#and your desire to define others for them is futile unfortunately

[spyroz]

Being non dysphoric trans at least for me is more of a political statement than a description of literal reality. It says "I'm for bodily autonomy in all circumstances and without explanation" but it does also say "I love my trans body"

Every person in the world would likely become 'dysphoric' if described or gendered or viewed in a way antithetical to their self image, trans or otherwise. So pulling the "erm technically you do have dysphoria" response just isn't necessary. We already know this. It depends on how you define the word "dysphoria", but idgaf about semantics like that, my goal is simply to send a message and describe myself in the *closest possible way* to the truth. But nothing is ever *entirely* true

People posting about how "non dysphoric trans people aren't really non dysphoric" are missing the point because dysphoric or nondysphoric was never a binary in the first place. These are made up words and I'm using the one closest to my experience, doesn't mean it has to fit 10000% of the time. It isn't so black and white, nothing is.

[theicyfresh]

Some people see a box where others see an outline. There is an almost pointless futility in attempting to define a person as by the time you ever really get down to the last details of it the first ones that you wrote would have changed. In lieu of this we try to keep track of Defining qualities. We don't need to keep track of the middle so much as the edges and we can assume middle within them. Boundaries, consent, desires, allergies. Important factors to transcribe. And yet transcription can feel limiting to some while enlightening to others. What better way to find yourself than to write down everything around you as your perspective keeps shifting. It becomes limiting though, when that transcription becomes an ideal to work towards, to live towards. To grant a reasonable amount of prediction and Knowing a person we must assume they are close to or near this transcription. And as such we attempt to cling to the things before as they're the only things we've mapped out. It's a dichotomy, to crave the description for guidance and familiarity and comfort while knowing such a description is so rapidly outdated in order to find freedom and fluidity and a lacking of shackles. If you add our own layer to it, facets whose identities are no more than a loosely collected amalgamation of inclinations then evolution can rapidly be akin to whole new people being born and killed over and over. You see it on the larger scale, too. People are dying slowly because they're being reborn slowly. With a facet system you're just more likely to notice the differences because those changes are constrained to groupings of qualities most likely. Looking at the edges of someone is closer together if there's many someone's in a someone. While you can evolve in your own way it's highly unlikely that you'll evolve every last aspect of yourself all at once. Your soul's a bamboo forest of growing creaking branches where your realization that there was growth is looking around at the sudden Difference. With many facets looking around it's easier to figure, you simply listen to the differences over time as they interact. It is simply important to know that while you are writing down everything around you and trying your best to find landmarks and familiarity is to understand that you are drifting atop the sea. You may certainly have control and ability to make way to your desired location but you will ever be drifting and growing. It may be less about describing your surroundings as a way to go home but rather describing them so that when you see those shapes on the horizon you understand you are not lost, you're just growing. It's important to regard where you've been, but unfortunately when it comes to description of a person the obituary's the only chance we have of a full story.

[wolint]

FRESH MANNA

TRADITIONS OF MEN NOT OF GOD

Mark 7:8-9

Traditions are those practices of long-standing rituals handed down in families, ministries, and organisations. It is often used to speak of denominations or distinct theological viewpoints, such as the Baptist tradition, Pentecostal movement, Anglican or Catholic traditions and many others or the historical traditions of the church.

The word of God is powerful and effective, and once pronounced, it doesn’t return empty to God according to Isaiah 55:11, unfortunately, the tragedy of our generation, however, is that many people have turned away from what Hebrews 4:12 calls the gospel of truth.

Have you ever considered your or your family’s traditions?

Many of us were born into traditions that we’re unable to shake off. We have adopted and accepted the traditions of the society where we operate and have no desire to grow out of them or change them.

Our traditions sometimes are what defines us, but they keep our lives normal and mundane or they may be things that break up the monotony of life and bring us happiness.

Traditions in themselves are not bad but when it begins to fight and clash with the doctrines of God, they become problematic.

Tradition is good but it’s not necessarily right.

Some religious traditions are necessitated by the scripture, such as tithing in Leviticus 27:30, first fruit in proverbs 3:9, and giving in 2 Corinthians 9:6-8, these traditions are scriptural instructions that are to be observed as part of the Christian faith because they are stipulated by the scripture and count towards an eternal reward.

Consider the practice of our Christmas holiday traditions. Decorating the house, buying the presents, putting up the Christmas tree and the Christmas meal menu and preparations, are usually individual and family orientated. But what do they have to do with the scriptures? With Jesus as Messiah? Do any passages of the bible mention Christmas and how it’s to be celebrated? No! These are all traditions of men used to symbolise a scriptural occurrence.

They are traditions of men!

Another mandated tradition of God in Hebrew 10:25 is service and fellowship, but many worships, celebrate, and praise God only on Sunday mornings because “it is the holy day” and Monday to Saturday belongs to them to do as they please.

Christians hardly analyse the traditions that they partake in. So, what does God say about our traditions? Colossians 2:8 says to not allow anyone to captivate us with traditions that are deceitful but generally accepted.

Many practices in the body of Christ can’t be backed by the scriptures, they are simply perversions of the true gospel but they’ve worked overtime and have become the tradition of a church or ministry.

