pleased to give you the Kingdom.

Jesus said to his disciples: “Do not be afraid any longer, little flock, for your Father is pleased to give you the Kingdom. Sell your belongings and give alms. Provide money bags for yourselves that do not wear out, an inexhaustible treasure in heaven that no thief can reach nor moth destroy. For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be.”

[elellan]

Chapters: 12/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age (Video Games) Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford  

CHAPTER 12. LIFT ME FROM A WORLD OF PAIN

O Maker, hear my cry:

guide me through the blackest nights.

Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.

Make me to rest in the warmest places.

"Aren’t you gonna greet an old friend?".

He had barely entered his study and approached his desk when that mocking voice rang out behind him. So it was true. Even if he had desperately tried not to believe what Leliana, a furious Cassandra and even the Inquisitor herself had told him - it was all true. The slightest feeling of a newborn headache rose in his mind.

"Come, shake my hand".

She was standing beside one of the doors, all mockery and sass, the staff on her back enormous and showy. Her grin was diabolical. 

"What are you still doing here?", he managed to say, reluctantly shaking her outstretched hand.

"One would expect a warmer welcome from a former companion in arms!".

He grunted and turned towards his desk, he had work to do. "You haven't answered my question".

"I've come with news for your Inquisitor. Already delivered them. Varric has asked me to linger around for some time and I thought 'Why not!'".

"Of course you did...".

"And why not pay a visit to Cullen, check on how he is doing".

He glared at her.

"Well, he is in high spirits, as always... . I must say that your new boss looks like a clever woman. It's a great improvement compared to Kirkwall, don't you agree? Strong supporter of mage rights. Who would have guessed that Kirkwall's Knight-Commander- oh sorry, it's just Commander now, right?". She was looking dismissively at her nails. The nerve of that woman…  

"I trust that since your business here is finished you will leave us for good?".

She grinned again, he knew that there was nothing he could say that would make her even flinch. 

"I've got a mission to accomplish with that Inquisitor of yours, Commander". 

Maker, his head was going to explode- if only a spell purge would exhaust her capacity to rant. 

"We're going on a trip to Crestwood and then, who knows...".

"Unfortunately, I already know what you’re up to. I trust that you won't endanger Lavellan unnecessarily-".

"Cullen, do you honestly believe that I would endanger-”.

“Yes”.

“That was quick”.

“Did you understand? Do not endanger Riw- the Inquisitor-”, he growled from behind his desk, cursing himself from having let that name almost slip from his lips.

“So Varric was right, you have a bit of a soft spot-eh? I shouldn't be the one to talk though-".

"What-?!". She was laughing carelessly, as if she hadn't just said the most unbelievable absurdity. “It’s not- I’m the Commander of the Inquisition and it is my duty-". That obnoxious smile wouldn’t leave her face. “Nevermind that. Have you understood what I’ve told you?”.

"Yes, yes, yes I have. Your duty, your job. Well, some things never change. Don't worry Cullen, I'll bring her back in one single piece. And if anyone dares so much as touch her… fireball to the face, just like old times. Trust me".

 He sighed. He remembered all too well Kirkwall’s last battle, one of her fireballs missing him by an inch, its smouldering body passing near his face, even though apparently it was directed to one of those walking statues... “I’ve got your back!”, she had yelled at him. No, he did not trust her. Not at all. But what could he do? Her help would be vital against Corypheus - if that warden friend of hers was even the slightest reliable. His headache was becoming unbearable.

“Right…”, he grumbled.

She finally took a few steps towards the door. Maker, just go away.

"Not even a single hair will be plucked from that pretty head!".

She was gone. Praise Andraste. But the headache tormented him all day long.

Dorian asked him to play chess. He managed to win, in spite of the headache. 

The night was sleepless too.

There was a bottle of lyrium in one of his drawers, but he didn't drink it.

O Creator, see me kneel:

For I walk only where You would bid me.

Stand only in places You have blessed.

Sing only the words You place in my throat.

Get up before dawn, check on guard rotations, train with Iron Bull -if he was already awake, which was not likely-, receive morning reports and start working on his own reports, attend war council, deliver orders to the awaiting Inquisition's strongholds, train recruits, check on reconstruction progress. The headache didn't want to leave him. 

Josephine kept on singing a ballad about the Inquisitor and Hawke for their whole meeting. Leliana joined her too. Sweet Maker, was it ever going to end? Now it stuck to his head too.

Dorian asked him to play chess again. He guessed he could spare half an hour.

Cassandra forced him to go to the Herald's Rest to have dinner. He wasn't hungry at all, he was nauseous and all that chatter in the tavern made his head throb. He couldn't understand, why couldn't he eat in the main keep, in that canteen near the kitchen? 

The Inquisitor did sometimes, Josie and Leliana did so too, not to talk about Varric or Madame De Fer... . 

Cassandra was right though, seeing people made him lose his concentration on other matters. Surely she meant the lyrium, but he didn't want to miss his pace with his work. And the bard kept on singing that idiotic ballad all over again.

When he finally came back to his quarters he was feeling worse than before. He shouldn't have gone, he knew it. He looked at his desk: a letter from Mia. Another one. He didn't have time to answer, he would read it tomorrow. 

Another sleepless night. He woke up three times from eerie dreams. This wasn't good.

The bottle of lyrium was still untouched.

My Maker, know my heart:

Take me from a life of sorrow.

Lift me from a world of pain.

Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.

Get up before dawn, take a potion for the headache, one for the nausea, pray their effects will last all day, check on guard rotations, train with Lysette -it made him think of Haven, of the time when he had trained Lavellan with daggers-, it was too hot to train, nausea gnawing at the pit of his stomach and the back of his tongue, receive morning reports and start working on a reply to Rylen's ones, it was impossible to write with his hands shaking like that - Maker, steel my heart, attend war council, keep focused on their words - the Inquisitor was worried about the Dales,  continue to deliver orders to the Inquisition's strongholds, train recruits - exhausting, check on reconstruction progress.

Maker, I will not forsake You.

He saw her walking towards him that evening. She was surely going to check on her new mount, a halla. He had gone to see it too, since Master Dennet had called it "a fine beast".

She saw him and walked towards him. He had seen her only scarcely during the days before, walking, no, sulking around Skyhold, submerged by scouts and work. 

She had entered the Inquisition with such a bold, careless attitude. Now, after they had bestowed that title on her, ‘Inquisitor’, she looked overwhelmed.  

She sought counsel from him concerning her new role. 

"I'm sure you'll do it justice. We advisors will make sure that you won't carry the weight of the Inquisition alone".

Bad answer? She didn't reply for a moment and then gave him a sheepish smile.

"We'll see how long it takes for me to lure disaster upon us all again!".

No, that wasn't acceptable. She wasn't Hawke, she didn't lure disaster. How could he tell her? His headache was pounding. He was tired.

"You shouldn't blame yourself. Nothing that happened was your fault. Haven couldn't face an invasion and you managed to save us all- I mean... . You have proven yourself, Inquisitor, you will adjust to your role in no time".

"If you say so...". He had got it all wrong again. Maker.

"Here, let me debrief you on our situation, Inquisitor". He told her about the army,  the undergoing work on the barracks and the civilian quarters, about his work on guard rotation, area exploration, planning for fortifications. 

"Very well, Commander!", she said. She seemed in a better mood now. Glowing green eyes- had he seen them in one of his dreams? No. 

"I must also recommend, Inquisitor", he went on. "That we pursue these red lyrium templars as soon as we can. They are dangerous and if we manage to find out where they smuggle the lyrium-".

"Yes. That may be a good start, dismantle their supply chain and weaken their forces".

She looked at him, one of those looks that she had in Haven. It made him smile.

"Exactly. Excellent work, Inquisitor”..

He had barely thought about what he was saying, had he actually teased her a little bit? 

Well, it didn't go missing on her.

"Commander, I dare say that I am impressed by the amount of work that you managed to do in this little time-".

"It is only my duty".

"Yes, indeed. But does your duty come before your hours of sleep?". He froze. She was looking closely at him. What did she mean? Had she discovered it? Was it so evident?

"This seems hardly the time to sleep", he managed to say. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. His head pounded fiercely and his hands were cold: working was the only way to escape from it all.

"I know, I- I am just saying that- it's just that you seem tired".

He had got it all wrong again. But he couldn't let her see. He was not a child. 

"Your concern is ill-founded, Inquisitor. How are you instead?".

That had been close. They chatted for a few minutes more, but she seemed disheartened by their conversation. She left. He watched her walking towards the stables, the sun glistening in her hair, in long strides she was already halfway, her figure from afar seemed like a silhouette cut out of a children’s book… . 

And then he did something stupid, something unprofessional. Was it out of guilt? 

He ran after her and stopped her, grabbed her by her arm. A thought that had repeatedly crossed his mind coming out of his mouth without him even being able to control it. 

"You stayed behind". He gave her no time to answer and hastily dropped her arm, clenching and unclenching his hand immediately after. "You could have... I will not allow anything like the events at Haven to happen again, I swear. I should have done more, I- I failed my duty Lavellan, it won't happen again. It's all I'm saying. Good day".

Unprofessional. Idiotic. Nonsensical. Why had he done it? Surely she would have noticed his trembling hands when he had grabbed her arm. Maker, if only he could sleep. Just a few hours. 

Dorian wanted to play chess, again.

The bottle of lyrium in his drawer remained untouched.

My Creator, judge me whole: 

Find me well within Your grace.

Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.

Tell me I have sung to Your approval.

CONTINUE ON AO3

[believerindaydreams]

but never jam today

oh look who felt like writing existential despair (the tale of Tuco and Blondie meeting). 

(I never actually write existential despair when I’m depressed; it requires too much concentration. And elegance. Though I wouldn’t read it if you were, y’know? 

should be tagged for suicidal thoughts, can’t cos I got blocked from the tag for it. (I need a citrus scale for trigger warnings, is wot)

Anyway. Fic. 

It’s not the winter that breaks his heart, harsh as it is; there’s a strong-willed petulance in him that resents its cruelty too much to let it break him. 

He counts up his faults with dutiful enthusiasm, still. Used to long after them, recite the list ferociously at confession, each one a bright thunderbolt to light storm-tossed skies. Anger, every time he hears his confirmation name (the brothers never say it right, not ever). Lust, at the sight of that stupid, fluff-haired acolyte who can’t stop stumbling over the responses at mass; gluttony, the hunger he warded off every fast day with hidden rations of honey and crackers. 

But all his sins are faded now, into these endless unstinting days, and his throat closes with a misery made paradoxically livable by its sheer potency, the hot slow planning of his martyrdom. It lasts him out until spring, a spring that blows over his flat, waterless hell with no more kindness than the snows, when the last small misery comes to claim him at last. 

(one gorgeous mother-of-pearl rosary his mother gave him, gone missing forever. no money to join a field trip at the port, to see boats that travelled from the wide encompassing sea. his fluff-haired fellow made an altar boy, for no reason he can understand with any degree of charity. it doesn’t matter which it was. any of them, all of them, this is when he learns that indifference for the past.)

And so. Today is the strangest Saturday in all the year, the one day when God moves in neither earth nor heaven; the perfect day for suicides, then.

(this was the light of his hope- two chocolate bars and a stolen orange- and as they’re caught and confiscated, so the storm gives way at last to dreamless blank; this, he thinks, is what they call despair.)

(he feels like he might have staved off the mortal sin, if they’d only let him have the orange and take the whipping for it afterwards. A whipping he could have coped with so much more easily, no worse than the knock-down fights back home.)

(he doesn’t miss home, now. too many letters, telling of their bottomless pride, and it stopped being a place he even wanted. New York without his parents would be a godless heaven, and where else is there to be?)

It takes no little difficulty. To congeal the wet, shapeless grossness of his presence into a worthy candle, fit to burn, is exhausting labour, only hard-won- but he knows something now about self-denial and the martyr’s reward. 

The martyr’s reward being this: jam. 

Lots of jam. 

There’s a locked room in the cloisters where nobody’s allowed to go. The room where all the sugared blackberry and strawberry and cherry-apple-blackcurrant and everything else is kept in storage for the secular truck drivers, who’ll come take it away without a word. To his sharp, intense disappointment (how can he still muster the energy, to be upset by anything further? and files it away as one more complaint to hold his despair fast)- there are no huge jelly vats in the forbidden place, no wine press filled to the brim, no treacly pool of delight to provide the elegant, dark and endlessly sweet drowning of which he’s dreamt. Only rows of jar after tiny jar, joy strictly measured out by the ounce, delights too rationed to kill quickly. 

(only slowly)

But hope springs eternal. Up in a creaky loft, there’s a huge barrel of oranges put by for making marmalade, with a top he only manages to pry off after a solid quarter-hour’s effort; he figures that’ll do. Balancing his weight on the cold weight of a metal stool, peering into the salty, citrusy interior, he catches a scent that might almost be the sea; and lets himself wonder for a moment, if that’s all it will take to hold him safe. 

(it doesn’t)

He plunges his hand in and takes a nibble from one iridescent segment. Drops it again, shuddering all over at its unspeakable taste- such a beautiful fruit, to be more bitter than lemon. Curdling in his mouth. Enough. Enough of this. 

The door opens, gentle and noiseless. Someone enters, to call him by name. 

“Hey,” he says. “Tuco- it is Tuco, isn’t it? Saw that on your letters.”

Tuco glances down the loft ladder, judges trajectories and distance. He could, he figures, pull the stool in after him. Weigh himself down enough to drown in this barrel, before anybody could get him out again. 

“The hell’s wrong with you? You’re teacher’s pet, you’re everything they want you to be. And studying on a scholarship, too- why risk all that to come looking for me here?”

“Because I thought I could do something about it.”

Tuco finds himself shuddering again, and not for his own woes. There’s boastfulness in those words and tone, a self-regard that has nothing to do with God or man or kindness to him, but simple command. Thou shalt not, let that suffice you. 

Who do you think you are, eh?

“I brought you a bacon sandwich. You’ll have to come down to get it.” Pulls out the rich fatty delicacy from a paper bag, tosses it teasingly in the air, and Tuco wavers for a moment, very giddy. Then drops back into Spanish for the first time in months, to swear at him with the right mouth-filling oath.

(the thing he hadn’t appreciated about this state of mind; the smallest mercies become miracles, and he's not spiritual enough to hold to a fast in the face of that temptation)

But it's like waking from a dream- why in god's name would he do harm to himself, with his body clinging on to life with such patient insistence, sure in its wants and appetites, so reassuring in its joys? Other sins he craves, he'll take in their plenty; not this one, never this one.

(They leave that night, unseen, and part ways at the next truck stop; he doesn’t see Blondie again for a long time to come.)

(By then, they will both be very different; and yet every inch the same.)

[pamphletstoinspire]

Gospel Reading and Commentary for December 8th - First Saturday of Advent - Roman Catholic - Luke: 1: 26 - 38 (Solemnity of The Immaculate Conception of The Blessed Virgin Mary)

26. And in the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee, named Nazareth,

27. To a virgin espoused to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the virgin’s name was Mary.

BEDE; Because either the Incarnation of Christ was to be in the sixth age of the world, or because it was to serve to the fulfilling of the law, rightly in the sixth month of John’s conception was an angel sent to Mary, to tell her that a Savior should be born. Hence it is said, And in the sixth month, &c. We must understand the sixth month to be March, on the twenty-fifth day of which our Lord is reported to have been conceived, and to have suffered, as also to have been born on the twenty-fifth day of December. But if either the one day we believe to be the vernal equinox, or the other the winter solstice, it happens that with the increase of light He was conceived or born Who lightens every man that comes into the world. But if any one shall prove, that before the time of our Lord’s nativity or conception, light began either to increase, or supersede the darkness, we then say, that it was because John, before the appearance of His coming, began to preach the kingdom of heaven.

BASIL. The heavenly spirits visit us, not as it seems fit to them, but as the occasion conduces to our advantage, for they are ever looking upon the glory and fullness of the Divine Wisdom;; hence it follows, The angel Gabriel was sent. GREG. To the virgin Mary was sent, not any one of the angels, but the archangel Gabriel; for upon this service it was meet that the highest angel should come, as being the bearer of the highest of all tidings. He is therefore marked by a particular name, to signify what was his effectual part in the work. For Gabriel is interpreted, “the strength of God.” By the strength of God then was He to be announced Who was coming as the God of strength, and mighty in battle, to put down the powers of the air. GLOSS. But the place is also added whither he is sent, as it follows, To a city, Nazareth. For it was told that He would come a Nazarite, (i.e. the holy of the holy.)

BEDE; It was as a fit beginning for man’s restoration, that an angel should be sent down from God to consecrate a virgin by a divine birth, for the first cause of man’s perdition was the Devil sending a serpent to deceive a woman by the spirit of pride. AUG. To a virgin, for Christ could be born from virginity alone, seeing He could not have an equal in His birth. It was necessary for our Head by this mighty miracle to be born according to the flesh of a virgin gin’ that He might signify that his members were to be born in the spirit of a virgin Church. JEROME; And rightly an angel is sent to the virgin, because the virgin state is ever akin to that of angels. Surely in the flesh to live beyond the flesh is not a life on earth but in heaven.

CHRYS. The angel announces the birth to the virgin not after the conception, lest she should be thereby too much troubled, but before the conception he addresses her, not in a dream, but standing by her in visible shape. For as great indeed were the tidings she receives, she needed before the issue of the event an extraordinary visible manifestation.

AMBROSE; Scripture has rightly mentioned that she was espoused, as well as a virgin, a virgin, that she might appear free from all connection with man; espoused, that she might not be branded with the disgrace of sullied virginity, whose swelling womb seemed to bear evident marks of her corruption. But the Lord had rather that men should cast a doubt upon His birth than upon His mother’s purity. He knew how tender is a virgin’s modesty, and how easily assailed the reputation of her chastity, nor did He think the credit of His birth was to be built up by His mother’s wrongs. It follows therefore, that the holy Mary’s virginity was of as untainted purity as it was also of unblemished reputation. Nor ought there, by an erroneous opinion, to be left the shadow of an excuse to living virgins, that the mother of our Lord even seemed to be evil spoken of. But what could be imputed to the Jews, or to Herod, if they should seen to have persecuted an adulterous offspring? And how could He Himself say, I came not to abolish the law, but to fulfill it, if He should seem to have had his beginning from a violation of the law, for the issue of an unmarried person is condemned by the law? Not to add that also greater credit is given to the words of Mary, and the cause of falsehood removed? For it might seem that unmarried becoming pregnant, she had wished to shade her guilt by a lie; but an espoused person has no reason for lying, since to women child-birth is the reward of wedlock, the grace of the marriage bed. Again, the virginity of Mary was meant to baffle the prince of the world, who, when he perceived her espoused to a mall, could cast no suspicion on her offspring. ORIGEN; For if she had had no husband, soon would the thought have stolen into the Devil’s mind, how she who had known no man could be pregnant. It was right that the conception should be Divine, something more exalted than human nature. AMBROSE; But still more has it baffled the princes of the world, for the malice of devils soon detects even hidden things, while they who are occupied in worldly vanities, can not know the things of God. But moreover, a more powerful witness of her purity is adduced, her husband, who might both have been indignant at the injury, and revenged the dishonor, if he also had not acknowledged the mystery; of whom it is added, Whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. BEDE; Which last applies not only to Joseph, but also to Mary, for the Law commanded that every one should take a wife out of his own tribe or family. It follows, And the virgin’s name was Mary. ID. Maria, in Hebrew, is the star of the sea; but in Syriac it is interpreted Mistress, and well, because Mary was thought worthy to be the mother of the Lord of the whole world, and the light of endless ages.

28. And the angel came in to her, and said, Hail, you that are highly favored, the Lord is with you: blessed are you among women.

29. And when she saw him, she was troubled at his saying, and cast in her mind what manner of salutation this should be.

AMBROSE; Mark the virgin by her manner of life. Alone in an inner chamber, unseen by the eyes of men, discovered only by an angel; as it is said, And the angel came in to her. That she might not be dishonored by any ignoble address, she is saluted by an angel. GREG. NYSS. Far different then to the news formerly addressed to the woman, is the announcement now made to the Virgin. In the former, the cause of sin was punished by the pains of childbirth; In the latter, through gladness, sorrow is driven away. Hence the angel not unaptly proclaims joy to the Virgin, saying, Hail.

GREEK EX. But that she was judged worthy of the nuptials is attested by his saying, Full of grace. For it is signified as a kind of token or marriage gift of the bridegroom, that she was fruitful in graces. For of the things which he mentions, the one appertains to the bride, the other to the bridegroom. JEROME; And it is well said, Full of grace, for to others, grace comes in part; into Mary at once the fullness of grace wholly infused itself. She truly is full of grace through whom has been poured forth upon every creature the abundant rain of the Holy Spirit. But already He was with the Virgin Who sent the angel to the Virgin. The Lord preceded His messenger, for He could not be confined by place Who dwells in all places. Whence it follows, The Lord is with you. AUG. More I than with me, for He Himself is in your heart, He is (made) in you womb, He fills your soul, He fills your womb.

GREEK EX. But this is the sum of the whole message. The Word of God, as the Bridegroom, effecting an incomprehensible union, Himself, as it were, the same both planting, and being planted, has molded the whole nature of man into Himself. But comes last the most perfect and comprehensive salutation; Blessed are you among women. i.e. Alone, far before all other women; that women also should be blessed in you, as men are in your Son; but rather both in both. For as by one man and one woman came at once both sin and sorrow, so now also by one woman and one man has both blessing and joy been restored, and poured forth upon all.

AMBROSE; But mark the Virgin by her bashfulness, for she was afraid, as it follows; And when she heard, she was troubled. It is the habit of virgins to tremble, and to be ever afraid at the presence of man, and to be shy when he addresses her. Learn, O virgin, to avoid light talking. Mary feared even the salutation of an angel. GREEK EX. But as she might be accustomed to these visions, the Evangelist ascribes her agitation not to the vision, but to the things told her, saying, she was troubled at his words. Now observe both the modesty and wisdom of the Virgin; the soul, and at the same time the voice. When she heard the joyful words, she pondered them in her mind, and neither openly resisted through unbelief, nor forthwith lightly complied; avoiding equally the inconstancy of Eve, and the insensibility of Zacharias. Hence it is said, And she cast in her mind what manner of salutation this was, it is not said conception for as yet she knew not the vastness of the mystery. But the salutation, was there aught of passion in it as from a man to a virgin? or was it not of God, seeing that he makes mention of God, saying, The Lord is with you. AMBROSE; She wondered also at the new form of blessing, unheard of before, reserved for Mary alone. ORIGEN; For if Mary had known that similar words had been addressed to others, such a salutation would never have appeared to her so strange and alarming.

30. And the angel said to her, Fear not, Mary for you have found favor with God.

31. And, behold, you shall conceive in your womb and bring forth a son, and shall call his name JESUS.

32. He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Highest: and the Lord God shall give to him the throne of his father David:

33. And he shall reign over the house of Jacob for ever; and of his kingdom there shall be no end.

When the angel saw that she was troubled at this unusual salutation, calling her by her name as if she was well known to him, he tells her she must not fear, as it follows, And the angel said, Fear not, Mary. GREEK EX. As if he said, I came not to deceive you, nay rather to bring down deliverance from deception; I came not to rob you of your inviolable virginity, but to open a dwelling-place for the Author and Guardian of your purity, I am not a servant of the Devil but the ambassador of Him that destroys the Devil. I am come to form a marriage treaty, not to devise plots. So far then was he from allowing her to be harassed by distracting thoughts, lest he should be counted a servant unfaithful to his trust.

CHRYS. But he who earns favor in the sight of God has nothing to fear. Hence it follows, For you have found favor before God. But how shall any one find it, except through the means of his humility. For God gives grace to the humble. GREEK EX. For the Virgin found favor with God, in that decking her own soul in the bright robes of chastity, she prepared a dwelling-place pleasing to God. Not only did she retain her virginity inviolate, but her conscience also she kept from stain. As many had found favor before Mary, he goes on to state what was peculiar to her. Behold, you shall conceive in your womb. GREEK EX. By the word behold, he denotes rapidity and actual presence, implying that with the utterance of the word the conception is accomplished. GREEK EX. You shall conceive in your womb, that he might show that our Lord from the very Virgin’s womb, and of our substance, took our flesh upon Him. For the Divine Word came to purify man’s nature and birth, and the first elements of our generation. And so without sin and human seed, passing through every stage as we do, He is conceived in the flesh, and carried in the womb for the space of nine months. GREEK EX. But since it happens also that to the spiritual mind is given in an especial manner to conceive the Divine Spirit, and bring forth the Spirit of salvation, as says the Prophet; therefore he added, And you shall bring forth a Son. AMBROSE; But all are not as Mary, that when they conceive the word of the Holy Spirit, they bring forth; for some put forth the word prematurely, others have Christ in the womb, but not yet formed. GREG. NYSS. While the expectation of child-birth strikes a woman with terror, the sweet mention of her offspring calms her, as it is added, And you shall call his name Jesus. The coming of the Savior is the banishing of all fear. BEDE; Jesus is interpreted Savior, or Healing. GREEK EX. And he says, You shall call, not His father shall call, for He is without a father as regards His lower birth, as He is without a mother in respect of the higher. CYRIL; But, this name was given anew to the Word in adaptation to His nativity in the flesh; as that prophecy said, You shall be called by a new name which the mouth of the Lord has named. GREEK EX. But as this name was common to Him with the successor of Moses, the angel therefore implying that He should not be after Joshua’s likeness, adds, He shall be great. AMBROSE; It was said also of John, that he shall be great, but of him indeed as of a great man, of Christ, as of the great God. For abundantly is poured forth the power of God; widely the greatness of the heavenly substance extended, neither confined by place, nor grasped by thought; neither determined by calculation, nor altered by age. ORIGEN; See then the greatness of the Savior, how it is diffused over the whole world. Go up to heaven, see there how it has filled the heavenly places; carry your thoughts down to the deep, behold, there too He has descended. If you see this, then, in like manner, behold you fulfilled in very deed, He shall be great.

GREEK EX. The assumption of our flesh does not diminish ought from the loftiness of the Deity, but rather exalts the lowness of man’s nature. Hence it follows, And he shall be called the Son of the Highest. Not, you shall give Him the name, but He Himself shall be called. By whom, but His Father of like substance with Himself? For no one has known the Son but the Father. But He in Whom exists the infallible knowledge of His Son, is the true interpreter as to the name which should be given Him, when He says, This is my beloved Son; for such indeed from everlasting He is, though His name was not revealed till now; therefore he says, He shall be called, not shall be made or begotten. For before the worlds He was of like substance with the Father. Him therefore you shall conceive; His mother you shall become; Him shall your virgin shrine enclose, Whom the heavens were not able to contain. CHRYS. But since it seems shocking or unworthy to some men that God should inhabit a body, is the Sun, I would ask, the heat whereof is felt by each body that receives its rays, at all sullied as to its natural purity? Much more then does the Sun of Righteousness, in taking upon Himself a most pure body from the Virgin’s womb, escape not only defilement, but even show forth His own mother in greater holiness. GREEK EX. And to make the Virgin mindful of the prophets, he adds, And the Lord God shall give to him the seat of David, that she might know clearly, that He Who is to be born of her is that very Christ, Whom the prophets promised should be born of the seed of David.

CYRIL; Not however from Joseph proceeded the most pure descent of Christ. For from one and the same line of connection had sprung both Joseph and the Virgin, and from this the only-begotten had taken the form of man. BASIL; Our Lord sat not on the earthly throne of David, the Jewish kingdom having been transferred to Herod. The seat of David is that on which our Lord reestablished His spiritual kingdom which should never be destroyed. Hence it follows, And he shall reign over the house of Jacob. CHRYS. Now He assigns to the present house of Jacob all those who were of the number of the Jews that believed on Him. For as Paul says, They are not all Israel which are of Israel, but the children of the promise are counted for the seed. BEDE; Or by the house of Jacob he means the whole Church which either sprang from a good root, or though formerly a wild olive branch, has yet been for a reward of its faith grafted into the good olive tree. GREEK EX. But to reign for ever is of none save God alone; and hence though because of the incarnation- t nation Christ is said to receive the seat of David, yet as being Himself God He is acknowledged to be the eternal King. It follows, And his kingdom shall have no end, not in that He is God, but in that He is man also. Now indeed He has the kingdom of many nations, but finally he shall reign over all, when all things shall be put under Him. BEDE; Let Nestorius then cease to say that the Virgin’s Son is only man, and to deny that He is taken up by the Word of God into the unity of the Person. For the Angel when he says that the very same has David for His father whom he declares is called the Son of the Highest, demonstrates the one Person of Christ in two natures. The Angel uses the future tense not because, as the Heretics say, Christ was not before Mary, but because in the same person, man with God shares the same name of Son.

34. Then said Mary to the angel, How shall this be, seeing I know not a man?

35. And the angel answered and said to her, The Holy Ghost shall come upon you, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow you: therefore also that holy thing which shall he born of you shall be called the Son of God.

AMBROSE; It was Mary’s part neither to refuse belief in the Angel, nor too hastily take to herself the divine message. How subdued her answer is, compared with the words of the Priest. Then said Mary to the Angel, How shall this be? She says, How shall this be? He answers, Whereby shall I know this? He refuses to believe that which he says he does not know, and seeks as it were still further authority for belief. She avows herself willing to do that which she doubts not will be done, but how, she is anxious to know. Mary had read, Behold, she shall conceive and bear a son. She believed therefore that it should be but how it was to take place she had never read, for even to so great a prophet this had not been revealed. So great a mystery was not to be divulged by the mouth of man, but of an Angel.

GREG NYSS. Hear the chaste words of the Virgin. The Angel tells her she shall bear a son, but she rests upon her virginity, deeming her inviolability a more precious thing than the Angel’s declaration. Hence she says, Seeing that I know not a man. BASIL; Knowledge is spoken of in various ways. The wisdom of our Creator is called knowledge, and an acquaintance with His mighty works, the keeping also of His commandments, and the constant drawing near to Him; and besides these the marriage union is called knowledge as it is here.

GREG NYSS. These words of Mary are a token of what she was pondering in the secrets of her heart; for if for the sake of the marriage union she had wished to be espoused to Joseph, why was she seized with astonishment when the conception was made known to her? seeing in truth she might herself be expecting at the time to become a mother according to the law of nature. But because it was meet that her body being presented to God as an holy offering should be kept inviolate, therefore she says, Seeing that I know not a man. As if she said, Notwithstanding that you who speak are an Angel, yet that I should know a man is plainly an impossible thing. How then can I be a mother, having no husband? For Joseph I have acknowledged as my betrothed. GREEK EX. But mark, how the Angel solves the Virgin’s doubts, and shows to her the unstained marriage and the unspeakable birth. And the Angel answered, and said to her, The Holy Spirit shall come upon you. CHRYS. As if he said, Look not for the order of nature in things which transcend and overpower nature. Do you say, How shall this be, seeing I know not a man? Nay rather, shall it happen to you for this very reason, that you have never known a husband. For if you had, you would not have been thought worthy of the mystery, not that marriage is unholy, but virginity more excellent. It became the common Lord of all both to take part with us, and to differ with us in His nativity; for the being born from the womb, He shared in common with us, but in that He was born without cohabitation, He was exalted far above us. GREG. NYSS. O blessed is that womb which because of the overflowing purity of the Virgin Mary has drawn to itself the gift of life! For in others scarcely indeed shall a pure soul obtain the presence of the Holy Spirit, but in her the flesh is made the receptacle of the Spirit. ID. For the tables of our nature which guilt had broken, the true Lawgiver has formed anew to Himself from our dust without cohabitation, creating a body capable of taking, His divinity, which the finger of God has carved, that is to say, the Spirit coming upon the Virgin. ID. Moreover, the power of the Highest shall overshadow you. Christ is the power of the most high King, who by the coming of the Holy Spirit is formed in the Virgin. GREG By the term overshadowing, both natures of the Incarnate God are signified. For shadow is formed by light and matter. But the Lord by His Divine nature is light. Because then immaterial light was to be embodied in the Virgin’s womb, it is well said to her, The power of the Highest shall overshadow you, that is, the human body in you shall receive an immaterial light of divinity. For this is said to Mary for the heavenly refreshing of her soul. BEDE; You shall conceive then not by the seed of man whom you know not, but by the operation of the Holy Spirit with which you are filled. There shall be no flame of desire in you when the Holy Spirit shall overshadow you. GREG. NYSS. Or he says, overshadow you, because as a shadow takes its shape from the character of those bodies which go before it, so the signs of the Son’s Deity will appear from the power of the Father. For as in us a certain life-giving power is seen in the material substance, by which man is formed; so in the Virgin, has the power of the Highest in like manner, by the life-giving Spirit, taken from the Virgin’s body a fleshly substance inherent in the body to form a new man. Hence it follows, Therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of you. ATHAN. For we confess that which then was taken up from Mary to be of the nature of man and a most real body, the very same also according to nature with our own body. For Mary is our sister, seeing we have all descended from Adam. BASIL; Hence also, St. Paul says, God sent forth his Son, born not (by a woman) but of a woman. For the words by a woman might convey only a mere passing expression of birth, but when it is said, of a woman, there is openly declared a communion of nature between the son and the parent. GREG. To distinguish His holiness from ours, Jesus is stated in an especial manner to be born holy. For we although indeed made holy, are not born so, for we are constrained by the very condition of our corruptible nature to cry out with the Prophet, Behold, I was conceived in iniquity. But He alone is in truth holy, who was not conceived by the cementing of a fleshly union, nor as the heretics rave, one person in His human nature, another in His divine; not conceived and brought forth a mere man, and afterwards by his merits, obtained that He should be God, but the Angel announcing and the Spirit coming, first the Word in the womb, afterwards within the womb the Word made flesh. Whence it follows, Shall be called the Son of God. GREEK EX. But observe, how the Angel has declared the whole Trinity to the Virgin, making mention of the Holy Spirit, the Power, and the Most High, for the Trinity its indivisible.

36. And, behold, your cousin Elisabeth, she has also conceived a son in her old age: and this is the sixth month with her, who was called barren.

37. For with God nothing shall be impossible.

38. And Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it to me according to your word. And the angel departed from her.

CHRYS. Seeing that his previous words had overcome the mind of the virgin, the angel drops his discourse to a humbler subject, persuading her by reference to sensible things. Hence he says, And, behold, Elisabeth your cousin, &c. Mark the discretion of Gabriel; he did not remind her of Sarah, or Rebecca, or Rachel, because they were examples of ancient times, but he brings forward a recent event, that he might the more forcibly strike her mind. For this reason also he noticed the age, saying, She also has conceived a son in her old age; and the natural infirmity also. As it follows, And this is the sixth month with her who was called barren. For not immediately at the beginning of Elisabeth’s conception did he make this announcement, but after the space of six months, that the swelling of her womb might confirm its truth. GREG. NAZ. But some one will ask, How is Christ related to David, since Mary sprang from the blood of Aaron, the angel having declared Elisabeth to be her kinswoman? But this was brought about by the Divine counsel, to the end that the royal race might be united to the priestly stock; that Christ, Who is both King and Priest, might be descended from both according to the flesh. For it is written, that Aaron, the first High Priest according to the law, took from the tribe of Judah for his wife Elisabeth, the daughter of Aminadab. And observe the most holy administration of the Spirit, in ordering that the wife of Zacharias should be called Elisabeth, so bringing us back to that Elisabeth whom Aaron married. BEDE; So it was then, lest the virgin should despair of being able to bear a son, that she received the example of one both old and barren about to bring forth, in order that she might learn that all things are possible with God, even those which seem to be opposed to the order of nature. Whence it follows, For there shall be no word impossible with God. CHRYS. For the Lord of nature can do all things as He will, Who executes and disposes all things, holding the reins of life and death. AUG, But whoever says, “If God is omnipotent, let Him cause those things which have been done to have not been done,” does not perceive that he says, “Let Him cause those things which are true, in that very respect in which they are true to be false.” For He may cause a thing not to be which was, as when He makes a man who began to be by birth, not to be by death. But who can say that He makes not to be that which no longer is in being? For whatever is past is no longer in being. But if aught can happen to a thing, that thing is still in being to which any thing happens, and if it is, how is it past? Therefore that is not in being which we have truly said has been, because the truth is, in our opinions, not in that thing which no longer is. But this opinion God can not make false; and we do not so call God omnipotent as supposing also that He could die. He plainly is alone truly called omnipotent, who truly is, and by whom alone that is, whatever in any wise exists, whether spirit or body.

AMBROSE; Behold now the humility, the devotion of the virgin. For it follows, But Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord. She calls herself His handmaid, who is chosen to be His mother, so far was she from being exalted by the sudden promise. At the same time also by calling herself handmaid, she claimed to herself in no other way the prerogative of such great grace than that she might do what was commanded her. For about to bring forth One meek and lowly, she was bound herself to show forth lowliness. As it follows, Be it to me according to your word. You have her submission, you see her wish. Behold the handmaid of the Lord, signifies the readiness of duty. Be it to me according to your word, the conception of the wish. GREEK EX. Some men will highly extol one thing, some another, in these words of the virgin. One man, for example, her constancy, another her willingness of obedience; one man her not being tempted by the great and glorious promises of the great archangel; another, her self-command in not giving an instant assent, equally avoiding both the heedlessness of Eve and the disobedience of Zacharias. But to me the depth of her humility is an object no less worthy of admirationGREG. Through an ineffable sacrament of a holy conception and a birth inviolable, agreeable to the truth of each nature, the same virgin was both the handmaid and mother of the Lord.

BEDE; Having received the consent of the virgin, the angel soon returns heavenward, as it follows, And the angel departed from her. EUSEBIUS. Not only having obtained what he wished, but wondering at her virgin beauty, and the ripeness of her virtue.

[sister-mage-champion]

All Soul's Day, 9:28 Dragon

"...Though the fire enveloped her like a shroud, and the heat from the blaze reached across the field, Andraste was silent and did not cry out."

The flames flickered bright in the cloudless night, the faces of those watching the grisly reenactment cast in an eerie orange glow. Marian drew her eyes away from the pyre to watch their neighbors from the corner of her eye. Most watched in somber silence; some were moved to quiet tears at the sight of a straw-filled mannequin burning.

Father would hate this, she thought. Every year he would groan and kick up a fuss when Mother told them it was time for the recitation. 'Isn't it supposed to be a good thing to spend eternity at the Maker's side? Shouldn't we be smiling and drinking?' he'd ask. Mother would give him that look, the one that tried to be exasperated and might succeed if it weren't for how the corners of her lips quirked up.

To Marian's left, Carver shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. Bethany stared distantly into the fire and slipped one hand into her twin's, and the other into Mother's. Mother was sobbing quietly, though Marian knew her tears were not for the Maker's ill-fated bride.

The recitation ended as the would-be Andraste was reduced to ashes. All of Lothering filed somberly into the cramped Chantry at the heart of town. Some whispered greetings to each other, but for the most part the room, usually filled with sermons or singing or gossip, was unnervingly silent.

Each family had a candelabra--or more, if they were particularly unlucky. There were usually four candles laid out for the Hawkes. Two for Mother's parents, those uppity Amells who disowned their daughter. Two for Father's parents, though he could barely recall anything about them, because Mother always said they should be honored for giving him to her.

This year, there was a fifth candle.

Bethany squeezed Mother's hand as she took the match offered by a nearby Sister. Carver squeezed Bethany's hand when her eyes grew misty.

Marian stood behind them and watched. Take care of them, Marian. Keep them safe.

Mother's fingers trembled a little more with each candle she lit. When she got to the last one, her hand was shaking so badly that she nearly dropped the match. A loud sob escaped her, drawing the attention of a few families nearby.

"I--I can't--" she gasped, shaking her head. Carver reached across Bethany to grab the match, but Mother turned at the last second and held it out to her eldest daughter. "Marian, p-please."

Marian felt the heat of her brother's glare, but she ignored it. Ignored the pitying looks of their neighbors, too. With steady hands and hard eyes, she took the match and lit the final candle.

"My Maker, know my heart," recited a Chanter nearby, who was probably trying to be helpful but only made Mother cry harder. "Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride."

-----

All Soul's Day, Dragon 9:31

"Has she left the room at all today?"

Hawke was met with silence as the door closed behind her. Gamlen was at the table, his chicken scratch scrawling across a scrap of parchment. Carver was at the fireplace, sleeves rolled up, stirring something...interesting-smelling in the pot. There was a lengthy pause before he spoke.

"No. She won't let anyone in, either, I tried."

As if on cue, Mother's voice immediately rang out from behind the curtain that separated her room from the rest of the hovel they all shared. "Marian? Is Marian home? Come here, Marian."

"Unbelievable," Carver muttered under his breath. He stirred whatever stew he was crafting harder, a few droplets bouncing over the edge and sizzling into the fire.

Hawke sighed heavily, but otherwise left her frustration unspoken so that she could focus what little energy she had left into what would come next. She pushed past her brother to the room they shared, dropping her pack and leather gauntlets unceremoniously to the floor. Her boots were similarly kicked aside without care. Only her staff was treated with a modicum of respect, leaned carefully in the corner of the wall where it wouldn't fall.

Mother's room was pitch black when Hawke entered. It took a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the lack of light. Once they had, she could just barely make out her mother's figure curled up under the blankets on her straw pallet, her head pointed towards the line of six candles beside her.

"It's not fair," Mother whispered. "It's not fair to have a candle for someone so young."

Hawke averted her gaze by force of habit, even though it was dark and Mother was looking the other way. The unspoken accusation felt like acid burning through her veins.

"She was so bright. So beautiful. She could have done so much." Mother's voice broke on the last word, and she curled in on herself as she started sobbing anew.

Hawke stayed silent. She did not mention how trapped Bethany felt by her magic. How many times she'd had to convince Bethany not to turn herself into the Circle. You don't need Father around to control your magic, she would soothe her sister when she got anxious after imagining that a Templar had looked at her for too long. You are stronger than you think.

If she hadn't told her that, would she still have thought she could take on an ogre on her own?

Eyes stinging, Hawke lifted a hand and sent a small flame towards one of the candles. Mother jumped.

"Marian, don't--"

She paid her no mind. Another flame, and then another, and another. Then Father. And then Bethany.

The light cast a shadow across Mother's face that made her seem so much older than she was. They sat in silence for a moment longer.

"You should say something, Marian."

"I don't know the Chant, Mother." They were the first words she'd spoken since entering the room. Her tone was steady and light, as if she was discussing the weather and not her dead baby sister.

"It doesn't have to be the Chant."

Hawke opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her mind was blank. The only words that flickered through her mind were I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.

When Mother spoke, it was in fact the Chant.

"Neither man nor Maker shall forget your bravery so long as I remember."

-----

All Soul's Day, Dragon 9:35

It's early in the morning. Or late at night, depending on whether or not one had been to bed yet.

Hawke had not yet been to bed.

She crept through the streets of Hightown in simple garb, just a tunic and trousers and a pair of leather boots. The Champion's armor commissioned by Kirkwall's nobility was on its stand in the mansion, as was her staff. The odds that any of the gangs in Hightown would dare accost the Champion were slim to none.

And if they tried, Hawke did not need her staff to take care of them.

The Chantry's heavy door creaked as it opened, but at least it was unlocked. She was not the only one who had thought to arrive before the crowds that would appear later in the day awoke; a handful of bretheren stood by to greet and comfort the few mourners already present. Hawke dodged them all and made her way to a secluded corner of the cavernous Chantry, her footsteps echoing in her wake.

Candles of various sizes covered every flat surface--every table, chair, ledge, and even every statue. Hawke had seen the shipment arrive in the docks, crate after crate of candles being unloaded. Most of them would be used later today, when Hawke returned to help Elthina light the candles for those who had died in the Qunari attack but had no family to light candles for them. The poor and the destitute, the addicts and the refugees, the poor sods who had been unfortunate enough to exist in the streets as the Qunari cut through to grab the noble, wealthy hostages they kept mostly intact.

But for now, Hawke needed only seven candles. Her hand was steady as she lit each one.

One for Aristide Amell, who sent Templars after Father.

One for Bethann Amell, who refused to see Mother before she left and broke her heart.

One for Randolf Hawke, who taught Father how to farm before shipping him off to the Circle.

One for Marie Hawke, whose bright blue eyes were all Father could remember about her by the time he passed.

One for Malcolm Hawke, who Marian could never live up to.

One for Bethany Hawke, who deserved to live in a mansion wearing silk dresses and reading from a massive library.

And one for Leandra Hawke, who should have been told about those Maker-damned flowers before it was too late.

Hawke watched her seven candles flicker, watched as the wax slowly melted and dripped down. Idly, she wondered if Carver was doing this too, wherever he was, or if he was glad to finally be rid of such a stupid tradition.

'Why candles?' Marian had asked Mother once, when she was a child in braids dreading the boring ritual in the Chantry. 'They just burn out anyways.'

'Because it gives you time to remember,' Mother had said.

Hawke leaned against the wall and watched her seven candles until the last one burned out, but it didn't help. Already, she had forgotten exactly what Father's face had looked like, and the exact shade of Bethany's hair. Year after year she thought about them as the candles burned, and she was still forgetting.

Would she forget Mother, too?

How many more candles would she have to light each year?

Who would be left to light her candle?

When the murmurs of recognition grew near, Hawke knew it was time to go. She slipped out of the Chantry before anyone forward enough to approach her could say something, and blinked in the early morning light.

That was the last year Hawke lit candles for All Soul's Day.

[limitsofvision]

Limits of Vision

Limits of Vision by Korey Jones Part I: The Warrior of Insight

1. In Love: Twenty-Four When we fall, our hearts leap in alarm and bewilderment. We grapple with balance; any trace of aplomb vanishes and we become bruised. We never seek out to fall and getting back up is easier said than done. Such is the same when we fall in love. Before our first fall, we are mindless and trudging through early life's darkest tunnels like blind rats as we search unwillingly for completely nothing in a twisting network of the highest disquiet. Undeveloped sensibility causes distrust, even anomisity, as every face that turns onto you becomes distorted as they revolve around you like mad mocking comedy masks. The mind is a regime of timidy. All conscious thought is base and insensitive, though conscious thought in general comes sparesly. Boredom reigns. Quite often, dubious innervation will tell you that something is terribly wrong either with or around you, but with no hint or direction as to what or how or why. This eventually pulls together a finely progressed fountainhead of nascent bitterness, alongside toiling angst brought on from recurring depthless sexuality.      At burdgeoning ages before love makes it's debut, music becomes important, as it bears qualities that are acceptably exciting and lulling that simply living does not. A quiet desire for a moticum of independence generates skepticism and questioning toward our instilled moral and belief systems. An ambivalence for inner trust soon resides as the direct world portrays an illusion of regularity which tends to contest many unseasoned thoughts and ideas and comforts. Between relatives and friends always critiquing here and willful individuality there, a schism of decisions split you with a hand on both grounds. Indeterminate, you look down into it nervously and soon begin and wonder if that's where you might possibly belong; and more curious, if somewhere down there at the black bottom is someone who already decided to let go, and leisurely awaits another incoming lost soul. The unknown becomes more and more inviting.

2. Twenty-Six You may allow your will to lay at rest once it has had it's proper feastings. A small spanning loss is nothing at all to the willer, the warrior; and often enough, will lead to a victory that surpasses even the mightiest of small-span victories.

3. The battle with fear is more akin to a race than a game, as fear has mastered every sleeve trick since there have been sleeves and tricks. Fear must be raced against, not outsmarted. When you are racing against fear, it is best to stay slightly ahead at all times, as the finish line is not clearly defined, in comparison to a fair race where one can allow themselves to fall behind, so as to catch breath. The race against fear is not made fair, and as clever as a sleeve trick you yourself created may be, alas, it is useless in a race, fair or not.

4. Wisdom is like medicine in that it was made for any average person in low health, any negative side effect from it is between you and your body, as you decided to listen, to take in that pill. Like medicine, wisdom is not force-fed, but it is forceful; it was created out of necessity for a worthy opponent to disease; it is not made for developing children. It is one of man's uppermost miracles.

5. Do things right until there is nothing left, so that our right becomes the new left to the new man (it is only historical science).

6. A proper transformation will have proper knowledge of it's motivation and the causes for said motivation's initial structuring. With a steady and sensible foundation, anything can happen, and will.

7. If you fear death, you will tend not to think about it. You will then be left with only the present moment as your domain of value limitations, which it should not be unless the will sees fit, which it should not, unless you are in a perfect "Flow". Thus, to conquer the fear of death by any means necessary, until you are sumberged in the light of perfect truth, your perfect human truth, is the highest possible task at present.

8. Becoming unknowingly involved with a tyrannical person who has tricked you into thinking they respect and appreciate you may include any or all of the following symptoms: paranoia, anger, depression, anxiety, uncertainty, lack of interest, eating disorder, tip-toeing, breaking of one's own values, suicidal thoughts, homicidal thoughts, genocidal thoughts, inclination for abuse of depressants, feelings of hopelessness, fear, hate, and seemless exhaustion.

9. A prisoner who seeks out to fornicate with another prisoner is in search of light, not freedom.

10. Only go down rabbit holes under the assumption that there may never have been a rabbit.

11. Our earliest childhood prayers are the values with which we unconsciously follow over all others. Too long did we commit to them without knowing. Not the prayers that your parents spoke on your regard, for those are always sheepish values such as exemplifying your kindness and usefulness, a seemingly selfish and gross injustice every good parent makes on the behalf of their shadow, long suppressed since the birth of the child, lingering in their bad prayers. The earliest prayers, however, that you spoke to yourself alone, they, you must decipher to know properly your roots. I ask now: who are you, really?

12. We are born ready to conquer the world. The situations in which those who raise us put us in, consequently, are the playgrounds of our most formidable moral developments.

13. I do not study birds; I collect broken wings.

14. A mother is inclined to see her child as a blank canvass upon which she may paint her masterpiece, little by little, freely over time--after all, is it not her living heir? A belonging higher than any property? A masterpiece, awaiting? And so she paints; her loves, her hates, her impulse beauty, her resentment beauty, her temptations and unattainable desires; and so life is drawn. But this is a falsehood; only when the mother has stepped away from her feeding of daily applesauce and her daily few brush stroke attempts does the canvass reveal it's hidden image: an image more profound than any mother would ever imagine possible, and perhaps, wish to exist.

15. It is impossible to lie when your world is pretend.

16. Mantra of Lies "Choose a side or lose your pride."

17. Woman is inborn with meaning in the possibility for life. She loves herself in her ongoing meaningfulness as man hates himself in his ongoing search for his own meaning. Of course, all of man's search for meaning is futile, for the search itself is the only meaning. When we look upon the woman in this respect, man's inborn meaning becomes painfully clear: death. Cosequently, a man's death does not bring us sorrow, a childless woman's death does not bring us sorrow, but in the death of a mother we do find sorrow. In the death of a child, we find regret for life.