Sadly, according to Matthew 15:2-9, 16 these doctrines and principles are merely the traditions of man.

The Bible warns against any tradition, custom, precepts, or laws that are in opposition to, contradictory to, and nullifies God's commands as written in the scriptures. These customs, rituals, and practices are inventions and traditions of men alone, apart from God. We must be cautious of the emptiness of the traditions of men passed down through time ... even those from our forefathers or elders.

According to 1 Peter 1:18-19, believers are delivered from a life of futility and meaninglessness of the traditions of men.

PRAYER: Lord, deliver me from whatever practice going on in my life that is a tradition of man contrary to your word in Jesus’s name. Amen.

Shalom

Women of light international prayer ministries.

[theggning]

Codsworth Is So Underrated, You Guys

ALTERNATE TITLE: Codsworth and the Totally Understated Mindbending Evolution of Artificial Consciousness

I find Codsworth is often the most underrated of the 16 companions in Fallout 4. Your faithful robot butler is among the very first you can recruit and an excellent early-game ally, but he has a few disadvantages in gameplay that mean he’s often sent back to Sanctuary before long. Codsworth is a mid-to-close range fighter only, cannot wear armor or be equipped with weapons. He cannot be healed by stimpak, which makes him a liability if you’re playing on Survival mode. He has no companion quest of his own, so unless you particularly enjoy him there’s not a compelling reason to keep him for a long time. He also becomes recruitable exactly 2 minutes after adorable puppy Best Boy Dogmeat, so he is often (understandably) replaced just as soon as he’s made available.

But there is this great, completely understated facet to Codsworth, so understated that the game does not draw attention to it in any way. And yet, it is a wonderful reflection of many of the themes of Fallout 4 and, I believe, a pretty strong indication of its thesis statement.

Now what in the hell am I talking about?

Like many sci-fi/fantasy universes, the Fallout series is home to many highly-advanced robots. Robots were commonplace before the Great War, and many have survived the bombs intact and in working order. Others have been built or modified by wastelanders to serve various tasks (Percy, Ada.) The most important thing to understand about robots, though, is though they may have vivid personalities programmed in, they are widely accepted to be objects. They are thought of the same way as an appliance, a machine built for a specific purpose and programmed to follow a strict set of protocols.

Many jokes revolve around the relatively rigid intelligence of robots. Pre-War, many were deployed in inappropriate jobs or designed haphazardly (Mister Handies acting as nurses in a hospital, “paramedic” Protectrons with massive deadly tasers for hands, military robots constantly going haywire and erupting in friendly fire.) Others continue to man businesses and play out daily tasks as they were programmed to do over 200 years ago. Most robots are incapable of understanding anything beyond their initial programming, and most pre-War robots are completely unaware that the Great War ever happened.

When the Sole Survivor reunites with Codsworth at the ruins of their home, it seems like he, too, doesn’t understand what’s going on. He talks about tending the (dead) garden, references the (ghoulified) neighbors, and generally acts like the chipper robot butler Sole left behind on their way to Vault 111.

But there is something slightly… off in Codsworth’s dialogue here. Though he acts like the war never happened, he also specifically mentions details that suggest it did:

Player Default: Codsworth! You're still... fully operational?          

Codsworth: {Defiant} Well of course, mum. You can thank the fine engineers at General Atomics for that! At least, you could have. Had they not been... vaporized.

A bit over 210 actually, mum. Give or take a little for the Earth's rotation and some minor dings to the ole' chronometer. That means you're two centuries late for dinner! Ha ha ha. Perhaps I can whip you up a snack? You must be famished.

You've no idea the desperation for human contact one develops over 200 years. {Upset, recalling bad memories of encountering raiders and scavengers. / Disgust} And when you do encounter them? Oh the cruelty! You're either... target practice or... spare parts!

Even stranger, Codsworth mentions details that are plainly made-up (or some kind of delusion):

Codsworth: It's been ages since we've had a proper family activity. Checkers. Or perhaps charades. Shaun does so love that game. Is the lad... with you...?   

Player Default: Codsworth... listen to me carefully... have you seen him? Have you seen Shaun?              

Codsworth: Why, sir had him last, remember? Perhaps he's gone to the Parker residence to arrange a play-date?

(Shaun is an infant. He is too young to play charades or to go to the neighbors for a play-date.)

So at once, Codsworth does and does not acknowledge the war. He does and does not seem to understand what’s happened, and he does and does not seem to follow Sole’s urgency regarding their spouse’s death and Shaun’s kidnapping.

And then, after a speech check, Codsworth finally snaps and breaks down sobbing in despair. Not only does he understand that the war happened, he has developed the ability to get depressed about it. Longing for human contact and with nothing else to do, he’s even developed coping mechanisms to help him try to deal with his loneliness and despair—futilely trying to do his chores and deluding himself into pretending everything is completely normal.

Wait a minute. Sobbing? Despair? Depression? Coping mechanisms and delusions? This Is all pretty sophisticated stuff to be programmed into a robot, and if you spend more time with Codsworth, the reality of what’s happened to him becomes apparent:

Codsworth has evolved beyond his programming. In his 210 lonely years of existence, he has developed emotional reactions and self-awareness far beyond that of most other robots, and, indeed, has basically evolved an artificial consciousness.