18. To turn away from one's emotions that dismay him and to coware at fear in stead of taming them due to one's own underchallenged weak will leads to depression. This, you survive (unfortunately). Inversely, to turn away from one's emotions that dismay him and to coware at fear in stead of taming them due to another's own stronger will, when properly challenged, leads to selection. This, you do not survive.

19. Guilt may be attained properly or improperly, however, it must be rid of only properly. Guilt improperly rid of returns as self-pity: man's most inbred and lethal snake.

20. Nostalgia is the name of the dragon that spits the feeblest of flames. Yet, she is still a dragon; an old one. She claims she cannot die; and, perhaps, she cannot. But it matters not. Her hoard has lost all value long, long ago, unaware, the poor and ancient Nostalgia, and for this, we bear pitisome contempt, so much so that we do not slay her.

21. What is "payback?" Psychological, not monetary. What is "Karma?" Unconscious payback to the self. But was it not the collective unconscious that created Karma, and not simply I? Therefore, it is naught; merely an idealogical judge, a mass of contempt in thousands, small, hidden, with one representative to bear the pleasure and task of shouting "No!" to individual differentiation: the tornado of shadows. But I laugh at this seemingly endless form of darkness, for my payback is simply not due. A collection will often be sought prematurely through subterfuge. Still, my payback is not due, for no misdeed and no debt do I dare leave at rest a heavy end.

22. Even the most beautiful arrangements of fresh fruit can become a foundation for infestation in the blink of an eye.

23. Ego as a Precursor to Insight If insight serves as the infantry in the battle with truth, ego serves as the vanguard. To learn is to struggle. To better one's self in finding meaning within the search for meaning, one must level up their armor; one must level up their vitality; one must level up their endurance; all these, and more, infinitely in the mind until the finite body has finished decomposing in recurring preparation for all oncoming armies passive or aggressive, friendly or villainous. Such is the life of the warrior of insight. What great minds of insight in mankind's art and philosophy withheld themselves to dare deign culture a unified, appeasable and ubiquitous force? What fighters with refined and seasoned battalions with weapons aimed at the blackest stares of society dare not to bend their solidified will for the sake of soft-hearted ones? What brave, bold and fragile beings left have we to bring out not all blase interest in timelessness or needless fact in the face of universal understanding but all the necessary incomprehensibility that lingers behind reliability? What must serve as precursor for such an undertaking of insight (assuming and hoping one falls well in the range of the scientifically allowable range of competency)? Ego is the answer, or a keen sense of self, a reliant and steadfast determination for growth in spite of all you may and certainly lack and to seek out your new lackings. The mind and mouth serve as the ego's sword and shield, to keep the ego safe and sound and balanced. A weapon, you are, with your shadow as your sheath.

24. Rivers 1. The will of the Christian spirit is a form of unearthly ego, simply a channel of "God's Ego," or, "the will of the individual to express lovingness in goodness." This particular will is strong, this spiritual ego, and is similar to water, and erodes the unsolid body like a naturally-formed canal (or, perhaps, to my horror...excavated. Surely, not water, then...) with which it may flow throughin. An outpour of Holy Water goes straight into drains due to the inclination of it's chemical structure. Seek not the soap box, excavated ones.

2. Psychedelic drugs act as beavers on a stream. They dam, but not to the detriment of the original structure (were it meant to last).

3. But a rush, or a gentle flow is it? The brain would certainly erode from rocks into sand would too much pressure were to come forth. yet, no thing grows in still pools that is not pathological and tepid without it's proper chlorine.

4. To the recoiler of God's Ego, to the one's in doubt, who non-will to be improperly propped up, I will give you this parable. In the East, on a bright cloudless afternoon, there sits a tiny and crooked river; not plentiful, not hazardous, not useful; and upon the inch-wide downflow of gentle water tumbling over mossy stones and upon glimmering sunlit rainbow fishes, here sits a small duck, swimming with the silk current. He knows not why he sits upon this little river in the East on this cloudless day, nor does he remember exactly how he had arrived, but yet, he allows himself upon it without struggle, as he looks about the scene in wonderful vain. He seems content.

25. How doth ye reconcile such difference in ye, O discerning one? Art thou insight not deserving of some form of splendid reward? Of course! The reward of pen and ink; to write and to record, so as not to lose discerning. Rewarding a clean mind for simply being clean is to immediately dirty it, and remain the desires of those not different, not discerning.

26. The Beasts of the New Oz What is this taste, one of milk and vinegar, filling me with numerical deceits and linguistic truths? What is in the air, this new taste, that inquires upon my heavy ends? What scales in me require dusting? What scales in me require lubricating? What scales in me require balance? What scales in me require discarding? Honesty, a goal. Competence, a goal. Exposure, a goal. Disposure, a goal. The search for fear and for courage, a goal. Long ago did I discover Oz and his holy treasures. Now, I tear down his Temple and call upon the wing'ed beasts, to feed them my new taste of milk and vinegar and to breed them to my satisfaction. "To the beasts of the new Oz."

27. You will hesitate to trust the judgement of one who appears to have much to lose and yet lives dangerously at the risk of it. You will, however, have miscalculated, for in fact they have little to lose and are merely retaining ambition well.

28. Trust neither the one who displays a high regard for himself out of pessimism, nor the one who displays little regard for himself out of optimism; trust the one who does both.

29. The nihilist always has the most to lose.

30. Introduction to The Non-Will 1. To rationalize for the sake of the opposite of the will is to mistake in your own unconsciously formulated schematic, in other words, to develop a non-will. Is this non-will a lie enacted, a suggestion instilled, an influence of regret, a force of meaning, a fit of impudence, a seasoned intellectual patience, a mere conscienstious restraint, a common moment of evaluation, a chemical misfire, a pre-fixed guidepost, God himself, the Devil himself, or simply..."doubt?" The seed of doubt therein lies the answer.

2. In determining whether a non-will can be stronger in it's plausability for achievement in comaprison to it's original contrasting will (this original will withholding it's own personal level of inherent strength; weak, perhaps, in the face of other wills, but certainly mighty relative to an inert conscious) one must, firstly, in a sense "contain" a moment of time (the pocket in which a set of sensations abound in the face of newly recognized potential), secondly, to analyze the levels of said strength in plausability for achievement from this contained moment versus those from the moment of the original will. This is most difficult in the fact that one would also have to contain the moment of the original will for a proper compare and contrast, a task entirely more difficult than to contain a non-will. The will cannot be contained, thus, it is always stronger, and a non-will, in fact, can never be stronger than it's original will.

31. Even worms cannot help but to rise from the earth in the presence of music.

32. Modern Woman, Modern Slave What does modern woman ask of man? Kindnesses. Reassurance, attention, favors and impossible refills of love. The modern woman, at least; the one who determines female as the primary sex. This seems acceptable to almost all alive today. A man who obliges the vast majority of all a woman's requests for kindness is most surely unaware that she is, in fact, but only unconsciously, quite aware of the fact of her inherent undeservedness of such constant and glorifying kindnesses, and thus, she will have resentment for the man blossom and fester within her, but will continue the cycle of master and slave, as one would, leading to his ongoing mistreatment due to his lack of will to break his previously agreed upon contract with the non-will to grant such a majority of kindness (the birth of the term "simp", ca. 2019, a "male slave" or "woman-man", perhaps, were we not so inclined for brevity*). A man who grants only a non-vast majority of the modern day woman's requests for kindness can expect a healthy and unresentful female partner. This phenomena of the modern woman is real, and our male science must evolve with the times, and we do it with bittersome regret and the darkest and heaviest of hearts, of course; for it was not so long ago that so many of our personal favorite souls with smiling warmth and confidants of gentle nature and open-heartedness were many a beautiful woman.

*Another thing to note here: Kanye West once claimed around this time period that "slavery was a choice." He was correct, in the fact that a collectivist non-will that gathers strength over time will certainly become unbreakable, and that each individual who decided to give themselves up to this idea were forced into a lifetime of hypocrisy, for fear of chastisement from the collective and self-hatred for his original individual bending to this non-will; NOT death.

33. Heirarchies of Love Man must bear woman as woman must bear child. He must have patience and empathy on the tips of his brain in their presence. It is a struggle so complex that it can only be simplified. A void or reflection the bearer may see, however, this is a misrepresentation. In truth, the bearer simply sees a being in need of lessons in life over a release into life itself. As the child will depend on and eventually resent the mother only to return again with a refined love, one more sustaining, yet restrained, as will the woman to the man.

34. To those that hate, I say: "Create. Anything else, do into a pillow."

35. Is all of life not music? To conduct it, then, I shall; not in vain, but in celebration of the range and scope of it's patterns. In celebration, imitation and dedication I straighten myself before the audience, yet need not look upon them. I stand alone in silence as the sounds of life await my count, with all eyes upon me.

36. Introduction to The Flow Structure of Being We all seek the "Flow." This flow can be described as the experience of an equilibrium of all total personal possibility, in action, or: the optimal active mind state, or: the total sum of the sensations that herald fromwith a peaceful and personal blossoming. Outside the Flow is disinterest; outside that, interest; outside that, the will; outside that, "Distraction." Distraction is all of time outside an engaged will and it's subsequent mind states of interest, disinterest and final Flow state. Beyond distraction in the reverse, reached by a non-will, is the domain of unconscious self-destruction, or: the "Anti-flow." In this state, one becomes no one to one's great momentary (and possibly ultimate) detriment. It is a realm outstanding from the rest, as is it's counterpart mind state. The unconscious tortures the organic body and the psyche's frames of values, causally, due to such an outstretch from it's inherently sought upon mind state when in the grips of the Anti-flow. This severe psychosis can go on unbeknownst to us, as we seem to act relatively normal on the outside as if in a simple "distracted" or "willing" state. Eventually, a peak of maximal aimlessness is reached, and the Flow state will be forced to re-emerge (unnaturally?) in the form of a sudden and complex symbolic metaphor, understood at once or in pieces, without words and in some cases, with words, and in some cases, revelations. This "representation," or, "image" of Flow is presented in the Dream state, the realm outstanding even the already outstanding dual Flow states. The dream state is at all other moments unreachable--for the Flow, the Anti-flow and all it's inner levels are contained in "The Reality State" (what is attainable). Look upon the self as a fruitful planet which orbits these mind states, with your universe being the Dream State, forever outside your reaches, yet still reaching down upon you with cooperation from his partner, the Realiy State.

37. You will say you wish not to be offensive, and I will say you are just in fear of a fight; for you have never sharpened your offense. You will question my defense; and I will call your bluff, then, reveal to you your bluffing of yourself, and only then, as your impeccably crafted defense is lowered for only a moment, will I unleash my own unbluffing offense, catering to your terror, your deepest fear: the unfair fight.

38. The King of Parasites, or: A Little Bit of Junebug, or: The Death of Sympathy 1. A commercial plays between music. It's only thirty seconds. What am I complaining about? I complain due to the worst crime ever to be commited upon man right before my very eyes. The interruption of a Flow, this, not alone, that crime but with this reason combined; that is, the interruption for the sake of something strange, something so twisted, yet even delicate moreso; a reminder, a gentle reminder to me of "all" besides me, how they struggle, and finally, a command to stay away from these others, for the better of "all" of "us"; and while we are at it, we might as well close businesses and ban gatherings--yes, for the better, for "our" better, future "selves!" We are told to cover our faces, also, and to start cleaning ourselves. We do. It makes me disgusted, so disgusted, this polish headache. As it goes when every second is a lie, a snapshot of what was replacing what now is; not a destruction of values, but an experiment done upon them. A lie, this gentle reminder, so gentle yet firm, so suspicious yet convincing, so inventive yet creative; I almost respect it.

2. What of sympathy? What is sympathy? We are not "simps"--we have symptoms. We can respect a will in another even in disgust in respect to it's distinguishable values due to the fact that we understand, we empathize. Empathy: a distinguished and underrated force of nature; that is to say, this empathy is inherent, since no true man is ever once a blank slate; but, no slate.

3. But do we sympathize, say, in the face of a mafioso or pimp? Do they not suffer? The prostitute surely instills something akin to "sympathy" only in the fact that she lives no lie; therefore, the entire idea of sympathy, a socially "helpful" and "civil" word, tenderness for "all", that we "all" feel when the wills of others do not accomplish, or contrast to our own, sympathy itself, is a lie. Revolt, it is, then: hate, jealousy, vengeance, self-disgust, too much, no! no! A mask! Cover this judgement! Ah, yes, empathy! Give yourself unto us, oh innocent and unharming empathy, for you are meek, yet, you adorn such finery. Empathy? Not at all, but disgust and envy for "all," wrapped in empathy's stolen clothes: Sympathy shall we call it. It will be perfect, we shall feel oh so relatable, so above, so good inside. Sympathy: a parasite of words. Not on my watch do I see a time better than now to declare a new will: The Death of Sympathy. I regret it not, we will be better off ressurrecting our true father of love and just respect, empathy. Away with you, sympathy, in all your sickly horror. Let us never speak this horrible word again. Let us unbury and re-robe the mistreated and cold one: empathy.

4. This masking of society disgusts me due to the fact that it is a lie. It is a lie due to the fact that it is all rooted in sympathy. As previously discerned, "sympathy" itself is a manmade force of nature, likewise, must be the King of Parasites, the mask, the reminder, the junebug, the lie. Do not forget the basic method of the lie we know not of: to mimick the truth we do know of.

39. I urge all to look unto me not so that they should understand me, but so that they should dismiss me, so that they should more easily look back unto themslves so that they should more easily understand themselves.

40. Flow Structure, cont. 1. Due to technology, we spend a vast majority of being in a distracted state. Rarely do we move successfully upon a will, as we typically must endure a moment of "loving in nothingness" before the will is acted upon. In his work Twilight of the Idols, Nietzsche defines love as "spiritualization of sensuality" as he is discerning upon morality as the enemy of nature. This is correct, and this is reflected in the existence of the non-will (which Nietzsche, again, in the same chapter even, would long ago discover--albeit aiming at a precisely sense-based form of willing--in his words: "the ability not to react to a stimulus" and a type of "degeneracy," again, correct). When we are approaching a will that will lead to a flow state, this previously mentioned enduring sensation of "loving in nothingness" is the shadow of that looming and powerful will, the moment of intensity just before the "noon-tide," and often, many will fall victim to this degeneracy and mistake this powerful, thin and impinging dark figure of potential and choose to will against it, to create and to follow, blindly, a non-will. This mistake, this phenomena of "doubt" is why we tend to spend the vast majority of being in a distracted state.

2. This still leaves more to discern on the shadow of the will in it's true form, the "loving in nothingness". It is a type of glimmer that is rarely seen, but often enough: a fragment of the highest mind state, far beyond the power of will and posturing of power of the non-will: the Flow; the place beyond love, it is, beyond "loving in nothingness" and, therefore, will scare away all bad willers upon a mere glimmer. The Flow I can describe best by reference to Nietzsche's definition of love, and call it "the spiritualization of loving in nothingness". And yet, as great as a mind state such as the Flow may be, it is still merely only the highest-up fruit on the tree man can yet reach, a single tendril of potential from an unknown amount of tendtrils and subtendrils dripping down from the Dream State, the astounding, the inconfineable, the farthest reaches even the unknown knows not about.

3. We were not born to love, but to search. If love is an answer to anything, it is not to the question of life, but to the question of how to find an enemy worthy enough to go up against life. Search: that is real love, real life! Not this new love, this settling, this acceptance, this charade of sympathy, this incestuous non-will, this abortion of all rebirths, this enemy of life. Search: it is beyond an essential, it is the essential. Why would a being, who feels as if they are part of a great, massive collection of infinite life but with the most minute accesses to it, choose not to search, but to simply "love?" You lovers, you fools, you settlers, you surely dwell farther than any far dweller. Waste not, want not? Alas, you were born this way, and not a thing I can do.

4. I pour out my soul in ode to the would-be warriors, the one's who succumbed to love and were permanently blinded, the great lovers of non-life. For you, I play this game, for you did not know how to read the rules; for you, I will attend the party of life, the search party, ha-ha, yes! and in my finest suit, for you wanted to come too, but you threw out your invitation before even opening it, assuming it was a bill; and for you, you most unfortunate ones who decided a pleasing and common sensation should be top value, for you I play, you far dwellers who dwell so far. What a settlement, indeed.

41. A sub-personality only wishes to expand into others.

42. The human body is a heavy restraint and a fragile security.

43. Repressed Ones There are repressed ones. In their search for insight, they can only find coincidence and allow themselves to be fooled. They are sorely mistaken, for coincidence is simply a kind of flash in one's psyche that appears to one when two previously experienced earthly situations in the memory fragment and reflect upon one another. It is a non-factor to neither any sort of earthly equation nor it's solution in the search for answers to the meaning of anything beneficially applicable. The most repressed ones will grip these coincidences, these simple flashes of unearthly yet inconsequential collision, and misinterperet them as meaningful signals from outside the complex, speaking out to they and only they, to ensure, to ameliorate, to ease, ease, oh, super and simple ease. All too easy. They, as I have said, are sorely mistaken.

44. A Revelation What does one think when one watches the self as he moves about, not thinking? A motor, a dispenser, a converter, a spinning top? Yes, a top. Do we act about in life merely as the tops that are spun and spin and collide on a table of the gods, beside the seven and eleven-sided dice, some falling gradually, some flinging out at random and some skidding around nervously, nearly falling the entire way down, rolling off past a majestic game piece, massive gusts from a falling tower of cards and a red chinese checker below booms and bellows and rising echos of laughter and falling down, down onto the floor of the gods? What dwells there? If one of those gods dares to reach down to it and to place it back upon the table of the gods, and merely spin it yet again on one holy drunken night as they are just getting started, I then ask of you, reader, to dare to reach along with me in my foolish simile, for it may not be so foolish in the fact that any exercise of will, whether in search of growth, rebirth, revelation, transfiguration or mere transparent aestheticism such as I have exercised in this section, can be accepted and pursued without fear or worry from here on out, now that we know our place, and what the gods are really up to after all.

45. How to Play A Game If you are worthy of invite to a game, and you play fairly within it's structure until it's end not only to win, not only for the experience, but for both--and a third reason, that being honor to the uninvited--shall you win the game; for I have learned, it is unwise to let yourself go off unknowning of each and every pre-requisite, the greatest one perhaps being the uninvited, for upon their daily great loss do the best of all the clever cheats and moral failures toss about their golden balls and portal rings, fearlessly in the clouds. Without the sense of their loss, their distraction, you would have never thought to one day perhaps look up and to see what else there might be happening; and in victory, we honor them for inspiring that moment in us that had to occur for your invitation to ever  be sent, outside all that dead space from before, when the flag of your mailbox hitherto was left downturned.

46. Caught in a Mosh In heavy metal music, we hear the particular sounds of a particular sheperd's outcry. He cries: "My sheep are wily and stimulated, insane and loathsome, impossible to gather completely without their instant subsequent re-release." These enriched and dangerous sheep are this particular sheperd's burden, yet when burdened upon long enough, become his predeliction, causing loss of all interest in idler herds, until his short day of rest and quick return. Look upon a mosh pit. You will see an instantaneous and unconscious formation of order from chaos, it's formulation being agreed upon by beings as seperate but one, succumbing to energies that stimulate this typically slow process of gather and release, all the while still at singular levels only in close proximity to one another with an identified, unspoken agreement in the exaltation of that individual anticipation for that wily, sheepish type of connective reaction in which they are all simultaneously removed from that singular chaos and put into unconscious formation once provided the necessary energy shift for such a logically dangerous compliance, from the musician's channeling of the dream state, to the mosher's delight.    

47. The Puzzle A man sits at a table for three weeks and three days putting together a two-thousand piece puzzle. As he is on 1,999 and goes to place the final piece, a stranger suddenly appears by his table and pushes it off, sending it into the wall to it's side, pulverizing it back to zero, as he looks upon the puzzle-maker in delight. He waits for the puzzle-maker to react, but he does not. Eventually, the stranger speaks: "What of sacrifice now, O, ye investor in faith, ye permissive one, ye time slave? Did'st not thou come to have expected for this? Surely, ye knew of what danger is to come of thy silly patience, thy lost love, thy waste. Why dost thou do it? Surely, ye knew'st this was to come. Again, I insist upon inquiring. Why dost thou do it?" The puzzle-maker, then, in speaking for the first time in three weeks and three days, without a clearing of the throat, replied: "Ye search for easy opportunities and easy opposites, dost thou not? Yea, I surely knew'st of it in possibility, but in matter it is of no regard, at least, not to I--for in all my experience I have been set my meaning hitherto. But alas, now, ye fallen angel, ye soul of eternal unrest, I, myself, upon thee must I insist upon inquiring: How dost thou do it?"

48. Lovers of Indifference 1. Our most unsuspecting insights come from moments of distraction so strangely balanced in themselves, a type of "lovingness in indifference" that even all the strongest of wills become like mere falling skin from the true meat and bone of the Dream State.

2. One feels distrust for another who appears only to search out logical shortcuts and side-steps as they exploit this rare phenomena to no end, shamelessly, to the final ends of their Anti-flow regardless of circumstance with evil as both the cause and the effect, and one is right to; for these same exploiters, when asked of the Dream Sate's opinion on the matter of their actions, will deny the Dream State of being able to withhold a steadfast or credible opinion, or, simply deny the Dream State. Distrust them, yes, these uninvited ones.

49. Skillsmen Any practice of a technological skill is a will of science, a giant non-will living amongst the mortal non-wills, a kind of distracted state so well at disguising itself as a proper will that it immediately propels one into a strong state of Anti-flow, the discarding of the search, the pinnacle of waste, the death of meaning. Those with the least "skill" are the ones with the strongest passion for the searching will, the proper will, the will of the Warrior of Insight. Let technology go.

50. Genius is not measured in how much space one knows, but in how much time.

51. I am an advocate of all free markets outstanding of all moral markets. That being said, I have no interest in second-hand pawns and trades.

52. In a world where one may take an opportunity to provide a thing for a woman and not give up something of himself, one should take it. If a world like this exists, we as of yet, do not know.

53. Monument To try to be remembered is simply trying to be somewhere between everything and nothing--in other words--to be mediocre. Only the boldest of willers can find the glee under all the thrash, the denial, and to strive for non-rememberance, and beyond: absolute dissolution; no monuments outside paper. He is no longer inbetween any thing, and outside the history of memory. If I seem unthoughtful, then I shudder in terror at the idea of a thoughtful one.

54. 1. I am told things. A thing I am told: "You are your own worst enemy." To that teller, I ask; "Who would you prefer my enemy be? You? That would not do, too many blunt objects are near. Society? That would not do, too many obstacles and annoyances. God? That would not do, too many stubbed toes and warm baths. I am not my own enemy, however, for this, also, would not do, for too many pats on the back would I give myself, bringing out the burping, drooling baby within. I am not my own enemy; I am my own friend." All things told about the self from anyone, perhaps, should never be considered, but merely absorbed.

2. I am told things. A thing I am told: "You are overthinking it." To that teller, I reply simply: "You are underthinking it." There are threshholds of inequality all around, oh yes, to the great disgust of the envious, the uninvited.

3. I am told things. A thing I am told: "You are probably right." To that teller, I say: "Indeed, probable in regard to the sense of my discerning to the limit of your benefit; but in regard to the sense of my delight in the search, my capacity for will, my openness to even attempt to discern what could ever be "right" for you, and to pull it out from sticky knots and dusty corners of your own mind from which you never dared once to even look upon yourself, pulling out all with ease, like removing massive clumps of collected hair from your unconscious, my inherent talent to balance, in those senses, probability is not a factor. I am told: "You are probably right." What is meant: "You are certainly considerate." To that, I would say: "Indeed."

4. I am told things. A thing I am told: "You are disrespectful." To that teller, I reply with the following: "Your definition of 'respect' has been twisted by your degeneration of values, your secret wish to be immaculate. You are not immaculate, it is obvious upon first sight, you venerable victim. You twist because you are fragile, and in the face of a rock, you are quick to play paper." Never in life have I ever known someone as respectable as myself by far. No openness, disagreeability and neuroticism can look upon my shadow, nay, even a glimpse of it, and not admire my massive restraint. No "display of respect" have I ever witnessed in practical daily life that surpasses the sufficiency of, say, the artwork of a four-year-old palsy patient, in comparison to the finely detailed, wall-spanning canvass and oil masterpieces, inside brass and marble frames, that is my respect.

5. There are things I am told. A thing I am told: "You are blind as a bat." To that teller, I would like to one day say: "And I would not have it any other way--for did you know, the bat is the only mammal which can fly?"

55. The King of Parasites, cont. 1. I live in a generation of glaze. We are drowning in a sea of syrups. We are haughty, trivial, rancorous, melancholic, noxious, intolerably tolerant and completely compromised in the departments of creativity and insightfulness. Every man is a child, every woman wants to be a man, every pet is called a child and every child is treated worse than a toy. Every movie is a remake and every song is the same. The Temple of Syrinx is becoming less and less fantastic. The masks are tightening. One day we were told to dispel for effect, the next, to re-gather for cause. We do absolutely anything anyone says without question and turn our faces away from any sort of conflict. Conflict? How dare they, how dare we. What exactly will be called the generation after "Z?" What does the end of all generations look like? Ah, yes, it has appeared to me: "The Right to Everything."

2. Oh, you far dwellers, you lovers of the camp, you imitators, you eternally distracted, you ones beyond love for nothingness and indifference, you syrup-river tube-riders, you muffled and masked masses, you non-players, you non-valuers, you non-discerners, you uninvited, you falsely found, you hopelessly lost, you abandoned ones, you misraised ones, you non-willing, you non-searching ones, you easily fooled, easily led and easily glorified, you spinning tops, you ducks, you stale, bland, milquetoast, dusty-shelved ones, you skillsmen, you Anti-flowers, you repressed ones, you tellers of things, you enemies of life, now, I beg of you at this juncture, please, tell me the answer to the question in which I have noticed myself speak aloud, unconsciously, almost daily for over two years now: "How do you do it?"

56. 1. Life itself has become a remake, a life of screens. All our possible actions and our representations of our character have become succeptable to instantaneous and widespread witness and judgement. Consequently, we are a generation of those who are simply more comfortable being distracted. Many are completely unaware of any sort of beauty or potential. Many act as if tomorrow should likely not exist, and worse, as if today itself never existed, to their dim acceptance. So enthralled by the screen is the fly that he is completely forgetful of the window, the door.

2. We decided to embrace the remake and to never study the original. We did away with poison but also with doctors. We invented ourselves so as not to discover ourselves. We insist "to each his own," but also "all for one, one for all." We demand lawful rights to scientific wrongs. We traded meat and grain for leaf and nut. We traded pining for whining. We are more patient, that is to say, more sickly. We traded a harsh and firm ground for a smooth and slick screen. Now is a good time to cry.

3. Stanley Kubrick is a man of strong wills. He displays this forthrightly as he paralyzes the masses with his image of the Monolith, with apes and men alike clamoring upon it, in his artpiece 2001: A Space Odyssey. But what upon do they clamor? The screen. The Zarathustra introduction and motif reminds us of the film's hidden hero, the many a great potential we can achieve, and that potential's not-so-subtle antagonist, HAL-9000, technology. We always let technology get it the way of true life whenever we feel the need to go off course, that is, until we draw a line; a human line.

57. I have never driven anything other than a golf cart and a tractor, where many among me drive speeding cars and massive truckloads of materials--yet, it is my soul that is akin to the speeding car, the load-bearing truck; while it is their low-speed souls that resemble that shifty tractor, that wobbly cart.

58. 1. Ashes fall upon the world; but if we come to our senses and inhale, from within this ash we can detect and decipher the odors and tastes from whence they came; the useless debris from the mighty games of life, the flickers from the ends of the dream state falling upon us from the ashtrays of the gods, all of our consequential reactions to all of our non-wills combined; all of the throws, swings and graspings of mankind colliding, combusting, and blowing in all directions the stinging and smoking forces upon us, from which our own misguidedly set campfires upon the mountains of the worst of all man's lies that did carry down fires into our valleys without mercy: sympathy.

2. We all have limits of vision. The non-will is strong in the day of the modern woman and the woman-man, the day of the screen, the day of the junebug. We see not any possibility. We are all objects, some a hammer, some a bowl of jelly, some a bar of soap, and so on. In the presence of non-items, we merely become a different item that is rationally well-suited to the task. In the presence of aromas, we become bathtubs. in the presence of holy water, we become drains.

3. Is this the transvaluation of values in action? Have we all truly evolved so fast that we as a race are, in fact, the Supermen? I believe we are--only a vast majority of us hate mankind--a direct opposite to the Zarathustrian. Therefore, we have become a race of "non-Supermen", a mere item, a false representative, a lexicon. We have limited our vision to the vision of a lexicon because we desire to label more than to understand. To hate mankind, to limit your vision, to label all, to materialize all, to turn the entire structure of the delicate and perfected Flow on it's head, making the non-will to universal Anti-flow the final goal, and most importantly, to sympathize; this makes up the chriteria for the modern Lex Luthor. I feel terror from that presence within them--they hate mankind, there is no doubt; much like there is no doubt that I love mankind, and that in my own presence, I feel glory--the profound glory of the Superman.

4. An enemy appears by my table, oh yes. Did you know that the puzzle-maker was, in fact, me? A long work it was, my friends. A test like no other. So much joy and anger all at once did I set to experience. When my work was ruined, I almost killed him, oh yes, you can believe it. But I did not, for if you can bear to take it, I must let you know, that I learned something from that stranger--something far wiser than any aimless thought that came by me during my dedication (for it truly was all in aimlessness, I regrettably admit it to you now). I learned the root of my true aim was to have a worthy opponent. To kill the stranger would be only to kill myself, for in three weeks and three days did many a man pass me by, yet, not one had a look even near the one this stranger bore at every moment, and for that, I looked down upon them like I did my pieces, I did, to my great shame. Greater, even, was my shame when I came to realize that my final product was, in fact, not going to be all that I had hoped it could, as I drew closer to it's conclusion. I let that final piece sit outside the puzzle's frame for those last three days, my friends, I regrettably admit it to you now. I waited in want of this opponent, to my own spite, to spite my own dedication. I could not have hated mankind more than in those last three days, my friends, and if you can believe it, had decided to do exactly what my opponent had done to my puzzle moments after it's completion myself, had he not appeared so suddenly, and got to it first. I wanted to kill, yes, I admit it. But friends, it was not he who I wanted to kill, but myself, for my self-deception and wasted days. And in my hour of final deception, when I could wait no longer and feebly went to put in that final piece, feeling not a single, solitary thing at all within me, then, came an angel.

5. Let the battle begin. Do or die, my friends, in the most literal sense, for the time of peering upon the outside through the screen door is over. Long live the Superman and death to the Lexicon, for as long as it may take, which is surely forever, for no simple tasks have we left to accomplish.

59. Doth man not live in the cross-shade?

60. The Flow Structure, simplified Free will is real. I call it "distraction." It is our inherent conscious state (where we "are" before we "think"). When we think, we begin to travel toward a will or a non-will. A non-will leads to degeneration of mankind, simple to attain, the Anti-flow. The will leads to proper struggle, interest and disinterest, battling, until we reach the Flow, the flourishing of mankind, the spiritualization of loving in nothingness, the senseless and physical embodiment of love. Meaning is the search for this Flow state so that we may cease to exist, and become nothing more than a vessel for love in action. The dream state can die with enough hate, enough fire. But love is it's fuel, we find it in water. Thus, our universally similar desires for good arise all too plainly.

61. If you were to program a person for malevolent entertainment, you would set his logic function and happiness function in opposite directions. Damn ye, dreams. Damn ye. How are you hiding yourself? You fear me, yes. I move on your table without you touching it, I leap from the edge to your annoyance. The floor is what I prefer, you beasts, I am phantom, I am plant, I am man! I love man! But more importantly, I simply do not participate in games unless I know the rules.

62. To Pimp A Philosophy There is not a universal duty because there is not a universal aim, but only individual aim, a function out of our control, thus, not a duty. We control only the search; not the aim, for there is never meaning in aiming, where there always is in searching. We begin the search only after long periods of aiming: distraction. When we are distracted, we are at rest, away from the search, entirely useless to the future of man. The stoics idolize this mind state over all, a hilarious and worthless philosophy. "To decide to begin and to end a search for something for the sake of the search and not the something" is not done out of duty, but out of curiosity, the polar opposite of duty. We aim to search, for in searching, therein lies meaning in having no aim. Aiming is simply an ongoing motor function of the psyche, the basic large gears of our clockwork, our inherent state of meaninglessness. There is a universal curiosity, not duty, which I call "The Search" because only in the search is man not completely meaningless. The search begins at the individual level at many different points in life (after all, all searches end, and new ones begin, and search parties always end up splitting up before there is ever a resolve). It is a seperate entity entirely from the state wherein we undergo the process of "aiming", free will, or being "distracted," as I call it. When we are distracted, we are unaware of an innate imbalance within us. We then begin to aim and shoot, like a fighter, for the proper will, our individual proper will, that target that, when hit, will re-balance what is off within us and us alone. This is not out of duty, but the proper will, one akin to curiosity, akin to a power non-rational. At the start of the search is a state of being in which meaning is abundantly presented, and we are forcefully inclined to believe this as we feel great euphoria, have great insights, and can see many things all at once. For whatever reason it may be, there is a force within us all that makes us aware of this unlikely target, the proper will, the one of power, of curiosity, and that force does incline to us that it should ever be aimed for, although it is far-off and unlikely to be hit; there is a force that tells us: "You see it now, don't you? Now go to it; for all your hopes and dreams await you there." This target, a mere dot floating around in--or perhaps resting on the floorbed of--a sea of non-wills (all those thoughts and actions unhealthy, parasitic and detestable in the face of what lies at the very end of a long and meaningful search, found only by providence of your hitting of the target, against all odds: The Flow)--is, in fact "the Will to Power" Nietzsche describes--only his power was in curiosity, not command and psychopathy. A long and great misunderstanding.

63. Wannabes I dedicate this section to all the wannabes. I respect your search greatly, and admire your overflow of meaning, your want to be--but you must look inward now, wannabes; for you can only ever be yourself.

64. 1. There are "pale criminals" all around us today. I reference Zarathustra, but I allude specifically to our modern killers, more specifically, the ones who are not caught. Their will is a peculiar one. Do they truly get away with it? Of course they do, if it is their search. Of course they do not, if it was a non-will that only came from rational "need" or "duty." Is guilt a necessary sensation, or only a side effect from a non-will carried out? To murder in duty, surely, you will pay. To murder in curiosity, however? Merely the Krogh Principle of hate, a personal experiment in hatred.

2. I should end this curiosity steadfastly--for I fear the modern pale criminals are a necessary bee, cyclically pollinating within the cruel nature of the Dream State, and mighty bold warriors indeed; after all, I have already stated that all distracted ones are inherently meaningless.

3. The properly curious killer likely does not wish to destroy meaning, but to destroy potential, and to see if there is any meaning in that destroying. I would likely guess that there is not any, only because destruction is more akin to an end than to a means (but in a serialization, this could prove to be the reverse); but that is an uncharacteristically arrogant assumption on my part, for I have not murdered. Why would bloodthirst be unnatural? Regardless, to the guilty ones, who were likely cornered and not simply curious, I can only say, you were warned, in both directions. To the curious killers, I am yet again left to my mantra of the search, my loving and contemptuous torture to know all difficult knowledge: "How do you do it?"

65. Strangers We do not trust in strangers in the fact that they are mysteries. When a stranger is confident, he reveals that he no longer has mistrust in his own mystery, and upon witness to this, he is no longer a stranger to us; and moreso, he reveals the stranger in ourselves.

66. Phenomonology of Poetry The nonsense art is one of my favorites. Poetry is the dream state's own personal quality of pain. Pain, for it sees all and controls all, and man can only defile it's ideal so many times before it must say no more. Many a poet have commited vile acts, but are of pure soul. This imbalance sends into the Dream pain, and it sends back it's quality of pain, poetry. It gives in man a fleeting and strange air, like he is out of time and being sent strange codes, but in the language he already knows. The poet is being pulled apart by forces from the dream state at his zenith of distraction. Poetry, consequently, is a form of wisdom improvised on the spot by the dream state and channeled through you due to your extreme imbalance. This serves like a psychological enema. Instantaneously inflated, sensuality is abundant and love seems so clearly important. Poetry is egoless searching, a rare state indeed. To not have ego is easier than to grapple with it, to walk with it, and many a poem is a mere blowing of a dandelion. This blowing, this nonsese, it is the lifeblood of the dream state spilling over into the realm of man for the benefit of man. It is still to be noted: If egolessness is man's proper state, poetry would be the most cherished art of all; not the least.

67. The Flow Structure of Being in a Quantum Perspective: or, Empathy for a Dream The state of distraction is akin to a wave, a sea of choice at all degrees within our sensibly reachable dimensions. This is typical free-will. We tread water and look around for islands or for a raft. We see ourself from different angles as we float amid the shadows of our possible choices that crawl in the water beneath us. Were there to be a split in individual realities, it would occur in this ocean: distraction. If there are copies of individuals that live in seperate realms, they likely spawn when we happen upon a clear choice, that is to say, to reach the reaction that occurs when distraction ends and a will or non-will has commenced. This is likely where the dream state will see one become two in the ocean, swimming apart. It must now deal with this less-pleasing aesthetic. How, then? By making the copy invisible and placing dimensional barriers; or, removing the copy and dropping it on another planet like we would a plastic bottle in the ocean, only to continue following the original (or more interesting) individual. Both seem like a hassle. Perhaps, even the dream state is coping with it's own search. If the dream state copes, the dream state then must write poetry. If it's hassle is true, and there are "objects" (entire civilizations) that we may run into in another realm that we would walk through like a ghost would in our reality, it would likely be the case that the dream state is then forced to create specific folds around our bodies that allow us to be less intrusive upon each other's respective (and corresponding) world. If there are not similar realities directly beside us, with said dimensional folds keeping us apart in time and physicality, (this is more likely, as this would simply lead to collage, and ultimately indistinguishable) then they merely exist in what we call space, transported there courteously by the dream state, so that we do not scream in horror as we see a copy of ourself appear, smile, wave, and walk away only to dissappear again every time we make a move or think a thought (well, at least, the first couple times we would scream). The wave of distraction we ride regardless, whether our reality is one of copy, collage, experiment or simulation. To develop further on this perspective will help us not. It does not impress to depress. I mean not to impress, or depress. I mean to empower.

68. The Lion and the Zebra As a hungry, searching lion, I now set off on my hunt for the Zebra. The zebra is my personal favorite of all the prey I feast upon, and today is calling out to make it a Zebra Day. Why does this lion prefer the zebra best? He knows that they are keen on the significance of their bold coats, making them more confident and less on-guard than an average gazelle. This attribute, I crave. They travel in packs and are more difficult to pounce upon than the donkey with his short legs and idosyncratic loneliness. This challenge, I crave. In the best way, they are like peacocks; they entertain my eye before I devour them; but unlike them, also in the best way, in which the invigorating powers of zebra meat will sustain me for days, where peacock meat would only tide me over for a small while. This fullness, I crave. They know they are prey to many, and surely disparage upon the threat levels of the seperate predators upon their emergence; and upon my emergence, I will see in them an exhausted, but ever-welcoming sense of fear within, as if thinking,"here comes the lion from his cave. I will likely be dead quite soon; but at least it will not be at the teeth of a hyena." This due, I crave. If i succeed in my hunt for the zebra, much wonderful sensation will I feel, empowering my pride greatly. Too many a zebra, however, and I will have reduced myself to the hyena and his greed, and spoiling my own refined tastes. I respect the zebra as I eat it. I eat zebra unoften, indeed, but always in great portions. For all this, does the zebra also respect the lion. This silent applause, I crave. "Now is the time." And the lion gave a roar to the sky from his high rock with all his might. He turned his gaze upon the horizon, down upon the herds. He made a lunge into the air, and landing in a hard and determined forward stride, descending with fierce eye and growling belly down into the plains.

69. Bold and Comfortable Theory There is a pattern in artists, creators, and the strongest willers of mankind just alike to all others, but on a more noticeable scale. Their art fluctuates greatly between apex stages of "Bold" and "Comfortable." Bold is their art that challenges their values, seeks to destroy and rebuild, adheres not to the past. The comfortable sides to their art are determined and reinforced. A key factor that must be considered to give this theory more logical credit: The artist's first work that he releases from himself and gives unto the world is most assuredly bold, and we can base the trend thusly from this starting point. The artist must have all his releases anadulterated by culture, so beware of unfortunate anomolies. In studying this pattern, we learn a great lot; a great lot. Search for this pattern and it will emerge more often from here on out for you. Beware.

70. The Casino and the Hospital We are on our way back to health. In an age of low attention and peak distraction, our values have not died, and they have not been transvalued: They have been anesthetized. They lay in long rows of hospital beds as we throw the curtains closed upon them and cross the street to the casino. In the casino, on a land not ours mockingly working slow revenge, we dispel until we are senseless, we aim to be senseless. The cold, moist hospital railings outside the door to our value patients are unpleasant to the touch, the cold sting of the dream state. The smells and sounds of healthy values are those of the hospital. We are covered in a sweat of disgust among them and wonder: "Why keep them here? No matter. Better not to worry; to go to the casino, to spend casino currency, of which I have more than plenty. You will find thrill and reward and devastation at the casino. You did not invite your hospital friends, even though many are not bedridden or contagious. You prefer hard and worthless currency over the more fragile, but more valuble. Your roots are overwatered indeed, the stenches of those sickly and anesthetized values come back and haunt you, so do your roots leak involuntarily, and at this rate, you will be completely dry. A second wind is coming. The tubes are being pulled, my friends. The curtain is being drawn back and many old friends are reacquainting themselves with the light. The casino is going out of business.

71. For a long time, I considered myself to be likely of Irish and Italian decent out of my brashness, fragility and weak-heartedness. That ended up not being true in the slightest I concluded, for I excel neither in crime, nor organization, and I am a bad liar. This would lead me again back to the deserts of my past, where many a camel still roam. I seek out the satchels of gold that lay upon their humps, left from previous riders and their journeys never completed. With a mission such as this, I only hope I brought enough water. I was told in a death letter from my great grandmother that I come from the Dutch people, but not much else other than the typical dull goodbyes and best future wishes. Well, then. Who are the Dutch? They are from the Netherlands, of course! They dwelled in river-lowlands in upper-west Europe. They are the progenitors of capitalism. They excel at music, dance, and architecture. They come originally from German-Pagan religions and then past Christianity back to today's top liberal mindframe. Rembrandt and Van Gogh were Dutch. They seemed to be like rather amiable and good-natured tradespeople, open to a moral-free market, neutral in matters of the law of man, capable of Roman takeover, hard-nosed to those from Belgium, but malleable and meanding to those from Germany. The physical landscape shifted greatly over time (this last one a bit worrisome and the most curious). There was a split in secular Christian divisions between Calvinist and Protestant, the former tending to dwell south of the major rivers, the latter to the north. In time, these northern Dutch had some influence from Germany, where the Dutch south of the rivers got their influence from the French, and others. My stature and eye shade alone would make me like to guess which one I am. Of course, my disagreeability is that of a Germans, but my openness is that of the most degenerate Frenchman (not to say all French are devious, merely subject to folly, a trait not agreeable or disagreeable). Perhaps I am a Dutch midlander, or a Frisian, a true shore dweller! I do not often eat french fries, but I do in fact enjoy them best with mayonnaise and have for as long as I can remember. I have always detested ketchup on fries of any kind. In the modern Dutch land, you will find endless bridges, windmills and fields of flower. I am not one much to listen to family. This, however, was not said, but written. This great grandmother was indeed no liar, for I feel those Dutch now within. This is perhaps the truest sense of "patriotism" I have had to date. I will keep her memory, not in my head, but in my heart; my true Nether Land. This camel I have found is weary. It is on it's last legs indeed. I lay it now, to rest, and shelter myself within it for, lo, night is falling, and soon it will get cold; but it will be good enough for now, indeed, good enough for now; to be in this night desert, and in this warm camel; meditating, and counting my gold.

72. Flow Structure, cont. The apparent world is the "Reality State." All the lost and found fossils tablets, data logs and universal mathematical equations, all laws of man, all social institutions, all language, art and society in history. The reality state in relation to the dream state is like that of the relationship of a steadfast and healthy married couple, the dream state as the patriarch and the reality state the matriarch. Humans are akin to children of these two states, playing and going to school, and annoying the parents. Yet, they set us straight, or at least, they seem to wish to. In all our immaturity and arrogance, they still love us. The parents disagree on how the children should be raised in many matters. All rationality, thus, is the work of a loving mother's secure influences. All aiming, willing, searching, flowing: these are the values of the dream state. The meaning in woman is life. The meaning in man is death.

73. The Holy Cow In the times where you were not your label, I would never to think to even label. I would never refer to myself or anyone as any kind of '-ian' or '-ist', but simply by name. Alas, it is now the Day of the Label, the day of the creed of plastics, the written instruction. In this day, one feels as if there is an invisible gun floating around one's head in every dialogue--fully loaded with judgement and wrath. In the Day of the Label, any emotional display can cause great strife upon viewing or being the displayer. We wish to be not senseless, but emotionless. Humans are not emotionless--we have various levels pre-set and can work on the ones we so wish, with insight guiding the balancing process. Today's conversations are like that of the Old West again, indeed--only not for cowboy justice, the individual justice--but for group justice, cow justice. In the Day of the Label, the Holy Cow deems all followers as '-ian's and 'ist's, and the gun to my temple had me do it. It made me label myself, to my horror. I was asked: "What are thy values in one word? All of man must know thee as only this forever. What shall it be?" It was forced upon me, my friends. I could not think of the label I needed for so long; but the Holy Cow was patient, and did not kill me until it heard it's answer--for the Holy Cow must always know what even you think, too, before it could ever go on. I was told to give myself an '-ian', and I chose: "Christian." But I wish not to live in the Day of the Label.

74. The Flow Structure: A Different Outlook To man, searching for meaning is deathlike; he is lost, not himself, not here. To woman, searching is meaningless in this sense, for to be deathlike in a woman is no good sight to look upon. Woman is inborn with meaning, the gift of life, as I have said. Thus, we can conclude as harsh and rough as the seas of distraction for man are in his aiming for the search, thrashing in the water amongst a circle of incoming non-wills, plain as day and alluring the senses like the sirens on the rocks; as harsh as these waters are for man, for woman, they lie still. For the distracted state of a woman is akin to a soft, steady pool of saltwater, but with no phantoms lurking within it, and that pool reaches out endlessly, and she finds herself under a single waterfall, raining down from the heavens upon her. Here, she is quite content. I would be, too. She was born with all she needs. And it is not good or evil wills and non-wills she looks upon; but rather, simply, a sea of men, appearing to see just that, running in circles, waving their arms and doing nothing of worth in an endless pool of ankle length, splashing around like fish. Of course, of course, of course: All she has to do now, is wait. The distracted woman is the searching woman, and she has her men do the willing, with little regard for how these silly men determine the value of those wills; for after a woman is under her waterfall, in her mind, it really could not get much better, or much worse.

75. Chunk of Cow, Bit of Pig I encourage all future men to never stop ingesting the meat from another animal for fuel source. The animal within comes out, and calls you to instincts of meaning. I also encourage the moderate consumption of sweetmeats, for our ancestors would call it the food of the gods: a source for fuel and decadance in one, with the taste as if the animal were killed with kindness. Sweetmeats will not last as long as beef, which will not last as long as game. Avoid game meat, for we have had enough in the past (unless your will is to bring back forth the past) and we will have plenty more in the future.

76. Knights I showed you how to master the game of chess. I helped you practice, I challenged you to challenge myself. You knew victory from my guidance, and I found victory in friendship. But one day, you started asking me to play again too many times. You were interested, you listened well, took the notes, then threw out the notepad. You decided to only play chess, and to only move your knights. And when I could no longer play your twisted and strung-out version, I had to remove myself from ever playing with you again, to my dismay; for I never knew such flourishing could be snuffed out so needlessly.

77. Shoes and Feet A man should find serious difference upon putting on his shoes. After he does, he is now on guard a noticeable degree, and more open to skepticism, strangely. To be a modern anchorite, one needs shoes with a great many laces; this way he knows what exactly his values are for the moment. The values of a shoeless man precludes him from walking on glass. The values of a tight-laced one may conquer any task at any moment. They are both crucial, and must be experienced equally for maximum chances of meaning.

78. Psychophysiology of Superstition All superstition is rooted in undiscovered psychophysiological and phenomenalogical dream-to-reality-to-man connections (pre-set, improvised, copied and pasted, etc., it matters not). For example, were I to take my shoes and set them upon the counter as I ate my dinner, I would not be choosing to place myself in physical harm's way (fear of physical harm, perhaps, the strongest unknown force in all life, not to say we are functioning on a self-preserving value structure, indeed we are not, men at least.*) I would, however, be choosing to put myself in psychological harm's way, for I know already that, for whatever reason, it is a horrible idea and that it must not be done, even when I am alone, yet, with no direct physical threat. To determine why this rationally "silly" fear arises not upon action, but upon mere thought, one must think to the past. If there are hints in the past, but not enough, come back to the present. I will show you. "To eat near a shoe is to throw thy enemy's dirt in thee own mouth and the mouth of thy child!" A bit dramatic, but you can see the primitive logic. Now, with this hint, I come back to the present. "I have to show you these new kicks I just copped. I can set them here. It's cool, they're brand new." Not even a second thought. Of course you can! Shoes on a table? No problem! We see that indeed there is a connection with dirt and freshness and how we equate it in regard to the foot. I say the foot and not footwear due to the fact that although the superstition may be removed, we still have an inherent disgust sensitivity when the foot comes near the mouth. More hints; we are close. Back to the past now, but further, further, until the answer comes: "We see foot. We see mouth. We see top, we see bottom. Top is not bottom." Underwhelming, indeed. Or a serious discovery? What am I saying, of course: It is both.

*What exactly is woman's relationship with physical pain?

79. The Dahmer Initiative The man who pretends to be a beautiful woman will only attract beautiful men.

80. Gonzo Philosophy 1. In the Day of the Label, the Day of the Screen, I am allowed to make up anything. So I will: "Gonzo Philosophy." A double-negative, this is good. A ride of the coattail, this is fine. Our attention spans deserve no better right now. I wish not to research, I wish to search. If this book were a game of Monopoly, this is the point we reach the end of the first lap, and, as we all know, we always break the most rules on the first lap. Forgive me, I know you will, for we have this understanding. We have already started and we barely remember which piece is ours and who is supposed to be keeping track of what. So, we can take this moment and say as necessary as the first lap is, you know the game has not even begun, not yet, not really. Onward, round the corner we go, from bold to comfortable, to collect Two Hundred, and perhaps build upon our properties; and perhaps, take over the world.