“Emergent intelligence” is the theoretical ability of an AI to eventually develop something resembling human thought processes, and it seems that our dear Codsworth has undergone this. Traveling with him, he displays many sophisticated thoughts and behaviors far beyond what most robots are shown to be capable of. He has memories of pre-War time and places, and understands how various locations have changed. He is capable of learning new information and forming opinions on it, gaining his own understanding of the people and factions in the Commonwealth. He can feel happiness, sorrow, fear, disgust. He can anticipate things, predict danger and imagine how people might respond to your actions. The mere he fact he has opinions and a moral code that he applies to you shows he has free will, something even other robot companions don’t (Ada has a personality, but absolutely does not care about your actions.)

He’s also smart enough to make many wry observational jokes, and to lay one hell of a sick burn on you:

{Joking - Found an old bowling alley. / Amused} Fancy a game, mum? Something tells me the bumpers are no longer available.

 Codsworth’s intelligence is even more sophisticated than that. He displays stunning self-awareness, frequently referencing the fact he is a robot and what that means. He is very proud of his background as General Atomics’ finest, and seems pleased with his robot nature and his lot in life. (Unlike Curie, I don’t think Codsworth would ever really want to gain a synth body. He seems quite happy as he is.)

Here he is making reference to still feeling the tug of his programming:

{Seeing an office with chairs arranged in a circle. / Neutral} I've the most incredible urge to rearrange those chairs in a more perfect circle.

Understanding when other robots are restricted by theirs:

A pity. It appears Deezer's programming is too severe to allow for normal conversation. Ah well.

And when they’re actually not:

Codsworth: Greetings, sir. Good to see another robot in town. That chef hat becomes you.

Takahashi: Nan-ni shimasho-ka?

Codsworth: Takahashi you say? I'm Codsworth, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

Takahashi: Nan-ni shimasho-ka?              

Codsworth: Is that so? Well, we both know RobCo is no General Atomics. It's not surprising it failed, shoddy work and all.  {Friendly - trying to cheer up another robot. / Friendly} Chin up, though. Never know when parts may turn up.

 And here’s Galaxy Brain Codsworth ruminating on his own state of being and contemplating his nature:

{Disappointed that he can't be 100% human sometimes. / Sad} It's unfortunate that I lack the proper design to consume liquids. Something about camaraderie over a few drinks is very inviting.            

I suppose if I had the hardware, I'd have the software as well. I'd hate to see how that'd affect my honesty and manner settings.

{Reconsidering what he thought was a good idea. / Thinking} Indeed. Perhaps I should rethink my initial desire.

Hilariously, Codsworth does not seem fully aware of how remarkable his intelligence is. He occasionally says things like “if I had feelings” and “if I could feel things,” indicating that in some ways he still believes he is only a robot and defines himself by what a robot is and does.

But as we can see, our humble robot butler has essentially evolved to become the smartest, most emotionally intelligent and person-like robot in the Commonwealth*, and potentially in the series.

([SIDE NOTE: Other FO4 robots nearing Codsworth’s level of consciousness and developed personality include Captain Ironsides, KLE-O, Whitechapel Charlie, and perhaps Takahashi. Curie is close, but also receives the unfair advantage of being uploaded into a synth body with a human brain. Jezebel also functions off of a human brain. Nick is not a robot, he’s a synth (though he does jokingly refer to himself as one) and also has the advantage of a human brain encoded on his processor.])

Also hilariously, the game basically does not acknowledge Codsworth’s impressive evolution. At all. There is absolutely no direct mention of it in the script. It is all left to ambient dialogue and the player’s own observations. And because so many people overlook Codsworth as a companion, they may not even realize exactly how unique his expanded consciousness is.

Now, you might call this total lack of mention a mistake, an oversight on Bethesda’s part, or that old chestnut “bad writing.” I don’t think it is. I think it’s a deliciously subtle little detail to include in a story about humanity, machines, artificial intelligence, and what makes a person.

Many of the themes of FO4 revolve around synths—distinctly not robots, but androids, artificially created beings with fully organic human bodies. Most of the storyline factions have strong beliefs about synths and the relative humanity thereof. The Institute believes that synths are objects, tools, machines no different from a robot who are only simulating their personalities through programming. The Brotherhood believes synths are monstrous abominations, a danger to humanity itself, technology run amok which needs to be destroyed. The Railroad believes they are people. Not humans, but people, built instead of born, free-thinking beings that deserve to be treated with respect and given rights.

Through quests, dialogue, notes, worldbuilding and other venues, players explore these questions. What makes someone a person? If your personality and memories can be rewritten or programmed, then who are you, really? Where do we draw the line between humans and machines, and how do we decide who belongs where?

Meanwhile, as the player contemplates the nature of personhood and the definition of intelligence, their robot butler quietly evolves into a fully-conscious person on his own, right beside them.

Codsworth is unquestionably a machine, but also unquestionably beyond the appliance he was built to be. Which to some philosophies and players should really beg a few other questions. If a robot can be considered a person, then what makes synths so different? And how many excuses do we have to make to pretend otherwise?