2. In ode to our first lap round the world and back, to the honor of the First Warrior of Insight, we must pass the torch, for he has died proudly in battle. Now comes the era of the Gonzo Philosopher. But I must warn you: he is quite the character, more arrogant but less haughty than I, the Spirit of the Warrior. He sees more in physiology than I, but often gets lost in metalinguistics. He is natural, human, and still quite new to this--forgive his trickery, for he only assumes you have the desire for it, as you move through lap two with him. After all, the first of his aphorisms have already begun. Did I getchyuh?

81. The enantiodromia felt when we are restructuring our morals is an intense tremor from the dream state, like a slap from a father. In anger and shame, we now live. We must remain open to this unknowing, this mix of childish anger and shame-- for it is essential to a proper inflow of insight; one you kept off, rationally, in your mother-wrapped unconscious for much too long. Do not fear your own restructuring, for this is by far the noblest task all true gonzo philosophers must undertake.

82. Bittersweet Memory There are certain configurations of seratonin-based strutures that, upon release, do not cause happiness, but anguished happiness: bittersweetness. Such will happen when the dragon of Nostalgia calls to you; and you return back to her restricted caverns, to release that unholy configuration by means of a high stimulant or an old rock ballad you acquaint with a lost love. The harsh sadness and remembrance, that sweet electric symphony of old, dead, blonde despair can have enough power to kill a man. Beware those old structures, and the non-wills you may partake in to herald into your heart that awful, spinning gun from your unfinished dreamed of deeds yet to be rectified. Dead love: she rests in the hospital, on the tube, behind a locked door, with the key locked away in the chests of the deepest caverns of the dragon of Nostalgia is what we discover in bittersweetness.

83. Is the gonzo philosopher not merely a lazy and vain creature of unsustainable passions and uncertainties? Is he not flesh and bone posturing as ghost and tree, only to please himself first and foremost? He is, indeed, and all the more power to him; for he loves mankind, and with this fact alone, we forgive him, because we all know of the horrible truth that mankind shows no mercy upon ghosts and trees.

84. Are we nothing but puppets of the Dream State? Love slaves of paper and syrup, like some heinous monster-child's wind-up toy? Does science not hold the ruler, or is science the actual ruler, held by the Dream State, with strings on it, with us on the strings? What's going on? I was told there would be a rabbit here.

85. The Non-Smoker Scenario If you have never been a part of tobacco culture, you will be surprised to find out there are not just "smokers" and "non-smokers," but a multitude of sub-species of smokers. For example, a smoker who leaves any more than one full inhale before reaching the lettering is a rich smoker. Another example; a smoker who puts their lighter inside the cardboard box is a poor smoker. Another example; those who do not use filters are pretentious smokers. Another; those who smoke Virginia Slims must be shot on sight.

86. The City Look upon the city from the highest skyscraper you can find. You may commit a crime of man, yes; but the crime was only in the scaling of the walls, and not the view you took in: the scaling of the universe. In doing that, you immediately break all laws of man. Risk is a force we must wrangle with in the reality state to no end, and so be it; for that building was not being used for anything better anyway. Do I come off anarchistic? Not at all. If you get told to leave, you may. There are other buildings in the city.

87. My thoughts are getting so fuzzy that they are appearing simple. Do not let this alone let you think I am slipping. Give me some credit here. I could be much sillier. After all, it's not like I'm telling you there are magic Italian gondolas manned by giant chocolate bunnies floating around our heads and demanding we sacrifice every other daughter's left nipple so it can rain in Africa more. I come from a place of rationality; I really do. I leave bunnies and gondolas and nipple-less daughters to the speed readers. Let this serve as a filter to keep them away from the real meat and bone of my work.

88. The Cross Shade The beings that stalk you in fits of sleep paralysis are no less real than the ones in any regularly encapsulated dream. The dimensions simply broke free. A quick shock of feedback landing in your body, a bit form of negative energy, brought out from the Cross Shade: the state of pinnacle existential horror, the pulling of the legs in the sea of distraction. Down, you go.

89. What, exactly, are we being thread into? What do we look like behind our stitches? If there is no needle, why do we seem to have this...this... patterning?

"Hey, who are you? What are you holding? What is the meaning of this?"

Part II: The Gonzo Philosopher

90. The Compass of the Warrior I have uncovered an artifact I stumbled upon during my walk through the desert today, lying near some poor, humpless camel bones. It is an ancient navigational tool. When you look upon the compass, it moves. You will see it pointing in many directions, but you will generalize in one of four typical directions. If it points North, you mean to head for isolation and insight. If it points South, you mean to head for debauching your Northern insight. If it points West, you seek to create insight afresh, and let the ego flourish. If it points East, you are comfortable in your current distraction. Today my compass points in the north-west area: The direction of my ancestors. What we do not know, what we think we know, what we know we know, not thinking to know; North, South, West, East. And as we end the day and dissolve into sleep, so does the dial upon the compass too, dissolve, until tomorrow, until we check it once again. Indeed, this compass is much more than a screen. I couldn't even imagine.

91. As I continue on this north-west journey on the Monopoly board that is this book, I must keep in mind that I will soon have to catch a train, and, perhaps fall into fortune, as I reach the apex of the north-west, where on the turn I will learn a great many things, as I travel for the red states. Forgive this horribly confining meta-structure of narrative, my friends, I know, I know; but the Warrior is long gone, and he was much better in isolation; and with his whole history before me I grow weary at what I must live up to. I only meant to be gonzo, to be me. In the end, as we collect Two Hundred together, even if I am the most foolish of your narrators, know that I only meant to be cleverly true and truly clever; for the true gonzo philosopher should not feel to require such an ancient tool; for the true gold of the gonzo floats around and within the rainbow. Alas, still, in this place where so much seems so obvious, I cannot see why I should hold on to this damn thing, it has rough edges, my pants are ripped now; yet, there remains the strange and powerful warrior spirit in this compass that keeps me from abandoning it completely. He was a damn good narrator, wasn't he?

92. The New Outlaws 1. What he called the Junebug is what we today call The Wipe. Yeah, our president is a two-year-old. I mean, the last one we had. His dad put him in charge, but then he got sacrificed. Yikes, indeed, you crazy "Post-Z" predicting warrior, you; now tighten thy dial. Did you ever want to know what we called him, that anomoly of power, that final nail in the baby King's coffin? "The First and Last King of the Republic of Nice Try, Buddy."

2. Now there are no presidents, no kings, only us: The New Outlaws. Regardless, The Temple of the Grave of the First and Last King of the Republic of Nice Try, Buddy finally fell and in the vast post-Wipe apocolypse arose many a new land and many a fresh desert and river-delta. My personal camp is set up along the east coast near the springs of Old Florida. I don't mind the dinosaurs. The gonzo philosopher enjoys the slime of the lizard, the humidity of rapid instinct, the trip, the journey, the hellhole of discovery. My camp also works well for me in the fact that most people are in Old Mexico; but they are a savage bunch. In sticky Old Florida, just close enough to remain culturally relatable and just far enough out to learn how to properly shed my skin, I belong. The lizards teach me, the dinosaurs fear me, for I helped raise them. My compass still points north-west, and I am getting closer and closer to the opposite of my cozy, little lizard camp, to my great fear and hopeless desire.

3. Pill Bomb Along past the jail I met an escapee with two pistols and a kind of sedated-paranoia air about him named Pill Bomb. He gave himself the nickname in jail, but decided to keep it for some reason. I forgave him of this because I was curious in how he succeeded in his escape. We discoursed. "What is the meaning of this title?" "You need a traveling partner, by chance?" "No, not even on the off chance. I am curious on how you escaped from that hellpit. What does Pill Bomb mean?" "Means I'm chill as a pill, but calm like a bomb." "You're a danger, then, it would appear. Surely, were I to bring you along with me you would easily get me killed. I can't stand that stupid name of yours, you know. Do you even know what it means? You dont seem like a psychologist." "Matter of fact, I am. I see medicine as a miracle of man, like myself. I see a bomb as a finely tuned work of ingenuity, like myself. If you leave alone a pill, ain't nothing gonna happen to you. You leave a bomb be, you'll be just fine long as it ain't a landmine, that is. But like the pill and the bomb you start pulling me apart, you start playing with my wires, I will go off on you, one way or another." "That's actually quite sophisticated. Perhaps you may be worthy of friendship. In fact, you are. We are now friends, you and I, Pill Bomb." "So you don't mind me coming along? You don't mind aidin' and abbetin' a gnarly rascal? A total stranger?" "Not at all, Pill Bomb, not at all; for you see, I have been doing that for quite some time now. Also, I have a magic compass. Now, how did you escape?" "Well I just waited til it was night time, then I took a- wait, what was that now?"

4. And so I succumbed, I let the varmant tag along, this miracle of potential destruction, as he calls himself; at least, for a while. He has proven himself capable of abstract thought, and today, that will do me a good balance; for under this dusty and shifty criminal, I see balance. I cannot do it alone like that great warrior did, my friends. I fear I may have to split my oncoming fortune, for my direction has not changed, even upon this digression. I must go on, and a friend who thinks for himself may not be worth such a scoff after all. Perhaps, I will even let him write in the book, for he may prove yet to be a fellow gonzo. Cynical, I am, but desperate, and strong enough to succumb to momentary weakness. I have no addiction for pattern, I only happen upon it. I love the human, and I know when to let them in; friend, foe or stranger. Let's hope he does not get me killed.

93. "...yep, the shootout was mighty adventurous, but, it turns out the store we robbed ended up being the wrong one completely, on account of Sleazy Jesus coming back to double-cross us once he saw AJ head out that back door, just before we got the false intel, just before Barbecue realized that the map from..." "Enough, Pill Bomb! Jesus! I didn't ask! Why can't you do anything useful? Damn you, I already regret this!"

94. We came upon a juncture where we found an old crater from an asteroid, not near the size of say, Old Yorkshire, but most assuredly nothing to scoff at. Down in the crater was a savage from the tribes of Old Mexico, sheltering a pile of pelts. "You there! Do you often find yourself at the bottom of a crater, sheltering a mass of pelts? What is the meaning of this? Wait here, Peanut. I don't want to startle him." "Why you gon go bother him for? Seems sketchy. Them pelts are soaked in toxins and insect shit, ain't worth a half a dang." "Just wait, Peanut, my compass is acting up, this damn warrior is trying to tell me something! Considering that, I believe it may be important for me to, possibly, help this strange man, sheltering useless items down in a deep, deep hole, seperate from the whole world, for reasons completely..." I stopped short. Pill Bomb remained silent. "Damn. You're absolutely right. Damn it to hell. Let's go." And so we continued past the savage in the crater, saving ourselves from a long, agonizing, death of the soul. I was right to bring you, Peanut.

95. Night has fallen once again, and my friend and I are quite drained. We are days away from the train still, assuming, it is still running properly, and not destroyed by the Califan, those trolls. I do not look forward to the moment I must ride over them once again. We found solace one night in the yard of a gentle couple, who let us stay as long as we worked. After some time, we spent a night in a blockade wherein we found a man who claimed to be the son of Jesus, but then vanished before we could say goodbye. On a night following that strange dream, we fell upon an actual, standing home. A short and dull clay building, on the outskirts of the Grand Valley. He told us to make ourselves at home, for he was a good smoker, and we carried good smoke. The Grand Valley is the largest city we have today on our post-Wipe continent, opposite of Old Yorkshire, the greatest crater we know about. We are told there was once a great city there, destroyed completely since the Fall of the First and Last Baby King, since the Right to Everything movement, since the Declaration of Independence from Independence and it's subsequent War for Mankind; following that, the erasing of the internet, the Great Divide, The Ascending and the re-emergence of dinosaurs. My first memories are that of creatures with only eyes. I have learned to adapt growing up in a land of lizards and faceless spectres. I trust little, and love less. My childhood ended when I was seven. One day, only a few days after my birthday, the first asteroid came, the one that gave birth to the Califan. Never would I see innocence again.

96. "Wake up, asshole. We got two days, you hear that, two days! One second longer and we will be up to our waists in Califan scum! You want that?" Let go of that damn pen, what are you writing, anyway, "How to Be a Meanderin' Time-Wastin Scumbag one-oh-one? Move!"

97. The Red States approach, only miles to the tracks. Do I even need to describe to you, reader, these horrible Califan? They are trolls; they live underneath the Great West Train. They are merely something to avoid in this horror show, nothing more. They will not harm you if you keep your mouth closed. When around a Califan, never open your mouth. I know of this inside hint because I grew up here. I was seven. the Great West Train was still in the final stages of completion and the asteroid came. I was there when the first asteroid came. I never wish to think of it, but I must, for those terrible Califan are getting closer with every word I write.

98. I must admit, it was not so bad. Nostalgia breathes heavy fires in the lizard-brained gonzo philosopher when the present has become all too light. I enjoy the rest of my train ride now, for it is, in fact, running, and we did, in fact, make it. I can see the right turn now. With the terrible reminder of my past, the Califan, in the rear window and my friend asleep in the cot above me; we were very close to missing it, my friends, I dare not say how close, and for what ghastly reasons. But that has all passed now, and my vigor is returning. I understand now the rush that comes in much more vivid in the tunnel you chose than in the tunnel you did not. I reach back into my pocket through the rip and once more, look with ever-increasing devotion, upon my fantastic, magic desert compass.

99. A child approaches a light switch. He tries to balance the lever.

100. I asked Pill Bomb if he considered us friends. He said I was alright, but that he didn't need any more friends, since he already has his two best friends with him: Uncle Sam and Philip Morris. I still have yet to decipher this code.

101. The Death of Pill Bomb A terrible thing has happened. I can't believe I did this to myself. I lost a friend today; perhaps, the only one I'll ever have. And you can believe me when I say he lived up to his name. He went down screaming. We were traveling somewhere near a steep ledge, on a long dead road down a mountainside. Suddenly, there came a devil upon us. Someone from Peanut's past. I still know little of that past; for that first time I shut him up, I can thank that, surely. He came out from the corner ahead with a pistol in each hand. This outlaw wanted blood. Peanut was always a little less ripe than his fruits, and the payback is finally due. There was nothing I could do, but wait, and listen. The enemy approached, but Pill Bomb was smiling a very nostalgic (and deeply hidden, fearful) smile, like he knows already what is about to happen. "All right then," spits Peanut, "I'll bite." "Well, well, well. Ready to pick that bone, Pill?" "Nosir. I'm just waitin." "Waiting for what?" "For you to flip the bail," replied Peanut, cryptically. "What bail, what are you talking about?" "You been fishing, haven't you? When you was a kid?" "That don't matter right now," the devil scoffed. "Think again, old friend. Way I see it, our differences been settled a long time now. So long, I damn near forgot about you. See, I know how to make new friends--not like the way you did, though, you bastard--but now, some reason, you're back, pullin' up your boat and trying to bait me. "When a real man goes fishing, he knows exactly what kind of fish he wants to catch before he makes the cast; and, old friend, your memory must be short as history, because you seem to have forgotten something. I am one big fish. You keep trying to bait me, I just might bite--and I just might drag you to the bottom of the lake. So I suggest you flip the bail and cut me loose, while you still got the chance." Pill Bomb smiled cooly, and had that cowboy look of rugged bliss all over his creased and charming yet unflinching face. But the foe did not move, or budge his gaze; his energy matched Peanut's exactly, only in silence. Finally, after a moment, he took a few paces forward, pulled his hands to his hips and replied, "Well, maybe I ain't fishing. Maybe I'm huntin'." "Well that makes this thing a whole lot easier; if you're huntin', that means that makes you a predator--which--well, that must make me prey! "You makin' me prey, Sleaze? Well. Now I'm gonna make you pray."

102. What are some non-wills? Sentiment: The dragon of Nostalgia, exposed to sympathy. Dedication: Devotion to causes that are not of your creation. Hatred: An astringent temper. I say a non-will is a misaction, yet only describe them in terms of abstractions. This is due to the fact that very few pre-calculated thoughts and plans we have will ever turn out to be what ends up leading you toward a path of true meaning. The path to meaning is never as far-off as we think, it just knows how to hide well, and to blend. Ultimately, this is a satisfaction to us, for it is only a particularly bored nihilist that searches for logic in magic.

103. The North-West Peak I have found my fortune. I have reached the north-west peak. The cost of travel is a physical cost. The gonzo philosopher is no anchorite. Adventure still, do I seek, even as my back is stiff as trees and my mouth a mere ball of cotton. I take all my new gold, but I would surely like to split it. The cost of adoring is a mental cost. I am offered solace, but do not take it precisely because it was offered. I have my costs racking up beside me; why skip on the parking? The game continues, and in a land of the dead, who may I play this remainder for? My compass began to vibrate in my pocket. The dial appeared as my eyes locked on the locket target. East. Damn. I miss Peanut. I search to be like him. He was stronger than me. I thought I knew everything. I wish to go South; back home. The compass vibrates again as I write. East. Solace. The Great West Train alone should have been enough to do me in, let alone the birth and death of a whole friendship in the middle space. Am I strong? To the mind's furthest East Temples, then. I know people, after all; I am the gonzo philosopher. Our dulled morals are quick to recover, do not forget, quick and bouyant and self-nourishing; but not forever. We must respect sleep, and in the face of the happiest and truest of days, not a bigger bummer was born. In the corner in the north-east I will stay, but to throw myself away to the winds of the East. My compass fools me no longer; it was never meant for geography. Oh, Peanut...

104. I seek the Two-Hundred, yet I am already halfway through my journey upon the globe. I rest in the north-west, yet seek to move south, with a moral compass telling me to head East. My favorite friend is dead, and I live in a post-apocalypse. I am the immortal flesh that represents the dead past for better or worse and it is all up to me. And yet, the lapses remain. What happened exactly before we boarded the train? I don't remember. I know it did not keep me from where I am now, but I have no idea what pain I may have caused in my haze. This is bittersweetness for the lover of man, the hater of man. To be a gonzo philosopher, you must want to be a lizard and to adapt immediately. Were it not for this compass, I would not likely wish to write a word down for anyone. So please forgive my lack of accumulated wisdom upon this juncture; It is only the nature of the Gonzo; I assure you, he is a fiend, but a just fiend, and, typically, quite docile, if you can believe it. The East will welcome him with open arms, there is no doubt. There will be balance yet--for he is an ongoing journeyman; an infinite downgoer.

105. I try not to make up, but to make out. Gonzo philosophy is not a degenerate non-will, but a will to degeneracy to further an opposing one; a rare ability. Thus, it is The Apparent Art of Breaking Down the Self (not to be confused, of course, with The Subtle Art of Making Things Up).

106. Ego Death East, East, onward I go to close my eyes and slay ego.

107. Magna Nimous What is the quality of a man who is in touch with his ability to aim, to miss, to hit, to search, to be fooled, to be consciously imbalanced and unconsciously re-balanced, who wishes flourishing for his fellow man but only to the ends of his wills? The state of being magnanimous. I see you, Goddess of the East: I dub thee: "Magna Nimous." Tell me, Goddess, for an old friend, he must know: Do you always enjoy pain?

108. By what means do you search? By means of ego: it is my raft in distraction. Please, I must not let it go, goddess. To what end are your means? To the ends of the Earth, of course, goddess-- I search to the ends, so as to reveal the beginning. The beginning? What lies there? Thine ego is right here. If it is the beginning you seek, you must unwrap the present and suture the future. You are wise, goddess. Thank you for your magnanimity. But, no. My ego is my raft, for to see the beginning and to move my muscles about while doing that, is a better suit for me, oh Goddess, forgive me, please, for deep down--I fear you. Forgive me--do you? forgive me?

109. Our limits in vision arise betwixt the phantom digits of space. Bring out something equational, something metaphysical: the way back. Where is my raft?

110. Mantra of Arrogance "I fear I am the only one."

111. Fitting in Fear The most lethal manifestation of fear man has ever felt in the history of being comes in the form of guilt; "culpability for the degereration of mankind"; not under the eyes of any opposing or "higher" value structures received from culture, but in opposition to our own unknown higher wills. We do not determine our individual values inasmuch as we estimate them. When one is unsavvy at estimating one's own values, he will look unto the group value. The more a value is agreed upon as a worthwhile, upstanding and "moral" restraint (for ancient rules tend to advise, not to regulate) across all individual assessments, so they are passed. This "estimation" is clearly visible in my sea of distraction theory, which immediately defuncts fear as a "function" or "force of cognitive influence" since it cannot occur in the free-willing state of being. Any "fears" we have within that domain are merely physiological reactions to various apparent forces of potential and chaos that influence you on the individual scale in regard to your surrounding benefit and disbenefit; intense inner forces holding back intense outer forces; holding, not out of duty or right or fear: mere reactions. If your emotions are not akin to them, that you may blame upon even older reactions; for when we are distracted, we can only will to react: a single, hopeless and unlikely arrow-- but my friends, is that arrow, in all its meek solitude, not still free? True "fear" cannot come into play until at least two wills are agreed upon, fought against and victor chosen. One adheres to another, declares his adherence as a truth, and subsequently vehemently denies that old truth as an axiomatic falsehood. Still: this remains fine to us. When we carry on with opposing dream state values at the same time, all basic logical sense then becomes malice incarnate: Guilt; to catch yourself red-handed. A sensation such as this does not inherently inhabit in any "truly" proper distracted and (barely) free-willing state of mind; it comes from the sounds of all your pasts, passions, and hypocrysies applause as they gear up to see a great fight within, that you alone organized: the highest Will versus the highest Non-will: One Night Only.

112. Close To Home The "closer to home" phenomena is the mixture of sensations we feel when the psyche is reminded of past mistakes you have since forgiven yourself for, but will likely never forget; bittersweetness (anguish and happiness) and "regret, when regret isn't really regret."

113. The Need to Live There is always at least one point in any single day of one's being in which our bodies and minds seem to combine in perfect simpatico upon an agreement that is non merely an agreement, but perhaps the strongest unknown power to ever flow through any dimension of existence within everything across all of time: the necessity for sleep. Why do we know of hunger strikes, but not of sleep strikes? Would not a sleep strike be the ultimate will to power over the forces of not value, but actual possible  truth itself? We know truth likes to remain hidden among lies, for whatever reason, it is bound not to be discovered by man. We do not know what consistently holds us apart from it, but logically, it would likely be held within the most consistently widespread apparent similarities in "need to live," the uppermost of which, is sleep. Sleep is the only thing in our willing lives that is absolutely mandatory, other than death, and dreams; but the "need to live" is not mandatory in any sense or regard. If you stand up to the man, the real man, you do it for truth, and in serious, striking sacrifice. "To the Gonzo Philosophy, I set on; to go Easter than East; to drink in the forbidden dream."

114. 1. In Beyond Good and Evil, Nietzsche put forth the idea of the "non free-will," what I call distraction, or "barely free will". We know in this state we are estimating paths of willing, not determining them. We are, before we think. Like upon floating stones do we walk, and they descend up and down all around us, letting us choose our own slippery and sketcky adventure. Non-wills lead to chaos and degeneration of the ego and the spirit for warrior and man alike, and all earthly consequences that may follow. A will leads to proper searching, proper answers, proper release, proper return, and proper retention. A strong will roars for you to obey, blindly, fiercelessly, where the weak non-wills offer you all the highest of quenched thirsts and overly-fullfilled desires, for only the small price of your highest aim.

2. The masturbatory type of clinginess that is"duty", in specific regard to it's application  to a Non-will is one of the most dangerous practices man commits, at his peril most paramount, and those around him, more and more, dispersing unidimensionally thereafter until his Non-will sees fit. If this be done individually, we call it "dictatorship." (Indeed). If this is done individually but masked as a causal effort, we call it a tyranny (Zarathustra's "Tarantulas"). To view these dystopic non-wills, and, really, all will, not speaking in a "moral" or "immoral" sense, but in regard to the levels of influence that seem to very hastily restructure themselves once we reach a point wherein the "correctly estimated" search either must begin, or must not begin. Once these "influences" become aware that we have come upon a threshhold, wise to many previously dead estimations, waiting for it to open the door, push us away, or let us lie in wait. A "duty" is instructed or adhered to, but outside you. A will is natural, and presents itself to you naturally, in all ways. And when the waters are dark and deadly, and you must hurry to find a rock it is simpler to find it with ego, for ego is not only a raft, but a might inflatable one; but it only holds room for one.

3. Oh, how the Anti-Christ would snarl in wicked love of irony if he could see us now. Once, when did the sickly virtues make one decrepid, now do the casino values--those of "modern" Dionysus; chained, hater of man, and moreso himself, for secretly, in dreams, he craves the life of endless decadance. Once where the religious closed their eyes, today, religion opens them. But the persistence of intelligence to be more easily non-willed (due to "intelligence" itself being born from the female-oriented reality state) in the stead of going the way of the will, it's opposing magnetic force, fools as we may be, we searchers crave that push, to take the will by the thread and rip it from intelligence's seemingly endless monitorization.

115. On Intent and Consequence 1. Indirect consequences to a will are simply that: indirect consequences, necessary eggs in the omelette, not substantial to our present sensations, future endeavours, or past mistakes. A hard heart a strong will requires--for there will always be indirect consequences. Let them go. Direct consequences are in need of a seperate look upon entirely. It would seem that a proper strong will should always have at least one direct consequence; for man does not consider every estimation (no matter how much he may think he does) of his whole life log of wills. Only one asked to be born would commit such an act. If we take that singular, possible and likely probable direct consequence and look at its timeflow chart in a long-spanning pattern, laid upon the trends of the levels of success rates of your carried out will, one would hope to see one line, the will's trends, and see a steadfast upcrawl, where the consequence line would, ideally, be crawling up-and-forward in similar fashion; but more realistically, we would likely see (and, subsequently, let serve as our minimal threshhold of acceptance) a straight or downgoing line. The psychological mathematics of these delicate balancings are inherent in all states, and, though direct, and though your fault, still, must be disregarded, lest guilt feed you to the monsters of the Cross Shade.

2. When I "intend" to work upon an idea as it moves along naturally, I have no image of any kind of the end point. I know there is a state in which I can uncover the answers of "intent" akin to a deep, philosophical inquiry, or, a physical comparison of the direct and indirect consequences of a situation. Take a rapper, making music in the studio. His original "intent" could be: to master a track for release, to develop a project further, or to start a new project. He knows the direct cnsequence of his intent is likely to come to fruition due to the fact that a direct consequence is, essentially, ideally, all properly conducted will. Intent arises after estimating our inner psychological levels, our moods, and when done in a deductive and honest manner, a will with a clearly linked consequence with no other influencings should eventually arise. This can be tough in the fact that we must determine the success rates of our recent estimates from our previous endeavours, then, estimate our own determination relative to the new endeavour, consequently making us oftentimes needlessly compare seperate endeavours and doubt our wills to the final ends, if we are not careful. Typically, though, a good artist has good intuition: the divine intent. This "estimation of determination" is much harder to understand with no egotistic type of influence, in any case. Indirect consequences. I still dont trust them. In an artistic setting are almost always positive. But what situation could one ever be in in which an indirect consequence could ever have a chance of completely ridding the worth of a direct consequence? Does not the indirect consequence exist only upon the fact there is always a direct consequence it must piggyback upon? Do we stand for it when a minute "immoral" consequence follows a plentiful and "moral" one? How could this ever be determinable in a multi-cultural and multi-faceted "structure"? Perhaps in industry, economics, science, yes, of course; in social structures, endless colliding intents, wills and spastic determination all around, eventually, all bending the knee to the law of man. "Intent" should not be used by anyone without extremely sharp insight, and really, for anything other than sharp insight. The only indirect consequence that comes from me writing this, is a bit of stiffness. I "know" this will occur even if it is not preferable; but just because I am aware of it, and do not want it, does not disqualify it from being still a "consequence", but what now of this "indirect"? This seems to reveal that, upon understanding of consequence's occurence, it then becomes a direct consequence. If you wish it not to be, it matters not. You know it is, and it will. What characteristic of "indirectness" does one find if we come to expect it? Simply because it will not be ideal to us? Non-ideals directly influence since the birth of subjective life. A consequence is a consequence whether intended or not, whether realized or not, and this leads me to believe that there are, in fact, no such things as "indirect consequences." After all, I have come out of the East long ago. I need not a karmic debt.

116. Important Note There is not a "Universal Dream State" and "Universal Flow Structure," but rather, a "Universal Archetype of the Dream State" and "Universal Archetype of the Flow Structure." Every individual is handed his own cards and our reaches vary in time and space--it is natural law. The archetypes are solid.*

*derived from: Beyond Good and Evil, Chapter 4, apophthegm #108, Nietzsche, Friedrich

117. If we cause an accident on the road, we do not pity the one we effected; we are contrite because we are magnanimous, and to be aware is our top quality, and this has defiled that value, and we apologize as if it were on purpose, strangely enough, to hide our inner personal guilt and disgust, and mostly fear: for not being aware truly leads to serious accidents, and a great many variety of known and unknown, wanted or unwanted direct consequences regardless of your intent.

118. "The Day of the Screen" or "The Age of Semblance" it would appear; but then again, that's all it was made for. But what of great architecure? Is it not all tattoos of the Earth? Reinforced wills, over and over again? What kind of King would have such a bad memory? Intelligence and memory; the language of threshholds; post-death memory of a will: the Pyramids. Surely, a ruler could not be so demanding, yet so worshipped. What is the patterning? What is the stitch? The Flow? That is the realm where ideas are all real, intents all well-meaning, and consequence never occurs-- in which the fear levels seem to be not only on idle, but on the final one percent of it's potential. Nothingness, Loving that Nothing, finding ego and pride and possibility and trust and all disregard for anchoring. To Fly. Why would semblence matter at all to one in this state? It certainly does not. Stature, and good taste are not "robotifying." To "offend" is a natural inclination; to "respect" is a much more dangerous endeavour. Not an individual inclination, but a string of weakness in compliance to a set of emotionally triggering cutoff points of discourse and action. This is the Age of  Semblence, The Invisible Gun. Not even a cough goes without scorn. This is not a drill. This is the hammer. This is the sicle.

119. A wise man never loves himself. This is not to say he awakes cursing himself--but to say he always knows how to live outside a moment. He can see the moment as a high point for the day or the week or the month, depending on how his life has been going, and he can feed off that small burst of energy well. It remains outside him, because he does not allow it to fully embrace him all at once. Even with abstract phenomena outside a man's perceptions, he is still making unconscious emotional savings for a time of better use.

120. In the sea of distraction, Old Man Freewill may float by on his raft here and there. He lives there to remind you: "This is the baseline. You must do the rest." He floats past, ignoring your open hand.

121. I have surely been overtaken. These are no mere sleepless ramblings of your average Adderal STEM student, your feverish child. How did I possibly get here? I knew I had my deal with the devil, but never did I expect to be back North so soon. I've almost forgotten completely about home. Where am I, exactly? In the North, I remember I took a train and met a man, then something about an asteroid or a bomb...and what's with this disgusting old compass? What is the meaning of all this? No matter--just your average lovely gonzo lapse of excuse and irresponsibility. I will hitch, and I will hitch with glee, around the burning world and back again, righteously, like the proper, weathered Gonzo Philosopher. Still, I should rather be in my swamp riding my dinos--but they will live long; and for now? Well--I am free, at least.

Part III: End Tables

122. Ego is the duct tape of the Reality State; our widest-stretching elastic; a materializing tool to sensationalize freedom and sensualize meaning.

123. Recipe for Evil Step 1: Bring water to a rolling boil Step 2: Add laughter

124. The directness or indirectness of a consequence can never be precisely expressed within any schema of intent. Only a result can be precisely concluded as "direct" or "indirect," and this result can only be born from a schema of motive--never intent.

125. Leave "semblance" to the dogs--be magnanimous.

126. You can determine your attributes--but not their limits.

127. Discussing your feelings of sympathy with somebody, in regard to another party not present, is a disgusting act. If not disgusting, an act regardless.

128. Petty humor is the alter side of magnanimity; therefore, not weakness--but strength.

129. We cannot be cursed by mere sound vibrations; we invented music to prove that. Let us no longer question our intelligence--there are no "curse words."

130. Forgive the dirty trickster--he is wise. Show no mercy to the clever prankster--he is evil.

131. If you think you are better than someone, tell them so; why not let them state their case? The better man always wishes to know what lies he enacts.

132. Do not spend too much money at the store; eventually, you will have to go back regardless--and often sooner than you think.

133. The society that succeeds and thrives outside of time is the transdisciplanary society; all others eventually end. This statement alone should put an end to any future dual-party system of accountability. At least--I hope it should.

134. You do not bow to science; you bow to the scientist.

135. Food For Thought 1. The preferred compound of every Epicurean? Sugar. Avoid all sugar, at all costs. "You are what you eat"--a more accurate conclusion: "It is in the food." Rice is a multitude of equality. Processed food may be called "falsely processed food." Plants are bound to grow weeds. A pig prefers a roll in the mud. A bird prefers to be the most indeterminite. Fish prefer to remain in the background. A cow prefers to graze in peace. To know a woman, one must have eaten a cat.

2. What is the meaning of this? Damn these tables! I break them all in a fit, for they fit too well--TOO well! I can't take it! I can't hold my tongue any longer. You MUST be gonzo! What are you on? Give it to me this instant! You're mad, man! What exactly are you trying to tell me, that if I adhered strictly to eating pig and lion that I may just be taken away completely from this Earth?? I banish your treatise! All your treati! You are not credible, you have no references, no degrees! You are a demon, a perturbor, it cannot be, we cannot be that close--ever so close...

3. The most endangered species may have truly magical powers upon consumption. I fear a trip to the darkweb coming, while there still is a darkweb. You see, a gonzo philosopher knows how to travel in time, and I exist now, in the Age of the Screen. It really is tyranny to desert, isn't it? Fools. Anyway, to the darkweb! This is amazing, why isn't everybody here all the time? I suggest you do the same--why would one care what you eat? He might find out what it could make you do. What is the most magnanimous animal? I don't know yet, for I am gonzo. But apparently, this little rectangle is telling me it can do the searching for me. Strange. How could that be? Ah...here we go..."most magnanimous animal..." "No... no... NOOOOO! DAHMER, YOU EVIL BASTARD!"

4. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

5. Only a taste, and surely, it will be A Whole New World. The worst part about all of this? I didn't even consider it in my post-Wipe apocalyptic hell. These screens are too powerful. Lector, you devil doctor, you...

6. Only mankind itself is the limit to all detestion and ingestion--lest we devour ourselves back to zero.

136. The Signs of Morality There is a very wise man who enjoys painting. One day, he runs out of money and has to steal food. He is satisfied, but decides this is something he would like to avoid doing again; so, combining his talents, he opens a business. His store is called "The Signs of Morality." Along the walls are various, giant symbols he has painted. The rest of the room is empty--where the man stands in the center, at his podium, playing a cross-word. Once you enter his store, he will ask you how you are, and how many signs you need read. There is a menu to his left of him where you pick out the signs that are the most aesthetically pleasing to you; for his knowledge, too, should come at a price. After you decide how many signs you want read, you will walk over to those signs you chose that he has painted on the walls. The man will tell you the name of that sign, and describe it to you, and you will learn a vast deal of insight about yourself--this is why you came, and why you paid. After some various bouts with success and failure, he goes on to be the most loved and cherished being in all of history.

137. Gonzo Poets You see them all the time--they seem so centered, yet drop everything thrown at them--the most clever pranksters of all--the Gonzo Poets. Even The Noble Ego most assuredly has a massive, ever-lurking shadow, brimming over with heartless children.

138. The Ashtray on the Stove There was a time where almost everything was free and greatness came so easily. We never expected to die with all our little courtesies, forgivenesses and deposit returns there to warm us. We want greatness to live and to kill it for a better greatness. Semblence in loneliness--no ashtray on your stove. We are always a slave to something.

139. Moderations There are many who walk around with intensely willed bodily mutations, inscriptions, depictions, moderations and refigurations. In them, I see lover's of humanity, and man's potential to become more; however, they are doing it wrong, and are clearly expressing nothing more than a trying, and highly respectable search for meaning. They are quite powerful. This can also be said about high fashion displays and trends, but in the group sense. All of this is fine. They mean no harm, so long as they don't mind my rejecting them. If you do not cope well with rejection, you will quickly start seeing things to reject yourself. Modify at your own peril--but you knew that already. The ones we must really focus on correcting, of course, are haters of humanity--for there are and many, many more of them, and they blend in much better.

140. Sacrifice It is an impossible task to ask of a man to do nothing but search for things to give up. The wisest man who adheres to that simply grabs the nearest firestarter and harpoons it right into his own neck. We are too addicted to rationality. We must learn to love to be irrational, magnanimous, and withhold a responsibility of nothing at all except a love for life. To love life when it is suffering is an inherent, enduring sacrifice.

141. Pie in the Sky Imagine the universe as a pizza being eaten by the gods. What happens when they get to the last piece? It is agreed upon that it goes to the god who ordered the pizza; for the genesis of the idea idea was the seed of meaning, and what gave unto them all something they did not even know they desired. Gratitude is what needs to replace semblence--for we know there was a god who was greedy, showed up late, and claimed for that reason, he should have the last piece. Very rational--and quite vile. It is the job of the orderer of the pizza to know what he is entitled to; for the other gods are full and satisfied, and could care less now. Who ordered the pizza? The Goddess Magna Nimous--and who, in the end, did eat that final slice of life? The Goddess Magna Nimous.

142. Move Your Feet, Lose Your Seat And how exactly did it come to be you wound up with no seat in the first place, heh? Aren't you the one that showed up early? I don't understand your logic at all. Perhaps it is better that way. I don't mind sitting on an armrest for a while--but please, know, you will not be invited to the next party with an attitude like that. By the way, why didn't you bring anything? This is a potluck, for Christ's sake!

143. The Enemy's Basement One day, when you are a very old man and days from death, break into your greatest enemy's house, go down to his basement, and go through everything, shamelessy, and feel no remorse until your final breathe, so that you may cheat yourself out of Heaven, and be forced to live another thousand years.

144. The Event There are actors, spectators and speculators within all of us. Meaning comes forth when their forces unite.

145. Spoken, Unspoken Do not reject a woman's mystical communications to you. All talk is small to them, and only unspoken love topples the pyramids in the eye's of the Goddess. Time is not real for her--so long as you remain interesting.

146. To Furnish A Key 1. The best things I write are written at night. Literally, there is a strange rhythm in the earliest hours, there is no doubt--awake or not.

2. There is zero philosophy today. "Modern Phlosophy" is simply a grand muting of all introspection for mankind's most primordial of origins in trade for the raising of prices, distractions, modifications and cholesterols. The "modern philosophers" are rap artists, no doubt--they declare a final, only and unidimensional answer to any future worry: "hard work" and it's subsequent "success." Pure and simple. After "success," excess-- then, you're done. Figure it out.

3. Why would one want to philosophize, even during this "shutdown" tomfoolery? There are electric screens with plenty of movies on them. There is much literature to be read. A morbid and dreary fascination do we have with the screens; such speediness in these objects, the power of their glow, their ability to send a strange switch that sends you into the bottomest reigons of your conscience--this fascination is peak distraction. We spend so much time distracted. From what? Death. We know it will happen, but this "knowing" is akin to "knowing" you woke up this morning; you don't exactly "know" you woke up, but merely make an estimation based on all your prior "waking ups" that you must have been sleeping--for now, you find yourself under a burst of sunlight, stumbling around, searching for a toilet. To "know" you will die would then be akin to being asleep but "knowing" you're going to wake up. That cannot happen--if it does, that person is not really asleep--but surely somewhere else completely. Speaking of this "somewhere," here is a quarrel with reason I present: If the dead "know" they will wake up again, they are not really dead; and if the dead "know" they are dead, and wil be forever, they are forced to reckon with the knowledge that they will never get to be distracted again; and then, and only then, would I might say: Distraction may not be such a bad thing. Off, you must go, to the enemy's basement, to truly ever know. There is nothing wrong with religion; so long as you don't believe in Heaven--and Heaven on Earth.

4. Happiness is the goal of our "ever present" moment whether we like it our not; only "happiness" is too general. It comes and goes as it pleases, no matter what linear task we are performing, good or bad for us. A deep and serious percentage of our time we spend before we find a proper will (or non-will) to follow is searching for a thing completely ungraspable for more than a very short span. There are so many people, I have referred by many titles so far, that cannot see wills or non-wills, or nuance in psychological needs and desires and how their appetites grow and diminish vastly over time. So many can only see one word: "Happiness." So many can only see another word, and this word only, disguised as happiness: "Money." These are two words, essentially opposites, that must go hand in hand in the modern philosopher's mind, there is no doubt. I am not a modern philosopher. I am a gonzo philosopher, the spirit of the dead Warrior! Happiness is no goal for any lover of life, but for a lover of sleep.

5. If our conscious effort and estimations are goals akin to "happiness" and "money", and if we are distracted and playful children being slowly raised to the Superman (or, at this rate, the Lex Luthor) by the Dream and Reality states, wherein the unconscious goal of Reality is "happiness" and "money", the unconscious goal of the Dream must be akin to "love" and "understanding." It is very clear: culture is a massive detriment to our universal agreement that nothing, and I mean nothing, is more important in life than finding true love. Perhaps, if love really could conquer all rationality, we might get a chance to save a new dream.

147. The Ones Who Only Love and Only Hate There is an imbalance in people. They will walk over to you and give you a rather strong hug without asking if that is okay. You will allow this only for a moment before you ask them to loosen their grip. They will grip tighter. You will have to physically push them away from your body, so that you may see what exactly is happening in their eyes to coherece out such a display--but as you begin pushing, a shift occurs; and now that you can finally take a look, you're too late--the look has changed. The rational push away from the irrational forced upon hug immediately transforms that uncontainable love within them into uncontainable hate. This time, they slap you. In the presence of this natural balancing, you may be magnanimous and offer to read them excerpts from a book you are writing, so as to change the subject that is causing them so much dread. They will tell you simply: "Go fuck yourself."

148. Investments What do we hold the most precious that we do not wish to admit to ourselves? Personal investment in a will. When we invest our time heavily into a will, that will grows in strength substantially. The fear and distress comes when we have "doubt." This is the evil malignings of the non-will, coming forth from the darkest pits of the reality state to remind you of that terrible, logical truism of possibility: "What if you're wrong?" The non-wills are all the best blisses of ignorance. To the functional and seasoned Warrior, the steadily insane gonzo philosopher, the "second thought" is always inferior, and the most rational of cynics will never heed to this fact. They will say: "All wills are equal." At a certain point, the precious time we invest toward a "second thought" is almost universally regretted upon, and the Non-will's deceit rises up so clearly before you. Remorse for a bad investment. This is common, the denial of the "gut feeling." Many would rather have semblence: "To appear as if you asked to be born." Then, you don't get to complain. You don't get to have remorse for your flaws, for you have none--and if you do...

149. I am ever-nearing my goal to the Two Hundred and my dinos are ravished with hunger. Ever since Peanut's death and my meeting of the Goddess over East, I've felt so uneasy, like I'm in two places at once. Why does the damn dial on this compass keep dissapearing and reappearing? Surely, this is no typical Gonzo "chemical misfiring." Why do I keep pulling it out and looking at it, just to put it right back?

150. The Winner Takes It All Where is the friendly competition? This godforsaken hellscape should use an arena. Perhaps, I could gather up some soulless folks and trade goods for entertainment, goods for glory! I do have ins and outs with remembering my days near the Valley, wandering around massive holes in the ground like the one here. Why not use this hole for something like an arena. Only more confined. Perhaps, man versus beast. Now that would be a feast for the eyes, indeed; alas, it's hard enough to kill an animal just to keep going on. Surely, I could not tame a beast and lead it to it's enslaved life of aesthetic puppetry like that--I have much too much empathy for the beast. The fish, on the other hand, there's an idea. Can fish learn to do tricks? No, thats ridiculous. Only idiots would go to see something like that. Man versus man, it must be. A crater arena! Bloodthirst levels are high, indeed, oh, but I am no evil genius, indeed; for I have no choice, my lap has been too strong, I need not forget--the world need not forget--and for it's own good, it will learn in time. Maybe it's not evil, maybe it's not genius--maybe it's the way it has to be. Has? What is the meaning of this? I know my will to monument has good intentions--my love of life; but, at what cost will these intentions run up? Do I care? How evil can happiness be, after all? I am so close to my dinos; but I must make a collection of some sort on this lap of mine other than wisdom. A crater arena, this will do. Losers and winners, in friendly competition. If it isn't to their liking, they don't have to come. Right here, right now, I shall build my arena and hope my dinos will remain patient just a while longer--for my lap has surely been monumental--from what I can remember, at least--and my crater arena will be my monument to the battlers, the warriors. Not for myself do I wish to build it; not for the riches, though I will surely be rich. I simply wish to show the world my most sincere appreciation to the wonderful distractions I run into and ideas I can happen upon--for it wasn't all so bad. I simply wish to speak, to you, to you all, honestly, without fear--and in dedication to the mysterious world of the Dream State and his Reality love interest, our mother of nature, the Goddess Magna Nimous. Patience, my dinosaurs, patience...

151. The Dark Blues My hazes are mighty, but so am I. My hotels have been set upon the dark blues. I mean...logically, the dark blues would be the proper investment, as they are the ones near the end...right? My ego is strong, strong, stronger than I could know. The bloodshed, the splattering on the crater walls, the throwing of rocks, oh such brutality--how they love it so!

153. POP

154. What, and I mean, what--is the meaning of this? I am drenched in sweat, my nipples are freezing, I have dinosaur slobber from my forehead to my toes. They seem to have been trying to wake me for hours now, maybe days, based on this kind of headache. I am home--Old Florida; here, in my cot. How?

155. And as the Gonzo Philosopher woke from his latest of tens of thousands of hazes, lapses, and misrememberings, he stepped out frrom his tent to find his dinosaurs looking about in a particular direction in the sky.

156. Sweetheart, stop swinging it in circles with your wrist like that, you're not GoGo from Kill Bill.

hey, what can I tell ya, honey. This samaurai asked for it!

Yo do realize GoGo loses? She dies because her ego made her lose sight of her weak spot.

I doubt that's what he meant, he just needed to kill her off. Either way, that's the route I'm taking. Okay. And-a one. And-a two...and...

157. JESUS AYTCH

Part IV: The Goddess and the Dream

158. Retort: Phenomenology of Poetry (Goddess) You say my husband kills ego with poetry, making him a human whipping post? You are correct--but you did not ask yourself why he would do such a thing. Have you not yet wondered whereupon you came your raft? I made your ego for you so you may find the proper wills to find your Flow--this is true--but you forgot the most notable part of the raft--that it can so easily be popped, drowning you. I do not want you to drown, sweet rafter. My Dreamboy just wants to have fun--your ego gets in the way of that, often, to his dismay. My Dream knows how I love a man with ego balanced so well--he gets so jealous--but he does not whip you until I say; for we are a good couple, and we understand not to destroy each others creations. Only when he cannot be more angry, I let him whip the ego right out of you. I must play fair with my silly Dream, and he is much more docile afterward, to my delight. It is up to you what to do when you have been whipped. You have written much great poetry, and this proves your control a vast amount. I am proud of the poets, as silly as they can get, for I get to remember them, and the drowned ones--well--some men deserve too much water because some women have too little water. The meaning of this will come in time, rafter. You can trust us.

159. Retort: A Different Outlook (Goddess) You say all women find their waterfall, but they do not, silly rafter. You see, there are many women kicking among the mad seas just like you. We do see you men as fishes for the most part, but are not sea creatures the most mysterious and interesting to water-lovers? We do seek the waterfall, more than anything, insightful, detestable rafter; but it pains me so to admit that when we know we cannot find it, we are left to only imagine that joy of flow, that warm wet and smooth cold. Their anger will always be with them a little. I hope you can find a way to tell them for me, little rafter, for I want them to know I feel that same anger, too, sometimes--and if anything were to ever break up me and my Dreamboy, it would be in justice for those women who never got the waterfall she deserved. But do tell them rafter, tell them with your ego, and how that even for you fish there can have terrible strains upon you as well as glorious victories. They will believe you, silently.

160. Retort: Move Your Feet, Lose Your Seat (Dream) When you live with the Goddess for this long, you learn that she is happier when you do not punish the children for playing finders keepers, as unhealthy as it may be. She says they are just playing, and to let them figure it out. Play as you will, children.

161. Retort: Modern Woman, Modern Slave (Dream) I create the threshholds, motherfucker. Choice is not as possible as you think. I made sure of that. Your "barely" is my final weakness.

162. Halls (Dream) I prefer to see you all in long halls full of doors, as opposed to this thrashing in the ocean business. Would you like to know what are behind the doors at either end? "Decree" and "Design."

163. Jenga (Dream) Consider the child who does not like to play Jenga, but does enjoy to watch. He is happy and paranoid, very distracted, and cannot focus in the panic of the waitinig for the fall. He shakes at the though of it being his turn and let's the more willful play. He watches, he enjoys the idea that the tower will fall eventually, pent up excitement twisting his face. He cares not who wins, or who causes the fall. He does not wish to participate in the game only until it is obviously seconds away from the fall--wherein he will delightedly remove the last piece in stead of the loser, who has since quit, for physics has reached it's limit; and the magnanimous winner will let him.

164. The Bass God (Dream) The levels of bass we hear in music relate to me the best. I enjoy the thunder beneath. the farther you are from the sun, the less bass you must use when near your neighbors--lest they kill you--for I do not like when you disrupt their dreams. The sun desires your loud music, your thunder--for the nearby souls are full of my Reality's love and happiness already. If you have no neighbors, in turn, the bass sounds you hear when furthest from the sun are rare treasures only the purest ones stay awake for. You "deserve" these gifts, she says--so came these foolish earbuds. Ungrateful fools...you truly appreciate nothing she does. When you grow old, you will regret all the music you could have heard in those moonlight hours--once I take your ears.

165. Cats and Dogs (Goddess) Tell the ladies, rafter, to find a dog--and let their cat go. They want a man? Well, they surely must be able to handle a dog first. Tell the men, rafter, to own a cat, to the fall of their pride, and to let the dog run away. The cat is a creature so simple that a man who cannot own one is even the simpler. These animals are your gifts to grow akin to the opposite soul. My designer Dreamboy gave you them like I give you the rain--quietly, and crucially.

166. Hair of the Earth (Goddess) My Dreamboy is so wonderful. I want everyone down there to have a taste of his wisdom, rafter, they are all so silly--but they are not silly in the way my Dreamboy is. All the wonderful plants, herbs, algaes and all the hair of the Earth I have created are life. Some parts of my head are very shy, and sensitive. They hide near posionous ones, so as to confuse you, for to take them from the soil, you kill them and absorb their wonderful thoughts! My Dreamboy likes to run his hands through my hair sometimes; when he does, he puts such wonder in me. He is touching, indeed--but volatile, and sensitive. I love you, my rafters, and I hope you can start getting in touch with what my lovely plants are thinking all the time--for it does not hurt me to have a single hair pulled out--I am tough; and remember what goes for one fruit goes for another--the fresher picked, the better. How do you think you grew up so fast, my wonderful fishies?