Ya boy Codsworth may not be flashy, or powerful, or kissable. He may not be the most glamorous companion around. But he is a good friend, a beloved member of the family, and above all else, a loyal butler—content to serve, quietly and humbly doing his job where some may never even notice him-- or the fact that he’s casually become his own person and sent generations of roboticists and philosophers spinning in their graves.

[aconstellationofmemories]

The Secrets We Keep: Prologue

Pairing: Laxus Dreyar & Mirajane Strauss (Miraxus) Rating: M for violence and language. Genre: Angst, mafia AU. Chapter Word Count: 1437. Link(s): AO3  Summary:

Laxus Revenge. It fuelled him through his depraved life. His entire being, dedicated to one single cause. For years, he acted patiently in the shadows, bidding his time to claim his prey. Now the time had finally arrived. Approach her, make her utterly in love with him, then shatter her – that was his plan. Until her hypnotising blue eyes drew him in, and he began to question his knowledge of her. Because those bittersweet depths were hiding something. And in his world, only two things were guaranteed. Either you kill your secrets, or they kill you.   Mira Death, lies, manipulation. They lurked around every corner of her life, even flowed in the very blood coursing through her veins. Merely the mention of her last name was enough to cause eyes to widen and people to scurry. Naïve, pretentious, entitled. Those were just some of the names people called her for choosing to be different. But life was short. And in the dangerous world she lived in, everyone was a player racing to oust the other before the opponent terminated their life. Her own game had just commenced. Only this time, she wasn’t sure she could outwit them. Not anymore. Tick tock.

Author's Notes: The newly-crowned Queen of Foreshadowing is back! I bring with me my favourite ever FT ship after a long spell in my first ever ambitious multi-chapter fanfic! I'm also excited for this one as it revolves around a couple favourite themes of mine: angst, mafia and revenge. I binge romance novels on the second, but never actually wrote it. Please look kindly upon me in my first attempt at this project. (Or like signing for my death, currently being piled with exams and all that.)

Also that summary?? The best I've ever written.

As always, I appreciate every like and review!

Thank you @be-dazzled for nudging me to pursue this and @sweetmemories2606 for supporting me every step of the way. 💛

Tagging @sassyglassesbunny @adramaticbeauty - my original Miraxus gang. 😏

Slow but steady update. Spoilers will be released on the Miraxus Discord Server (find link on my tumblr profile) when available. Otherwise, feel free to message me!

___________________________________

Laxus

Fake.

The adjective sneered from the forefront of his mind as he watched the models strutting down the white platform. Heavy makeup accentuated the elegant features of the slender women of all colours, making their cheekbones more defined and their eyes sharper than their original form. Eyeshadows of glittery monochrome shades further decorated their eyes to match their black and white designer clothes.

A smug, seductive look adorned their otherwise beautiful face, tugging an end of their luscious lips upward in a smirk. With their chins held high, they strode down the runaway, every single movement of their limbs expertly coordinated for nothing less than the best catwalk.

Anyone with a functioning pair of eyes could see that those women were gorgeous. His own roamed over the alternating models with slight interest, toying with the idea of tangling limbs with one of them in bed.

The thought didn’t last long.

That beauty of theirs which sent men to their knees and the women to turn green with envy? Most of it were carefully altered with the help of a needle or a knife in their futile quest for an image of perfection.

An image which had never existed anywhere in the universe except in the recesses of their insecurities.

In other words: fake.

Add in the charming attitude of a heaven-sent goddess who was too lofty for mere mortals, and any spark of lust his body felt toward them fizzled out.

Soft cheers erupted from the audience at the entrance of the next model, pulling him from his thoughts. His gaze travelled up the length of the woman’s black gown, appreciating how the sleeveless garment hugged her body and highlighted her curves. A strip of white cloth ran up her left side before its unblemished trail stopped below her armpit. Light blonde tendrils stood out against the black material at her torso, and led him up to the only medically untouched face in the line-up.

With delicate eyebrows of a darker shade of blonde, sparkling cerulean eyes and a button nose, her looks easily exceeded that of her colleagues. And those luscious, scarlet-covered lips...all they had to do was utter a word, and any men would bend a knee and do her bidding.

Mirajane Strauss.

Niece of the notorious Roman Strauss. Next in line to the throne with his only son, Marcus.

The beauty she radiated was unrivalled. Along with her good looks, the charisma she carried set a standard the other women could only aspire to possess.

She was a sight to behold.

But just like all things good and beautiful, inevitably, they wither and die.

Her attractive appearance, too, hid secrets – hers more twisted than her fellow co-workers. He found it unfortunate that underneath that stunning façade, ran the dark and dirty blood of the Strauss family.

Specifically, that of her father’s and her uncle.

Giovanni Strauss, her father, was infamous for being a merciless boss with more than a few screws loose and a twisted obsession with prostitutes. He didn’t hold any personal grudge towards her father; the tyrant was just another in a long list of evil and perverted bosses, his own father among them.

Though he would be lying if he said he didn’t feel some satisfaction to have stolen the last breath from the great Giovanni... His demise, after all, did propel the women one step closer to freedom.

But her uncle, Roman... He clenched his fists at the thought of the middle-aged man. Roman assumed the position as the boss of the Strauss family after his brother’s death and severed their ties with prostitution. Very little goodness existed in this world of theirs – if it even existed anymore at all – but Laxus personally preferred to keep innocent women out of it. Her uncle’s decision was unconventional, to say the least, and he could almost respect him for it.

Except.

Roman Strauss killed his mother.

The only good thing in his life – gone.

The bastard could die a thousand deaths and it still wouldn’t be enough to placate the monster inside who craved revenge.

Because he could torture him until he wished he was dead, kill him in the most gruesome way possible, and one thing would never change.

His mother would never return to him.

Mirajane might had been born innocent – at least, until life forced her hand in a world she never asked to be a part of. But by being a bloodline of Giovanni and Roman Strauss, she was cursed to a life burdened with the sins and debts of her predecessors. The good princess act she played was merely a means to disguise the impurities hiding below the surface.

A demon wearing the clothes of an angel – that was what she was.

She strode with her head held high, but balanced down with enough humility to glance at the audience in a friendly yet alluring manner. When she reached the end of the stage, the corners of her lips lifted up in a rehearsed small smile which somehow managed to appear sincere. Immediately, the dimly-lit attendees reacted to the visual – the men with smitten looks on their faces, the women a varied display of envy, adoration, and awe.

One could easily see why she was crowned the title ‘The Princess of Hearts’ by the media.

She pivoted on her heels, returning to the entrance, and he sucked in a breath when his gaze landed below her hips. Her smooth, creamy leg peaked out at him from the slit of her gown. The fleeting sight of her flesh involuntarily stirred up desires he despised to have for her.

Fucking hell.

In a rebellious act which broke traditional modelling, she glanced back as she walked and smirked. Flashes of light fired in rapid succession, each competing with the other for the best shot of the expression.

Oh yeah, the little demon definitely knew what she was doing. Not only that, she enjoyed every second of it.

He didn’t need to look at their camera’s memory card to know there had been over ten photos taken in those few seconds before she disappeared backstage. Neither did he need to possess supernatural powers to predict that she would grace the front covers of almost every – if not all – of the fashion magazines tomorrow.

The models gathered in a horizontal line at the entrance with the acclaimed fashion designer in the centre once the show was over. Grinning widely, he spoke into the microphone.

“I’d like to thank everyone who kindly graced my humble exhibition with your presence. The theme of this fashion show is ‘Darkness and Light’. People are of the opinion that these two can never exist together – one which I strongly disagree. By incorporating monochrome colours in my clothes, I hope people are able to see that they can co-exist without one extinguishing the beauty of the other.” He winked. “Because we all have a little darkness and light inside us, do we not?”

Thunderous rounds of applause rose from the audience at the end of his speech. His gaze swung from the ecstatic designer back to Mirajane, who seemed to be happy to be standing at the corner of the line.

His eyebrow quirked up. Odd. For someone of her status, he had expected her to dominate the centre.

She beamed a bright smile and waved to someone in the front row – a few people, actually. Roman returned her grin with a fatherly smile as he clapped his meaty hands along with the other attendees. His eyes instinctively sharpened at the sight of his mother’s murderer. Beside him, Marcus smiled proudly while applauding the success of the event.

Many would kill to be the receiving end of that brilliant and genuine smile of hers. Its effects were so widespread that it not only lit up her face, but the entire being of the receiver.

But he wasn’t a man in search for salvation.

He was the man people sought to be salvaged from.

Nobody saw his face knowing his identity unless they were about to meet their end. Never in his long years as a made man did he fail to escort them there personally.

He would see to it himself that the same plea to be spared would fall from her lips.

Make her weep – that’s what he’d do.

After all, what better way to inflict revenge on Roman other than first breaking his beloved niece’s heart?

His lips tilted up in a smirk, his eyes gleaming with a predatory look.

Let the show begin.

[harrishanie]

"Fragmentary Annihilation” by “Alexander”

If you’ve ever encountered the PDF versions of Jesus Ignacio Aldapuerta’s The Eyes or Roger Gilbert-Lecomte’s Black Mirror, you’ve probably seen the link to The Usual Cannibalism, the (now former) blog of the transcriptionist. This blog advertises two original works, now seemingly-inaccessible, Meditations on Ero Guro and Fragmentary Annihilation. I have been curious about these works since my first discovery of the aforementioned documents, but it only occurred to me today that I might be able to find them by just plugging the dead links into the Internet Archive. I thought that they were interesting enough and worth preserving, as much as anything else, so I am posting them here--just the first for now, since I am not sure if Meditations fits the current content dogma. I have also not done any formatting whatsoever so I will apologize.

Both pieces are attributed only to “Alexander”--if you are him, my kind regards. To everyone else, my apologies.