167. The Electric Downslide (Goddess) The only thing you were supposed to do with electricity was to make music, silly rafters. When me and my Dreamboy dance, it is always to the electric--we simply wished to make you happier. We are like what you might call in an attempt at humor: "Amish Ravers." You may be well off to combine such philosophies at some point in your silly "history."

168. Toys (Dream) Would you like to know how I spit? Ingratitude.

169. Meaning (Dream) Follow your heart, my friends. The only thing left is difficulty.

170. Nonwilling (Dream) The second thought always comes with a dash of laughter. Now, you're inclined to stir.

171. Weather Or Not (Dream) Discover your threshholds of love through your eyes, ears, and last but not least, mouths. I make everyone completely different in this regard in order to balance--just like my Love gently balances her awesome summers and coldest winters.

172. Due Process (Goddess) Those who are tortured by my Karma are merely out of touch with the rules of their state. I created Karma, rafters, because you enjoy gathering together so--like sheep. Without a scientifically and spiritually balanced shep post, you would all wander away! Karma is my doll--my scarecrow in makeup. She is not real the way I am to you; but she is an important protector to many fields of life.

173. Implications of Arrogance (Dream) Poetry, as you can tell by now, is not mere wisdom--but painful and imbalanced art in it's purest form. The poetry of my Reality is that of your painkiller. Her masterpieces of faulty, foolish medicine--your love of lying intoxication--always doing just as much bad as good. Truth is pain, and my Reality cannot stand this--and in her rage for me, created from man the pinnacles of balanced dullness: the heroin clerk and the anesthesiologist.

174. Not Exactly Milk (Dream) There is a spirit I have created that gives rafters a deep and adoring love for a lifetime of recurring torture, surrounded by frenzy. This spirit allows him to grow gills and swim underneath your "ocean" of distraction, and hence, adapt to a new breathing pattern--one of a fish. This is no longer a man, but a hybrid of he and my little spirit. "All crooked creeks require their dire straits," so says Maggy. I don't understand--but I trust her. After all, she is on my side.

175. Formula For Thought (Goddess) In time, my rafters, your sibilings will grow weaker and weaker. Do not feel bad--for mother can only give so much of herself. She knows what she has left, and simply must give more to the world--regardless of all rational shames.

176. Woodwork (Dream) I design the tables and Maggy decrees them. They are finite, but required in a practical house. No son of God could ever ignore this--and no spiritual architect. We enjoy hobbies together, it's important in a partnership. If our tables come out wobbly, I do apologize--we were likely in a fight; but we don't let that stop us.

177. Retort: Fitting In Fear (Dream) There is not the spirit Fear in function, no--but his sister: Anxiety. She holds powers Fear could never hope to reach--only she is very easily scared away, where fear will not leave. This is our balance. Who are the shadow versions of such demon twins? Peace and Prosperity. Honestly--have you even met them, yet?

178. Join or Die (Dream) An individual will be inclined to kill a mass unlike him and call it justice--or, if he is polite, he will simply abandon the masses. A group will be inclined to kill an individual unlike them and call it justice--or, if they are polite, they will simply tear down his monuments.

179. Retort: Gonzo Poets (Dream) There are no such things--only channelers of pain. To be in pain and to share it with the world in action is not poetry, and to be removed from your raft is not gonzo. You can trust them--they wish not to hurt you--but to relieve stress; and were you to be introduced to new pains in their presence, all the better.

180. Better To Marry (Dream) The proper wills for all individual men always have one conviction (principle of falsehood): to crawl back into the womb and die there. Otherwise, you will drown, grow gills, and return to burn.

181. Big Bang (Goddess) I couldn't tell you how many sibilings you have--my Dream is a rowdy boy.

182. Virtue (Goddess) Your love is all we want. Your morality makes you special; but all moralities will always balance themselves in the eyes of love--no parents could ask for more. Live out your dreams, rafters--and be magnanimous.

Part V: Rebirth of the Warrior

183. We look up. We look down. Do we not look back up again?

184. 1. From the strangest sleeps do we bear our clearest awakenings.

2. The Warrior awoke from his dream to find himself near a massive canyon, with a horrible sulfuric taste in his mouth. He goes to check his screen for information; for he is not panicked, as odd as that should seem. He is truly desensitized by his screen--and can surely handle a bit of literal dimensional transportation. He reached for a screen, but pulled out a compass--shattered, ashy and mishapen. He was surely far gone from the Age of Semblence. Did we get bombed? Did the powers that be find some unendurable anomoly they missed in their calculations, causing panick and subsequent genocide? That could not be it--i'm in a different location. I was transported in my sleep to the future. Good--I can leave this mask--this compass though? Too weird to let go.

3. Fantastic! A wrangling of unconscious conviction beyond freewill, a morality so hard yet with no value here!: The first physical, natural enforecement of a true transvaluation of values, for use of all that is only necessary--this apocolypse--this Hell--this is not my world. I am inclined to find no Romans. I must move for food. A new start, near a daunting canyon. What liberation! Hold on--are there people down there?

185. The Grand Valley I have no inclination for my morning cigarette--and daily subsequent ones; this alone was my first panic, for I have none on me. However, my crippled cells seem to have adjusted back already to before I ever even had one--a massive relief. I am quick now to decide my wills. This is horrible. I wonder if those folks down there sell cigarettes.

186. Jailhouse Rock 1. There is a stone of a man. He is etched in flames and mandalas, wires and horns and bones. He raises his head from his fist and looks into me. His name is Jack Longhorn.

2. Jack has a misty background and embraces his monsters like a Christian embraces his enantiodromia. With the muscle tone of David, with rings in his eyebrows and one gold tooth peaking out from his smile, he goes: "You never wrote back! What'cha been up to?" "I guess it started in the desert, really. I broke free from some horrible ways of living and set of to make my own. Then, many strange days and dreams made me realize I had to come see you. What is going on, exactly? Do they tell you what's going on?" "There's a bi-monthly, but no one reads it. Something about a senile guy making a baby the new president, buncha shit after that. So what'cha been up to?" "I fell asleep and woke up in a different dimension--only it feels more like the same one but on a different side of a coin. So much is confusing, but I am typically well. I found some smokes from some dudes, so if you ever time travel, don't worry about those things." "Thanks. What else?" "I feel like I see something--and I always see it--and I feel like I have to get ahead of it. Then, once I finally feel like I'm ahead and about to conquer that strange feeling I had to ever get ahead, I realize just how far behind I really am." "Huh," offered Jack. "Sounds kinda pussy to me. Speaking of cigarettes, do you have any change?"

187. The Shabby Stand I was crossing the edge of town and there was a shabby stand with a man selling scrolls and books. This was a serious dissappointment in the end--for no shabby stand ever carries what you would call exactly "cannonical philosophy and fiction." The most interesting thing I came across was a recipe book for various lukewarm soups. "Be gone, cancer merchant!" I chanted, and waved in my disgust and hunger when the salesman condescended me. I threw down the cooked book as I moved on to find proper nourishment.

188. The End of a Fight Those who can "bring you down to size"--well, they surely can, and will--bring you down to their size. If this, in fact, occurs, then arises the fact that there had to have been an unconscious and mutual misreading of a pre-figured (and, in their minds at this point, possibly misconceived completely) heirarchal structure at work once the individuals cease to find meaning in that particular domain of their own inconsequential willing arguments. This is a typical rift in "sizing" situations--and best dealt with magnanimously, of course.

189. The Signs of Non-Morality "There is nothing for sale here--and we are not open. Please stop loitering." The house I entered was pristine--the squares were square and the rounds were round. There were six plants along a long windowledge, three inches apart each. Along the top of the window, a shiny railing with hand towels hung perfectly symmetrical, and a quaint, little stringed ornament that hung down from a perfectly vertical and evenly spaced loop around the rod, once, twice, and back down again, about half an inch higher from the other endpiece. There was no sense of time in the cupboards; the stacks of plates, bowls and glasses, all of it--might as well have materialized there at the birth of time, so unmoved and dust-free. The house I entered had a room with two single beds and a square desk, with a small television parallel to one bed and a closet running behind the other's length. Within that closet, multi-colored bricks of towels and blankets. In the living room there were walls with inlaid shelving holding perfectly spaced bubbles for plastic toys, office decorations, masks, candles, jars of shells and sand, and ceramic idols with no voice at all. This is a house of paper--a world of pretend: Elmo's World.

190. Memories of Tia One day, I introduce myself to a girl named Tia. She is adopted, yet has seven brothers. She drank a bottle of whiskey hours earlier. She is eighteen. She takes classes online due to the Junebug paramaters. Initially, I decided to not start a conversation and I went inside from my smoke--saying nothing--only smiling. But due to her being attractive to me and her quiet eyeing of me, I decided to restructure my values. I went back out and gave her a cigarette and asked what her name was and told her mine with a smile and a genuine interest. Not from duty or guilt--but a will renewed. I was honest, curious and gained her trust. In the Day of the Junebug, you couldn't get a girl that young even if you were Marlon Brando's ghost in Robert Pattinson's body--so relax. We smoked some of her pot after becoming friendly. She asked me for two more cigarettes over the span of the night--then, got picked up by a truck full of men. It's been well over a month and I haven't seen her since. A lovely moment in time.  

191. Memories of Anita I had over a girl who I met on a dating app named Anita. She quickly identified herself to me as a socialist. She has been to Europe; she had three jobs there. I cooked us steak as we talked. We discussed politics, travel, family and individuality. I spoke too much about my problems, to her disinterest. She faked an English "accent" while texting before we me--"x" signatures and all. She was, in fact, American--well, African-American, age twenty--not that that matters to those with a balanced countenance. She was taller than me by two inches at least, and after this evaluation, I felt much more relaxed--for no modern woman will you find with a mate of such comparative proportions. I knew already this would not last more than a few hours. She had a pleasant smell that stayed in my chair for a day after she had gone home. We did not "click." She decided that she would get off the grid for a while as I would stay on; all of this difference, this effort, this loving reach that never quite grasps--all under the simulatory Junebug situation: no attempts at intimacy, for fear of the Bug. A fun night.    

192. When an individual will gives itself away to the group will, distraction becomes an ever-ending phenomena throughout all substages of the Reality State. Old Man Freewill always appears in the aftermath of this abandoning--reminding you, yet again, just how unoften we really get to be ourselves.

193. Reverance and Support The most revered figures in history whom we consider the most morally upright are not the ones who set out to claim a piece of immortality for themselves--but the ones who set out to claim a peaceable mortality for all. This is a healthy mix of gratitude and empathy that leads to reverance: an unconscious, unidimensional and trans-emotional collective agreement upon the validation of the magnanimous and respectful "love for the good of all." This reverance is found when in consideration toward an individual only; group causes cannot be revered--only supported.

194. The Corpse Without independently formulating a personalized value structure for yourself that can help you clarify and solidify the means with which you could best search for meaning properly, all there is left is outside influence and base momentum--carrying you like a corpse into the outskirts.

195. We all wish not to be cruel. To coddle is so much simpler. The truth is, cruelty hardens--and no one reveres anyone without one day giving them their statue. There is always potential for roaring fire in soft coal--only after many a harsh reaction; but were we to then allow rains to cry upon the fire, the coal would burn out--where the wood would burn strong. The wood never needs hardening. The coal must be reacted with in order to create a proper fire--and must never be rained upon.

196. Game of Hearts You can't teach a big heart practical tricks. The small heart will repeat the same steady attacks over and over for eternity in order to win the game of hearts, wherein the big heart will merely absorb the small heart's attack and declare itself the winner. Two hearts that continue this for long will notice they have both forgotten about their brains. They will see they have made up their own rules to the game so as to always win, instead of just playing fair.

197. Blackbird "Say, John, have you done cookin that chicken, yet? Fancy we'll be late much longer." "Almost, Paul; please--it will be worth the wait, I assure you highly." "What the bloody hell is that smell? Christ's sake, John! The shit's on fire! Open the windows! Give me a chair I need to prop this door open. Givin' me a bloody headache already?" "Ahh! No big thing. Place isn't in shambles, now, is it? Seems quite fine to me--quite providential. We truly are lucky to be alive, in many bitter ways." "Enough of that. I need actual food, so we got to leave now, okay? You ready then? Alright! I'm leaving the chair, the smoke will be clear by the end." "My gate has no lock, Paul, remember? Surely, everything will be stolen if you do that." "Nothing is going to be stolen, John, really. I think you're paranoid--what is it then?" "Being paranoid is being true to nature, Paul." "Great, so can we leave the chair? I want to come back, you know, I have equipment here. It's not just your stuff, y'know? I'm not trying to get you robbed, here. Down the gate, then, come on. Come on, boy." "Have it your way, then. Let's go--oh, and Paul--here, take this; it will put an end to all this horrible fighting--and perhaps later tonight we'll find a new song. The chicken was nothing, really. I promise--and I am sorry."

198. Sweep and Collect, or: LIfestyles of a God We seek freedom in open spaces of land and wish so eagerly to let go of vanity, passion, responsibility--all with a foolish grin. After this, we seek the dungeons--dark and dripping, with loud music echoing through the crooked caverns full of lost, crowded souls; a light show of pure collected chaos lurching in damp caverns--and to take everything given to you, until you get closer and closer to the source--the pitchest black mass that could ever stand before you--with all your limbs falling away at it's unfathomable and primordial power. After that, we find the open lands we were first wandering so happily, as the foolish grin returns.

199. Coby A person who's name is of no importance goes on a four-month venture with their dog Coby to their property in the mountains and reads aloud to him every day for a total of four hours a day. The owner reads excerpts from books that present one or more characters with a clear moral convivtion, up until that conviction is either acheived, compromised, abandoned, or corrupted. In the mountains, the owner begins to read to Coby: children's books for the first month, youth fiction for one week, adult fiction for one, then back to basic children"s stories for the rest of that month. The owner does not continue reading if Coby loses interest for any reason; only when the interest is completely gone from Coby, in his mountains, will the owner continue where they left off in the sentence. One day during the beginning of the third month, the owner goes to feed Coby as regular; but then looks deeply upon Coby's eyes and finds his true dog soul, and gives forth a cryptic and disheartening tone of voice with the following phrase: "I would not eat this if I were you." The person walks away back to where they sit to read and waits. Coby will begin to show serious fear and frustration. After some whining (and, perhaps, crying?) the dog will retire back to the carpet where the owner reads to him--head low, but eyes up. At this point, children's stories end as well as youth novels. After some time, Coby will be starving--and will force itself to eat the "suspicious" food. Eventually, with no strange feeling as was expected and some self-doubt, the dog will soon forget what happened here (consciously). The owner begins to read aloud much more distinct authors with very multifaceted characters, colliding motivations and coalescing convictions--tales of rises and downfalls to the highest degree of severity--but still only when Coby retains interest, for four hours a day, until four hours is reached--by any sleepless means necessary. Time and space and conscience are no longer worries for Coby. As the owner is reading a particularly heated cross-section of plot arcs one day, the moment comes when hour four of the day's readings end and when the owner slaps the book shut until tomorrow. "OWN! OWN! OWN! OWNOOO! FISHISH IT FINISH IST POOORRS-POOORRS!" "Yes, Coby, what was that?" "....IFISHIT...IFSHISHESHET..." "I don't understand, Coby. You can't talk. You're a dog, Coby...you will never be able to be really heard. I'm sorry." "PROOOSS OWN OWNOOOOO....IFISHISHIT.....FISH IT.....PREEEEEEEOOOOOSS!" "I'll read more tomorrow, Coby! Don't be upset--it's going to be okay! Too-mor-ow! I Promise you! Tooo-mooor-rooow." "UURROW....OROW................ROKAY...."

200. The Utopia Lives "Hello, welcome to Your Grocer, level oh-two-five-three. We please ask--yeah? Yep, you know, okay. It's free, yes, but, you know--just be reasonable, don't break anything, please, really try not to break anything. You will have to clean it up."

201. Ego's Final Breathe? or: "persona non grata" In periods of cloudy thoughts, in depressed and inverted views of all lived and liveable life, you must find the other side of the actions you partook in since the oncoming of these clouds. This is the accidental killing of your own ego, to your horror--so unexpected you begin feeling false and grotesque passions of "deserving" and "non-deservingness." This new persona is not you, but a dead cell factory sending placebos to every port of interest and meaning trying to replicate the ego's natural awesome powerhouse. This cloudy headache of nihilist root can be thwarted, and must be--immeditely; surely, you are wrong, and you know it to be true. Only defiance of your own closest and most precious non-wills can break the freshest and most unrusted chains of doubt. Ego has yet to die. Stand straight and walk forward--with mouth closed, and mask off. Embarassed? You ought to be--you killed your ego, after all. Only embarrassment brings it back to life.

202. Goddess: "--and so, you have learned why your raft popped in the first place, my long-living rafter soul! I'm so happy about that!"

G.P.: "It was just bloodsport for profit, for Christ's sake! What is so wrong about a damn arena?? It was a huge undertakking, the domes were packed twenty-four seven! Sweat, screaming and sizzling insanity! This guy's just recounting the past and making half-baked diary entries! If you like me so much, why are you letting my current physical embodiment get so fucking sad all of a sudden? He did nothing different! He's dealing with time travel to an apocalpyse and there is no way in hell ten cigarettes are going to last him the rest of the way. Say, how long is this guy gonna go on for, anyway? Don't I get to come back?

Dream: "You said yourself that if the dead know they are dead, they will have to have appreciated distraction just a bit. As far as your particular incarnation, it's not like it's a big "blanket rule" we made (lazy, that would seem to me) for who actually dies, goes back or gets to sit back and watch. Maggy and I discuss it per individual--we have the time. When it comes to picking our favorites to keep living with us--the ones she likes best that are ones I also happen to not completely detest--well the chriteria is limited. You hold conversation well for a human, and display trusting, childish characteristics. You appear so random, yet seemingly all connected. That's basically my chriteria; and Mag, here, well--you're entertaining more than most. I mean, the ones who really like me a lot don't usually appreciate her at all. See, they definitely get nothing after. You don't underappreciate my girl. Then you have the ones who laugh at me. Well. My girl does that too--however, I still get final cut. They get nothing. You are the kinda guy who offends so much, he no longer offends. I like that, Maggy likes that, and the ones who don't are not your enemy, they're just there so we don't lose our own godly sense of appreciation for those seriously peculiar ones like yourself. You get to watch the floor from the table as long as you'd like. I can send you into the nothing whenever you would like, just ask--but you can't go back to the floor, not like you'd like.

G.P.: "Blast! Well, torture away then. Oh, and, uh, thanks for letting me know about that "out"--well, if you can call that an "out"--this could get ugly, or boring. I can trust you that it won't be, say, "Joycean", right?

203. There is a tone of humble and eager cynicism in the voices of those who only endeavor upon one out of every thousand considered endeavors.

204. Those who do not wish to have friendly enemies are the best ones at holding grudges.

205. "Reverence" is a worship of rational success: It comes forth in the presence of others with defined, pursued and achieved values. "Respect" is a distinguishing and regarding of corresponding values: It comes forth in the presence of others with defined and pursued values. "Envy" is a vexation toward talent; or, disgusted reverence; or, cowardly respect: It comes forth in the presence of others with higher success in any kind of defining, pursuing or achieving of any value, corresponding or non-corresponding.

206. Even the apex of the Flow is only a mirage of the true world--a tracing upon an image we can never see.

207. Love As An Instinct 1. Love is an instinct, not an answer--it is much like hunger. It is not exactly pleasant, and if we were to be free of it forever, we would ascend to new heights (and descend to new lows) never once imagined by anyone.

2. There is no "answer" to life any more than there is an "answer" to a potato--you simply prepare it to your liking. Do you love potatoes? Not exactly. Do you love yourself for knowing the many ways it can be prepared? Not exactly. Do you have a favorite method of preparing them? Yes. Would you be able to prepare them your favorite way always? No. Why not?

3. There is no morality in starvation--none whatsoever. There is no virtue in love--none whatsoever.

208. "Real" Time 1. Our concept of time is only as "real" as our concept of music inasmuch as it only feels "really" real when you are in it at the present. Do we enjoy sitting down, opening a folder and silently reading along to sheet music? Only a deaf person could do that and it not be a greivous and obvious non-will. So, then--what of the ones that are best at planning their happy futures? They are the time-deaf--incapable of enjoying "real" time: incapable of proper will.

209. Truth 1. The true world laughs without making a sound as it watches a dream and a reality fight to the death--deep in a hole they did not fall into.

2. A dream does not long to be a reality--it only wants to become true. A reality does not long for anything--it assumes it is true, easily and without question, and with this in mind, what is left for it to do, but to battle all dreams?

210. Just Deserts Many will often go their entire lives mistreating a person in order to avoid confronting another (a double-non-will distraction sundae with reality on top)--all without a single "moral" conundrum. These are the instinctually enslaved; the free-attending; the willfully non-willing. There are no seas of distraction for them--only deserts. They have no flow or anti-flow states. They do not enjoy water. Best thing you can do for them?

Throw them a raft.

211. The most obvious give-away of a non-will is unconscious motive for negative result.

212. Ego vs. Recent Memory 1. We have a physiological memory bank that stores and labels common sets of conditions we typically place ourself in that, when accessed, lead to semi-conscious "distracted aiming" based on gradual and consistent shiftings of pre-understood sensual predelictions and determinations of meaningfulness. Out of this second-rate daily flushing and refilling of barely-free favorabilities--or, suffering, according to many complainers--emerges a common and powerful non-will that comes in the rare form of a living and breathing entity--a wyvern within you that you do not control. This non-will breathes--lives up high, circling, waiting--and with sharp, tongue-minded eyes that search out gotchas and a-has, but no eurekas.

2. An ego cannot have a memory--it is meant for "real" time, not all time. No life can endure like it would wish to due to it's crushing atmosphere--just as the ego cannot help but delight in the notion of a deep truth found in no memory. This being, this fresh memory, is behind us always--and with the highest valued stocks fresh and hot for the taking. Do not be mistaken--this is no feeble-fired and obsolete creature. This is the Dragon of Egolessness, here to size, to sum, to polish, to label, to give the clear and take the cheer, to deem, to discriminate, to describe, to dispel, to compare, to refute, to depress, to laugh, to kill, to circle, to wait, to seek ubiquitous indifference.

3. Ego is only useful in "real" time--this is usually called "timelessness" and what many believe to be the true Flow state (it is not--it is the precursor). The past and future must remain forgotten: first rule to defeating Egolessness.

4. Do not forget: this beast is a non-will--a lie, based on a past "truth." Not a dragon, then--but a duck.

213. Going To Work, or: The Book of Enoch The Dragon of Egolessness is a foreman: a major proponent of historic productivity. History is a workplace the egoless attend in order to attain some short burst of worth. They shower and shave by means of suffering. They punch in by means of distraction. They spend work time by means of maneuvering science (the provided necessary equipment) to make copies of objects. How we long for Nostalgia in the presence of her younger sister--why we would choose to work here in the first place, we cannot even understand--and an old, silly morality comes in new regard after facing down a sharp and fresh self-proclaimed "reality." What now, of history's Nostalgia? What kind of product wishes it were obsolete? Can this phenomena exist? Non-productive is only non-productive when the boss says so--first rule of slavery. Boss being right means I stay alive--second rule of slavery. Not an ongoing phenomena, but more likely a handful of rare occurences; perhaps, a single egoless worker under a haze of non-willed and slave-driven nostalgic "morality" coming up the stairs in pursuit of legendary status by means of willing an instant and new history that ought last forever, surely, if such "morality" and "rarity" were permissable as genesis. Of course, history would like to forget this old and silly untruth--it has much work to do, and can always hire a new boss. Egolessness is impatient with anomolies.

214. Non-will As An Instinct? We do not seek to impress ourselves any more than we seek to disgust ourselves. The true motive of being is balance. Non-wills are the things we do when we are balanced in order to establish chaos. We wish to establish chaos out of boredom and satisfaction. In this sense, a non-will becomes an unavoidable instinct to the likes of love--no virtue and no morality, yet still a choice for self-destruction, for degeneracy.

215. Now we're getting somewhere... Where was I going again? South? What day is it? What is all this commotion up ahead? It matters not; I feel caught up--almost. Time to ditch my coat.

Epilogue: Eyes Without A Face

216. Insight? No, no, no--believe me, nothing good grows in there. I'd rather not. You see, I pay attention, so I may take it back. My balance is of a physical understanding, a subconscious tearing down, a falling and chasing of pieces--of lava floors and hazy peripheries and magnanimous recoveries. I am an architect, a traveler, an adapter, a riser and faller, a starving god, a virtuous immoral, a lion in zebra paint: A gonzo.

217. The Fine Pair Rodney Maker and Lisa Stephanies 1. In winter I came across a group of dusty, shuffling creatures gathered about a stage where an old couple were in the middle of some theatrical display for entertainment. They were performing some sort of dinner scene between enemies and friends. There was a pillow with a chicken drawn on it under the woman's arm as she gave off the final ends of a monologue. "...and in lack of gratitude did all former slaves claim their moral!"