Fragmentory Annihilation

An attempt at overcoming Nihilism and Limitation By Alexander http://the-usual-cannibalism.blogspot.com/

Selected Music: OST 2001: A Space Odyssey: Composed by various. The Beyond: Composed by Fabio Frizzi Blue: Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno. Cannibal Holocaust: Composed by Riz Ortolani Dawn of The Dead: Composed and performed by Goblin Fish ~ Silent Cruise: Ghost In The Shell Stand Alone Complex OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Greed Bird: Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Holy Mountain: Composed and performed by Don Cherry, Ron Frangipane, and Alejandro Jodorowsky In Heaven: Eraserhead OST: Composed and performed by Peter Lvers Lucifer Rising: Composed and performed by Jimmy Paige Monochrome: Ghost in the Shell Stand Alone Complex OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Nosferatu: Composed and performed by Popol Vuh Rain (Female Vocal Version): Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Requiem for A Dream: Composed by Clint Mansell and performed by the Kronos Quartet Suspiria: Composed and performed by Goblin

Original Compositions Adagio for Strings: Composed by Samuel Barber Ase’s Death: Composed by Edvard Grieg Carmina Burana: Composed by Carl Orf The Crucifixion: Composed by Samuel Barber Dreams Less Sweet: Composed and performed by Psychic TV The Downward Spiral: By Nine Inch Nails F# A# (Infinity): Composed and performed By Godspeed You! Black Emperor Holocausto De La Morte: Composed and performed by Necrophagia Horror of the Zombies: Composed and performed by Impetigo House of the Rising Sun: Performed by The Rolling Stones Hurt: Performed by Johnny Cash I Want Your Soul: Composed and performed by Aphex Twin Ode to Joy: Composed by Beethoven Rain Drops Prelude: Composed by Frederic Chopin Prince Igor: Composed by Alexander Borodin The Requiem: Composed by Mozart Strange Fruit: Composed and Sung by Billy Holiday Song for Liberty: Composed by Giuseppe Verdi Sympathy for the Devil: Composed and performed by the Rolling Stones Va Pensiero: Composed by Giuseppe Verdi Yanqui U.X.O: Composed and Performed By Godspeed You! Black Emperor

In Puberty’s ambush, maidens bloom, All unaware of impending doom They listen to the radio, drink tea Unaware they will lose their liberty Bourgeouis recoil not from slaughter Though victim be son and daughter From Salo: The 120 Days of Sodom.

Diagram -an attempt to understandThe World that follows Sadism or Social Darwinism. Invokes the OverMAN, Absolutism, and a kind of Primitism. Leading to the Simple Passions, the Complex Passions, the Criminal Passions, and the Murderous Passions. Power. The World that follows Psychology (Freud, Jung, and Wilhelm Reich): Implies a tree of influence and evolution, cherry picks the good out of each religion. Interconnectedness. The World that follows Unification (Kierkegaard, Krishnamurti, and the Bhaved Gavid): Man is unified with himself and every other, simplicity, taking away from excess resulting in Social Evolution. Instrumentality. The World that follows the Poete Maudit (Lautreamont, Baudelair, Rimbaud, and Artaud): It is with a fury that man achieves a manifest destiny, personification of the Phoenix. Death & Rebirth. The World that follows the Larvae (developmentally halted no further evolution): An introverted and absolute justification for being wrong and spiteful at humanity. The emulation of an idea taken from a great man, modified for the benefit of the shepherd. Defined technically as Scizotypal. The World that follows Escapism: Be satisfied with life and pursue its vices, no more joy to be partaken than that inside a fellow, and housed in a limited splendor with glass walls. There can be no manifest destiny nor growth when one is given it. The Consumer. The World that follows the Dictator: Differing from the others, this is entirely individual yet joins every belief together for the benefit of the one and truly via cherry picking. Implies a Tao of humankind that commits all positive and negative acts, a kind of birthing process where all thinking merges to create a child different from both parents. The Third Mind. Evolution. The World as Reality: the meaninglessness of art and thought as a futile interprise, limited by the finite life span of the earth and the eraser of all hard external memory. Implies that we will not be remembered no matter the effort. Nihilism. The World as Splendor: To believe one and only, by following only Islam or by following strictly Nietzsche. Limiting one self to but one interpretation, thereby denying reality and evolution. Faith.

SACRED Imagine a voice that is low and hollow and that its vocal cords strain to produce sound. This voice that utters a monotone speech begetting remorse and pain, dignity and hatred. Picture this voice on your parent that visits you in the morning and rapes you at night. Object 1 A woman runs up a stairwell, pursued by a deformed man who walks on all fours; his flesh is bruised and clean shaven, the ears are shorn and pointed, with a tongue sewn from two –twice as long as a dog tongue- without thumbs or big toes, those amputated by eugenic miracle, a man is what he sees himself as through the eyes of others by this very transmuted flesh. The woman is cornered on the roof; this dog/man proceeds to rape her. She then slowly changes, shedding her skin, each limb becomes metallic, she transforms into a plane and leaps from the roof and glides into a building, explosions, a gray fog bellows out.

-£¼ªÙÆ When it comes to conversation, I rehearse almost everything. Ad-libbed material gives way to awkward speech like in a random conversation rushed out if only to keep interconnectedness afloat. That is insipid. Better to rehearse and come across as better then a fellow then to wallow in mediocrity and a limited dialogue. People are angry and nice, giving me eyes that would paint me as an evil outsider placed therein to murder them all. The niceness comes from opening doors for them, as they do not do for me. It is unfortunate that I have the habit of implanting pieces of my personality within my characters, what new extremes that I invoke: Three characters that are the me when given over to fury: They escape my brain and proceed downward through my skull where they break through my mouth, which now resembles a deformed cunt. Yet I cannot stop writing, so with my left hand I use a sewing needle and twine and proceed to stitch up the wound. On a mirror just above this paper I carefully study the wound, opening and closing the lips, showing my slightly yellow teeth; realizing it looks like a rat chewed a circular hole asthough my lips were bitten off completely. I continue forward with this surgery, I do not need a mouth to speak.

The character of Defilement Here arises another Eden; one imagined by that better person inside each and every other –that human that acts upon desire-. The setting is the same as the pictures from the bible

with waterfalls and golden gates, populated by one old cow that can just barely stand. Defilement approaches the cow with the glee of a great sadist. “You ask nothing more then to feast and to have your teats pulled and drained of a blockage of fluid. Much like the nymphomaniac left alone with their arms amputated. Allow me to pay tribute to you and all others.” Defilement undresses, smiling as he shows his disfigured prick; for it takes the shape of a double A battery with a stub of flesh protruding through the hole. His testicals are in fact one dozen knives strung like wind chimes. He is not obese, just pounds of loose flesh hang off him, folding over like animal flippers found on a new race of man. His skin ripples like the top of disturbed water as his knives slightly tingle and ring, and drops of ejaculate fall from them. Now a dirty cunt brimming with urea, crowned by dried shit, penetrated. He kisses the animal’s snout in submission. ‘Bestiality is to give up on humanity’ he whispers into the animals’ ear. With that finished, he begins milking the cow. His children drop onto the grass, colored of milk-white with no mouths or any kind of limbs, but born as torsos though they were only bio-engineered fuck-holes. Defilement buries his children under shallow earth; they grow like trees over years and decades thereafter. He bleeds out, feeding his children organic debris. His plasma becomes their water and his shit becomes their food. Once they have matured, he proceeds to their mother and wrenches loose one curved blade. As saintly as conjoined pedophile and martyr when one kills their lover and a surrogate mother. The teats are completely severed in three disorderly gashes, like a crescent with the star being a separated heart. He wears this apparatus atop his skull like a hat. The cow falls to the ground trying to crawl away. Calmly, he sinks the blade through the snout multiple times as if a child making sure his pet is dead. Cutting off its ears now, he has little time left until he dies of blood loss, and cutting off many inches of skin that would bestow one large coat in one last frenzy that relinquishes everything that once made him human. One last gash to the throat, blood pours in gallons; he punches the jaw and breaks it in half. He opens up its stomach and hallows it out and crawls down this hole, curling up like a fetus, preserved for his children, for this is Eden and depravity is only memory for an audience of weeping trees. The character of Defy “Young boy with medium-sized breasts walks pompously, walks right by me. A boy of milk less breasts dares himself to think that he is better then I with his pompous walk, how dare he looks down at me.” A fifteen year-old girl part of a tribe of the destitute with her fat, crippled girlfriend in tow. She curses at me, calling me a faggot for my nice clothes and my walking like an aristocrat. I am dressed in top hat with a Christian cross etched onto the front, an

expensive suite and shoes, and a magnificent cane beside me with the handle of the Cobra (For Defy is the best representation of me as a person, in how I dress and speak) “You walk like you got a corn cob up your ass!” I approach her, being so cautious that she may have several inbred protectors, “You, minute and destitute whore, you were not christened by any kind of virtue nor vice, for both have a kind of attrition and dignity. You, who were born from a moronic fuck between such forgettable inventors, that which claims how great is life and how great is their delirium; those who bore you and let live, what a waste of raw material. I would not rape you in a fury; I feel your vulva has mixed with the mucus of dogs and paint, standards be not your priority –how you will die from pregnancy-. For I am the me that I WILL, such a high and vulgar being of all powers that dwarfs you and your nothing-life. I pity you for having to bathe your crippled pet with your ignorant tears. I wish you nothing. People, such as you, the peon-masses deserve the earthly Hell that you have so graciously built, that is paradigm, that is Darwin, that is you little woman, without power, you and your class, you incredible weakling, you timid and tortured bitch.” She seemed dumbfounded. I see an ugly girl with brown hair with a scalp resembling a bird’s nest filled with parasites. She has an ugly and misshapen face with protruding teeth and glasses that truly add nothing to her appearance. She walks with her pack of an equally disgusting mother and grandmother or some such; they are all obese, just as putrefied and dead as the child. Someone asks them what time it is… they strain with this simple question for about a minute, and they finally give a wrong answer and proceed on their way. I will prove a point to an atheist author, for I am the great Agnostic. I will see the murder of a martyr, that grand attrition, the only tool worth anything by your cult and genius. Back to the crucifixion: I see a crowd devoted to that phantasm of faith; how easy it is to think all is well at a crucifixion post-mortem. Children start to beat the body with sticks as I arrived, pushing down members of the crowd and presenting one simple dialogue as I arrived and spoke“I am the murderer of god, you are but his pets and I have bathed in your creator’s blood. And I have castrated this god of human hands and a blood-less heart.” Raising my hands high, mentally controlling their will with my skeletal fingers by twisting my left hand’s fingers, beginning with the pinkie, turning inward with a folding thumb. “Every man now, is only a fallen god without eyes. You see the world once emerging from the engorged cunt, and there your fellows sealed your eyelids to a close, your voice becomes an echo, and your hands are now tools for someone else. I offer you the heart of your creator. Ingest this organ of not truth or what is known as divine, but a though, like a match to bring the flames.” I pull out a heart and carve it open with my nails then throw the remains to this crowd of the illiterate and begotten. In actuality, it was the heart of a large ape. As the crowd and minor holy men are busy picking the pieces of the heart, I approached christ with his black hair and a tiny height that rivals the myths of Napoleon. His nails are long, his teeth broken and crooked like a