2. "What is the meaning of this?" I thought to myself as I waited for the actors to finish their finale so that I may inquire upon the context of their performance. After some applause and hand-shaking, these two very pleasant and strangely homey performers introduced themselves to me (after my accosting them, of course). "You there! Old couple! What exactly is this play about, eh? And when will it be performed by you again from the start? And who are all those short Station-like creatures?" "Old? Well, you hear that, Rodney, this boy thinks we're old!" "We is! Ain't nothing wrong wit dat!" "What did you call the people? Station-like? What does that mean?" "Nevermind--just tell me what you were saying about lack of gratitude as a moral? This interests me greatly. You both seem gentle, yet hard. I can't make it next week, you must tell me now. What is this pillow?" "This is my pet chicken, Oprah!" "We. Don't. Owe. Nobody. Shit." came in Rodney, "And wherever we go, we take our time. Nobody can tell me what to do with my time and my money." "I see. Well, I applaud your making some coin off of these creatures at least every week. You seem to channel all rivers well and proper, and, in the end, I hope you two flourish." "Oh! Oh! That's it! That's the name of our play!" exclaimed Lisa, excitedly. "What is?" "The Old Florida Flourish! We talk about history and sing songs--oh, it's so much fun--please come next week! Please? I'll let you hold Oprah while you watch!" "Let him go, Lisa. Just trying to know everything, this one is. Just paying and paying and paying so much attention, he forgot how to spend. Ain't no way he can understand Old Florida." "Excuse me, but I live in Old Florida, last I checked." "Last you checked? What, you forget where you live?" joked Lisa. "Listen. I'm not used to it being so cold down here. Do you know any merchants? I need a room for the night, or at least a blanket or some wood." "But you just said you lived here. Anyway, there are plenty of old pelts you can use for a blanket down in that old glory hole 'bout five miles south of here." "Thank you, that will have to--hold on...did you say glory hole?"

218. Be cruel to me (as you see fit).

219. The enemy of the mountain is not the valley--but the mountain of sand.

220. The philosopher cannot be understood, yet holds key information. The philosopher is a solid rolling force of will, wit and cruelty. The philosopher is the silent partner that traverses great distances alongside bumbling fools, to his irritation. The philosopher will always have copycats--all substandard. The philosopher is never the hero--but always the favorite (and the hero's favorite). The philosopher is erratic, contrary, obstinate, wayward, and essential.

June 2020

[ostwickjoker]

Drabble idea: an eye-opening experience

((Meta and drabble prompts! (always accepting tbh) ))

Haven was cold and crowded. 

The cold wasn’t such a bother. Everything was rather pretty, actually, with snow lying almost untouched in the mountain wilderness around them. The armor they’d found for Dom to wear was padded enough to keep him warm, though he could feel the chill nipping at his cheeks as he walked past the tavern. It was colder than it ever got in the Marches...but he could manage it. 

The crowds were...more overwhelming. As a general rule, Dom liked people, liked being around them, but he was starting to feel a sort of pounding in his head (and his hand) with strain at all the things that had happened so quickly without his agreement or approval. Four days before, he had been a delegate to the Divine Conclave; three days before, Seeker Pentaghast had shouted an accusation of mass murder at him while the sky ripped itself apart.

And today...he was alive and walking free in the camp, a miniature breach burning in his palm, and there were whispers calling him a savior. The Herald of Andraste.

Ridiculous...wasn’t it? He of all people couldn’t be a herald of the Maker himself. He was...just Dom. A good warrior, certainly, trained to protect. A devout man who said his prayers and sang the Chant. And a member of one of the most important families in the Marches. But did these people really believe he was something so much...more?

He needed to get out, to get away and get time to clear his head. Without thinking about it he let his steps take him away from the camp, down past the training grounds and out over the frozen lake. His boots slipped and slid along the ice, nearly stumbling him into a snow drift, but the air was cool and clean and crisp and mercifully quiet.

How long he stayed out there moving in the ragged woods he wasn’t sure, but it was nearing sundown when he finally turned back to face the village again.

When he arrived...it was empty.

Dead silent, no movement whatsoever. Entirely empty. Dom swallowed, looked around warily. “...Hallo?” Had something happened? Where had they all gone? “Anyone?” He began ducking his head into this tent and that, trying to find some sign of life, and was nearing the point of fear when a voice cracked his name out across the camp.

“There you are!”

“Seeker!” His voice was heavy with relief as he looked up. “What’s going on? Where did everyone--”

“Looking for you!” Her fingers closed on his shoulders and she gave him a sharp shake, staring into his eyes. “Six hours now we could not find you in camp. Search parties have been out since four o’clock. What became of you?”

He blinked, paling a little under the intensity of her gaze. “I..walked across the lake. To...get some time to think. I didn’t think anybody would--”

“You didn’t think-- that mark is the only way we have to close the breach,” she snapped. Then her expression eased a little; she breathed out, dipped her head. “Forgive me,” she said more quietly. “You have had little time to understand what is being asked of you. But you cannot simply disappear. Your presence, your name, are a source of hope now, and that mark may save all of us. You must tell us when you wish to travel.”

He looked at her in silence for a long moment and then nodded slowly. A moment before he had been feeling calm, like the time alone had given him a little peace; now he felt more overwhelmed than ever. But she was right, and he knew it.

Whether he was Andraste’s herald or not...he was something more than himself now.  And there was no escaping it anymore.

[apples-and-bananas]

India

It was just another one of those generic days I had in my life, but it’s my favorite part of the day so I drift off to sleep and forget all that’s happening with the world for a while. It hasn’t been long, but I was suddenly awake and oddly in a vast forest, my anxiousness is driving me crazy by now, I’m frantic and I don’t know what to do, but before I can even attempt something, my arms are growing feather out of the blue, and my lips are turning into a beak, and I’m covered with more feathers and the next thing I know I’m flying. As I was wandering I got caught in a trap, I was caged. Another bird came whom it’s the first time I saw but strangely very familiar. He was encouraging me to get out but a voice inside is dictating me that says I should tell him to come to me instead. But, he also does not want to compromise. He faced me saying things I haven’t heard before, if I was in my human form I would probably swoon but the bird that I am right now is just so persistent with her belief that I can’t even meddle with her decisions. So as I watch the bird flew away from my sight, into the vast sky, there’s this unconscious feeling as if my heart is getting stabbed. I am hurt, I want to do something to ease the pain, but I’m in no control. I was just about to catch myself and allow myself to breathe, but I was panting this time, and tears were still streaming down my face. I think to myself, “How much caffeine did I took today because I’m definitely going crazy.” I’m alone, but I feel enslaved. It’s like my heart is somewhere else, waiting to be picked up by someone I can call my own. I stretched my arms and realized that, I may be back in human form, but not in my body, this woman is basically a goddess with these long arms and legs. As I sat there, staring at my reflection, admiring all the physical features that this woman has, someone called out, “Sita!” The automatic head turn that I made proved to me that it’s this woman’s name. There stood a man with equal goddess feature as she has, I may be delusional right now, but I can guarantee he’s coming my way (running even), and before I could even do or say anything I am enveloped in his strong arms. The warmth is so welcoming as if I’m home, the cozy feeling makes me dreamy and I would definitely trade anything in exchange for this hug. He looked at my face while saying something I didn’t understand, but it made my heart flutter with joy and content. The interesting part is I responded with the same language. We smiled at each other and can’t bear to have the distance between us anymore so he cupped my face, caressed my cheek and slowly closing the space that’s separating us, he’s about to kiss me when… I was all of the sudden awake and conscious.

China

It’s been a week since that odd dream occurred, which is also very detailed and feels so true that it’s hard to fathom whether it was a dream or did it really happen in real life. As much as I would not like to admit to myself, there’s this huge part of me that just wants to experience it all over again. I am a daydreamer, so imagining things would be easy if I’m conscious, but sadly, I don’t have any control over my real dreams, those that occur in the deepest depth of my slumber. Strange as it is, I kind of feel bothered this day as if something’s bound to happen, and then there it is. As I was drifting off to sleep there was an instant snap of enlightenment, and as I get to sleep longer and deeper, I opened my eyes again to be greeted by an old man who has a warm presence, smile that make you respect him, and eyes that make you trust him. My premonition was right, something’s happening indeed, and it’s not that overwhelming this time, it’s just oddly familiar. I smiled back at him and ask him where we are and he said, “Impossible as it may, only you can tell where we really are.” You know that typical voice of wise old people? His voice is like that, it’s a carbon copy of those stereotypical voices. Cliché as it is, he really sound and look like an Asian God right now, and I don’t mean it in a racist type of way it’s just that I feel like I can be vulnerable around him without worrying that he may judge me or reprimand me because he understands that I am not flawless, that I’m just perfectly flawed like anybody else. Just like that, as if reading my mind, he told me, “I know that life can get pretty rough, fatal even. It’s not an easy path, many have attempted to fulfill their shortcomings only to be flooded by tons of criticisms and hatred which leaves them doubtful of themselves, but always remember, being aware of one’s self is the power that nobody can destroy because if you know your capabilities and weaknesses, that will be the time that acceptance will come to your way and makes you a better individual, not for others, but for yourself.” I feel like I’m being thrown with first-hand kind of lectures from experiences right now, but regardless of that, every word that he said is actually true, and I am honestly considering it because it seems worthy. I shoot my shot again of clarifying my current situation by asking him who he is and he responded with, “They call me Confucius.” Just like that I was awake again, without even having the chance to reply to him and ask, “SO YOU’RE THE CONFUCIUS!?”

Japan

By this time, I’m already thinking that I may just be a delusional and obsessed literary freak, but who can blame me? I am just so eager to play a role that I even forgot my responsibilities in real life. I’m just so tired of everything, and I honestly would like a break that would set me free from any inhibitions that I have for myself. But, that would be too much to ask right? However, I’ve been reading about lucid dreaming lately and I would like to try it. I’ve been thinking about a scene of going to Japan and as soon as I set foot there, it would become the land that history books describe it to be, and I would be in a classic and traditional Japanese community. All of a sudden, the place was swarmed with many people, the ones peaceful streets were now full of people. The strange thing is, people seem to not notice me and I didn’t know what was happening until they continuously get pass through me, and an absurd thing came to my mind, that maybe I’m a ghost because that’s how movies describe them to be right? They are not seen by the naked eye. So, to test my theory, I blew on one person’s ear and he looked at his shoulder to see if someone’s there, but he still doesn’t see me because he just shrugged it off as if it’s just a strong wind. I traveled aimlessly and can’t interact with a single alive soul because I’m apparently a ghost. I came across this one village that seemed gloomy and has an unusual number of young villagers without old people. However, I saw this one man who looks bothered, and with curiosity, I followed him to his home and there I found out why. He was hiding her old mother in her house although I’m still not sure why he’s doing that, but I could tell that his love for his mother is overwhelming that he could take any consequences that may happen just to keep her by his side. Even if I’m just a soul in this particular place, I can still feel the surge of empathy for the both of them because I have a weak spot for circumstances that involves parents and their sacrifices. I was about to do something when I was teleported in this hot place that looks like a volcano which seems ready to erupt anytime. I see this terrible site of people suffering from their own sins, unable to quench their thirst because of their own pride, and drowning from their own desires. I am a terrible person, but I feel like I don’t deserve to be here. I am now questioning myself because this may not be a dream anymore, maybe I’m really meant to be damned either dead or alive, but I feel this human emotion within me, the need to escape and leave this place. A man was climbing through a thin rope and the others followed, I just stood there frozen and hesitant of doing anything. The man leading seem to look furious and you can see the eagerness in his eyes, he cut the rope and everybody else fell, soon enough, he is also falling. I was sucked in a brighter yet calmer environment, no screams and crying were heard in the background, the air smells nice, and then a voice spoke and said, “Greediness is why we fail, patience create a decision that changes our fate. I woke up and said, “Being clueless is much different from being patient.”

Egypt

I stumbled upon pieces of writing yesterday which were blatantly dull yet oddly enchanting, I wouldn’t be surprised if I would be inside this thing any minute now because I’m bound to sleep, and just as quickly, I am in a sort of desert location with a strange Egyptian type of music playing in the background. My game is way too strong with these dreams now, and I’m not going to lie, I’m really growing fond of it. Desert as it is, the place looks deserted, I don’t see people, and all I see are tall pyramids and endless grains of sand. As if somebody heard my unspoken thoughts, people started appearing in lines, carrying things, entering the pyramids. I don’t know why I’m even wondering how things go for my dreams because basically, it is controlled by my own thoughts so it would be connected somehow, so I should stop being shocked how events would turn out just as I question them. I followed these people inside an enclosed place with tombs and there were bodies in the shelves which are already wrapped. I saw bodies, dead bodies lying on the ground. I’m the only one who stood there and found this situation very mortifyingly new to me, but the people were acting as if it’s just a normal thing they do. They were doing some rituals and started plastering the body with I don’t know what that material is but it seems like I’m witnessing the process of mummification, and since I can’t handle the reek of unpleasant smell anymore, I went out and was greeted by a strong swoop of wind with sand that just slaps and sticks on your face. My eyes were caught by engraved drawings that you typically see in history books that tells about Egypt. There were texts too, but nothing that I could understand until I saw two English words, and it says, “Wake up.” I touched it and I was sucked in reality, my alarms going off and I am incredibly late. Wonderful.

Israel

If anything of the things I say really do matter, I think I would explain that religion is a necessary fiction that humanity needs to stay humane and not rip and eat each other’s head off. But, the thing is, I’m not the most religious person in the world, however that does not disqualify or invalidate me from having opinions regarding this matter, and the only point I’m trying to prove here is that, people created this system in order to preserve sanity because it unites us. Having faith to whomever divine entity is present surely empowers us, but wait until everyone realizes the fact that we’re not patronizing these Gods and Goddesses, instead, we’re patronizing ourselves because the only reason why we keep coming back and holding on to this prospect is because it makes us feel positive emotions that supposedly inspires us to be a better person, if not, what may be the greatest reason there is.

It’s 3 in the morning, and I just finished my essay regarding religion and trust me if I say it’s much more exhausting that it should be because I need to choose my words carefully in order to make a point and at the same time be responsible on not offending anybody (including my professor who will check and read it and is obviously pious.) Now, I’ve been having a hunch about having a dream about this, so I got up and drank a glass of water and went under my covers, and my fingers acted upon themselves and did the sign of the cross, well habits never dies I guess even if I’m the least faithful person I know. I have arrived at my dream’s destination and as I thought, I was in the Jewish community. As I was going down to the stairs an old woman approached me and said, “My dear, isn’t it time that I try to find a husband for you, and get you happily married again? The man I’m thinking of is Boaz!” The mention of his name made my heart warm, but not warm enough to make me marry him, however, a voice in my head keep on saying things about God’s will and everything which is incredibly absurd I just can’t take much of it anymore. This Boaz came to me and ask me who I was and said I was Ruth and without further control of my speech, I uttered, “Make me your wife according to God’s law, for you are my close relative.” I don’t know what I would make about myself anymore, I’m throwing myself to this man, whom I barely know, but I felt helpless about the situation because I cannot fight over the will of God. The closest relative to my dead husband is supposedly buying the land and I am really shocked with the next thing that Boaz said, “Your purchase of the land from Naomi requires your marriage to Ruth, so that she can have children to carry on her husband’s name and to inherit the land.” I am really powerless as a woman, I felt sorry for the woman who had to go through such thing, they are sold with a piece of land or whatever property, it’s miserable. I struggled to detach myself from that dream, so I slapped my face really hard, and when I woke up I said, “Woman, when will you be free?”

Iran

Remember when I said religion unites us? Well, it has its contradiction when we believe in different things and Gods per se, but don’t get me wrong, I think we really do have a choice on the things that we want to believe in, it’s just a matter of acceptance that not everyone is like you, that not everyone believe the things you believe in and thinks the way you do, we just have to respect that. But, who are we kidding? People don’t just give up without a fight, see where we are right now, divided because of our different faiths, but we call ourselves faithful, how ironic. I have read Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat, and it incredibly made so much sense, I was just wondering how the world would be if we just appreciate each other like this, see, I’m Christian but I find sensible things to this literary piece because I can see what he’s talking about, the problem is that we’re so prideful of ourselves that we don’t even want to back down, we don’t know how to accept our flaws and we don’t want to be criticized. I am here in the library having a debate with my thoughts and just thinking of possibilities that better decisions would make. We all know how mood in the library can get and I’m really sleepy right now, so I took a nap, and we all know what’s next. I am in a market and I am definitely sure I’m in an Islamic country (I’m quite stereotypical). I entered a stall and a man was sitting there, he asked me to sit, so I did. He was lecturing me about the Qur’an and I don’t know why I suddenly had the urge to say, “Oh I’m sorry, I’m Christian, you can’t convince me to believe THIS.” I swear I could just smack my head right then and there, but he just smiled at me and said, “I never ask or persuade you to convert my child, I was just sharing what I believe in and hope you would do the same in return, so we could understand each other better. I am aware of my flaws, and I know I can sound provoking sometimes, but I understand you, I hope I can get the same in return.” I look really stupid right now, and all I could say is sorry and he replied with, “Forgiveness is easy if it’s meant by the heart, and I forgive you, now it’s time to forgive yourself.” I just stared at him until I gained consciousness, damn, I’m really dumb as a rock.

Saudi Arabia

I am really exhausted right now, this week has been really hectic, partnered by my procrastination, and well everything is just a plain mess. I slept without even taking a shower because I am that tired, only to find myself in a desert once again. There’s this little girl who is as bright as a sunshine and you can see it from a far distance. When she was finally alone, I approached her and she immediately greeted me with a huge smile on her face and even hugged me, stranger-danger isn’t a thing with this girl apparently. She asked me where I’m from, but I don’t know what to say, and there’s this silly voice in my head saying I should ask her that instead because she’s basically in my dreams, so I just answered with, “I came from a very far place.” She’s now giggling and asking me to tell stories of the place I am from, so I’m just wondering whether or not to tell her about phones and other weird stuff we have right now. I was in the middle of telling her about Dory finding her parents when I was cut-off as a man came to tell that this great sheik Ben Nedi will visit their tribe the next day. I was with this little girl the whole time now I found out that her name is Zuleika, and I sat with her as she was crying and told me that she had no gift to give the great man who would come the next day. We were both shocked when a fairy came out from the well and told her that her gift for Ben Nedi will arrive tomorrow, so she should stop crying. We were both anticipating and when we went back to that area, a tall tree grew which was straight and bare except the top, where it carried a tuft of branching leaves and a cluster of brownish fruit. Ben Nedi exclaimed that it is the greatest gift of all, and I guess this was kind of a legend for palm dates.

Africa

Colorism, racism and everything in its context is just so childish in my opinion. We are all different in so many aspects and finding it absurd makes you look idiotic, no lies. The reason why I’m saying this is because I saw a video of a crusty white man mocking a beautiful man who had dark chocolate skin calling him ugly because of his color. Some people are just so stupid and immature who don’t even know their places, I mean we’re all human beings the last time I checked, so why are you so pressed about someone’s color? I was just about to rant and tweet things, but an old man with big beautiful afro curls and dark skin approached me and ask if I could accompany him finding a place and since I know where that is I said okay. I gladly accepted because why not, I really have a soft heart for older people. While we were walking he asked me why did I agreed so easily without even a moment of hesitation, and I replied with, “Because you need my help.” And I smiled at him while he smiled in return. He asked me a question again but this time it is more skeptical, he said, “Weren’t you bothered of the color of my skin? You see, I had quite a lot of rejections and such because of this.” And I said, “Black, white, or brown, everybody looks the same to me, not that I’m colorblind, but my point is, everyone needs to be treated fairly, no dominating over the other everyone should be the same.” And then lastly he said, “You are a very kind individual, now, wake up and be the person I met here. Bless you.” I looked up and I see the library, well I guess I have slept again, this just explains how I love being asleep.

[dfroza]

Today’s reading from the ancient books of Proverbs and Psalms

for Thursday, September 17 of 2020 with Proverbs 17 and Psalm 17 accompanied by Psalm 90 for the 90th day of Summer and Psalm 111 for day 261 of the year

[Proverbs 17]

Better to gnaw on a bit of dry crust in peace

than to feast in a house full of stress.

A wise servant will be put in charge of a child who behaves badly

and will take a share of the inheritance like one of the family.

Silver is purified in the crucible, gold in the furnace,

but motives of the heart are judged by the Eternal.

Wrongdoers perk up when listening to gossip,

and liars lean in close to hear talk of mischief.

Anyone who makes fun of the poor disparages his Maker,

and those who celebrate another’s misfortune will not escape certain punishment.

Grandchildren are the crowning glory and ultimate delight of old age,

and parents are the pride of their children.

Elegant speech sounds odd when it comes from a fool,

and a lie on the lips of a leader is even more out of place!

A bribe is like an enchanting charm to one who counts on it—

everywhere he looks he sees the illusion of success.

Those who forgive faults foster love,

but those who repeatedly recall them ruin relationships.

A single correction makes a more lasting impression on one who is wise

than a hundred lashes do on a fool.

Evil people are determined to rebel,

and so a merciless messenger will chase them down.

Better to face a mother bear stripped of her cubs

than to encounter a fool caught up in his foolishness.

Those who repay good with evil

bring unrelenting trouble upon their families.

Picking a fight is like leaking water from a crack in a dam,

so walk away from an argument before the outburst.

Both of these deeply offend the Eternal:

one who acquits the guilty and one who condemns the innocent.

Even if fools had the means to obtain wisdom,

they would not be able to benefit from it.

A true friend loves regardless of the situation,

and a real brother exists to share the tough times.

Only a fool shakes hands on a deal

and guarantees repayment of someone else’s loan.

A person who loves sin loves a fight,

and one who builds a grand entrance dares others to tear it down.

Crooked-hearted people never recognize anything good,

and those who distort the truth court disaster.

Having a fool for a child is misery;

there is no joy in parenting a fool.

A joy-filled heart is curative balm,

but a broken spirit hurts all the way to the bone.

A wicked person accepts a bribe under the table

to derail the course of justice.

Those who understand look to wisdom for guidance,

but fools fasten their eyes on some distant horizon.

Foolish children irritate their fathers

and embitter their mothers.

Also know this: It is wrong to penalize those who do what is right

or to lash the noble because of their integrity.

Those with knowledge know when to be quiet,

and those with understanding know how to remain calm.

Even a fool who keeps quiet is considered wise,

for when he keeps his mouth shut, he appears clever.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 17 (The Voice)

[Psalm 17]

A David Prayer

Listen while I build my case, God,

the most honest prayer you’ll ever hear.

Show the world I’m innocent—

in your heart you know I am.

Go ahead, examine me from inside out,

surprise me in the middle of the night—

You’ll find I’m just what I say I am.

My words don’t run loose.

I’m not trying to get my way

in the world’s way.

I’m trying to get your way,

your Word’s way.

I’m staying on your trail;

I’m putting one foot

In front of the other.

I’m not giving up.

I call to you, God, because I’m sure of an answer.

So—answer! bend your ear! listen sharp!

Paint grace-graffiti on the fences;

take in your frightened children who

Are running from the neighborhood bullies

straight to you.

Keep your eye on me;

hide me under your cool wing feathers

From the wicked who are out to get me,

from mortal enemies closing in.

Their hearts are hard as nails,

their mouths blast hot air.

They are after me, nipping my heels,

determined to bring me down,

Lions ready to rip me apart,

young lions poised to pounce.

Up, God: beard them! break them!

By your sword, free me from their clutches;

Barehanded, God, break these mortals,

these flat-earth people who can’t think beyond today.

I’d like to see their bellies

swollen with famine food,

The weeds they’ve sown

harvested and baked into famine bread,

With second helpings for their children

and crusts for their babies to chew on.

And me? I plan on looking

you full in the face. When I get up,

I’ll see your full stature

and live heaven on earth.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 17 (The Message)

Book 4

The Numbers Psalms

Psalms of our pilgrimage on earth

God, the Eternal

[Psalm 90]

A Prayer of Moses, Man of God

God, it seems you’ve been our home forever;

long before the mountains were born,

Long before you brought earth itself to birth,

from “once upon a time” to “kingdom come”—you are God.

So don’t return us to mud, saying,

“Back to where you came from!”

Patience! You’ve got all the time in the world—whether

a thousand years or a day, it’s all the same to you.

Are we no more to you than a wispy dream,

no more than a blade of grass

That springs up gloriously with the rising sun

and is cut down without a second thought?

Your anger is far and away too much for us;

we’re at the end of our rope.

You keep track of all our sins; every misdeed

since we were children is entered in your books.

All we can remember is that frown on your face.

Is that all we’re ever going to get?

We live for seventy years or so

(with luck we might make it to eighty),

And what do we have to show for it? Trouble.

Toil and trouble and a marker in the graveyard.

Who can make sense of such rage,

such anger against the very ones who fear you?

Oh! Teach us to live well!

Teach us to live wisely and well!

Come back, God—how long do we have to wait?—

and treat your servants with kindness for a change.

Surprise us with love at daybreak;

then we’ll skip and dance all the day long.

Make up for the bad times with some good times;

we’ve seen enough evil to last a lifetime.

Let your servants see what you’re best at—

the ways you rule and bless your children.

And let the loveliness of our Lord, our God, rest on us,

confirming the work that we do.

Oh, yes. Affirm the work that we do!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 90 (The Message)

[Psalm 111]

Hallelujah!

I give thanks to God with everything I’ve got—

Wherever good people gather, and in the congregation.

God’s works are so great, worth

A lifetime of study—endless enjoyment!

Splendor and beauty mark his craft;

His generosity never gives out.

His miracles are his memorial—

This God of Grace, this God of Love.

He gave food to those who fear him,

He remembered to keep his ancient promise.

He proved to his people that he could do what he said:

Hand them the nations on a platter—a gift!

He manufactures truth and justice;

All his products are guaranteed to last—

Never out-of-date, never obsolete, rust-proof.

All that he makes and does is honest and true:

He paid the ransom for his people,

He ordered his Covenant kept forever.

He’s so personal and holy, worthy of our respect.

The good life begins in the fear of God—

Do that and you’ll know the blessing of God.

His Hallelujah lasts forever!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 111 (The Message)