beggar, his anus widened as with cut open balls. “This is what we’ve been waiting for?” I asked loudly and expectantly, my right arm pointing to the body “We’ve waited thousands of years to see the return of an ordinary man not any different then any of us? He is not worth it. He is not the jesus to be forgiven, he is the man we are glad to be rid of; the bourgeois and insipid variety.” I insert my longest fingers into the spear wound and stretch it open, like a portal down not into the thought process but a descent into organic nausea. Through this hole, passing by fantasia no grander then packaged gizzards. I am now at the top of an incredible mountain paved with diamonds, gold, and titanium. Such a spot befitting a man who says ‘I am god’ I see him now, this most real form; here is the inner child sucking on a thumb. Wait, I examine closer and see he is dead when I feel for a pulse and put my ear up to the mouth and there is nothing. The body is slumped to the right side; thumb still in mouth, covered only by a blue blanket that barely hides a violet flesh, his face is cut apart by the shaving of moustache, eyebrows, and hair on the left of his face, this small and castrated child. I curl up right next to it, hiding under the blue blanket and I sleep. The body dissipates like ashes. I smile. The character of Atheism Atheism, dressed in a white short sleeve shirt and black pants with black tie, armored with a Snake Skin jacket while clutching his imposing pocket knife in a side pocket, culminating with a two-foot long cross impaled through his skull; this deformed pariah who failed as a chameleon. The Madman is dead, and we have killed him. Morality is the assassin; we are the conspirators for being so compliant and listless. We have succumbed to not a land without god or logic, but a mindset without idols. The idol is the bringer of influence and what idols remain? But the dead, dying, and meaningless without innovation and strife… A natural selection that favors the weak. Oscar Wilde once said that all influence is immoral, something referenced to by my now dead friend. The reincarnation is not worthy. If that were untrue, then would we not have evolved beyond Nietzsche? All that has been created are the ouroboros of shared ideas. It is the Madman to come from the brink and deliver to us something that had never before been conceived. As it would, that a Madman would arrive with every dying star, it reminds me of a whore who is given a facial and there discovers illumination. I come too late. My time has long passed…

A young Mormon boy, an old Catholic with a black beard, an obese Evangelist mother of three, one follower of Islam, a female atheist, one stereotypical Buddhist, ending with a small Hindu family; all of whom are extremists which should be noted. An illumination, brilliance, and the Madman: They are the conclusion but to what? Countless images happening all at once, struggling to find that vent through this one character in each action of repulsion and glory. I pondered for a moment if I should draw this out for much longer, then again, this should be quick as my author has set me free and I shall thank him with an excess of blank pages. This Mormon is beheaded by an Al Queda operative. The Catholic is placed in the Antarctic half submerged in ice water. The Hindus are treated like untouchables in their culture; the women are raped and beaten, while the men watch and are castrated. The Evangelist is fed to several apes. The Islamist is given a world without enemies; there he finds no one and dies alone. The atheist mocks primitive cultures; she is then subjected to their rituals and is raped and beheaded. The Buddhist is locked in a room without windows; given only a little tree and sand, within days he consumes every leaf on the plant, and then dies of starvation. I am afraid. as I remain one without bible or coda, but a verve that coils and sheds the former ideal like the serpent crawling upwards the tree of knowledge; things that I have written and will re-enact. My fear is that I will not pursue them any longer when pacified by society. It is like a poker game, it ends when you show your hand. … “The girl screamed. The murderer laughs like mad, she begs, he takes out a large knife. She prays, tears rolling from her eyes, a bone-crunching sound is heard. A shot from the policeman’s nine-millimeter pistol, the fatal shot to the head of the murderer. She pleads to her hero ‘I just want to go home’ “ “This novel is my masterpiece,” said an eleven year-old boy struggling to become a horror writer, the author of the above paragraph, if even that, more like an extended sentence. He has had two short stories published in very, very small fanzines and he has posted four more on the Internet. This “masterpiece” is a typical slasher story; so typical it would have been rejected for a Friday The 13th screenplay. He shows the novel to his boyfriends, and they love it. A Naïve boy who is devout to the followers of a passion-less manifesto, and the novel is sold to a large publishing house and it does all right on the market, not at all surprising when the challenge and depth of this book reaches the mighty height of a grain of sand. I write myself in, “Naïve boy, you must challenge people.” he screams that he does not want to, that he only wants to be a jester, to be remembered for his entertainment. I retaliate, “True, that after your death people will remember you, but for only a shot

period of time, fifteen minutes to be exact if we are to follow Warholla and his pretension. For decades after no one will care about your rotten corpse that the worm defecates on, and no one will remember you past that expiration. But, we always remember the pariah’s who wish to change the world and to show us glory whether introverted or extroverted. It depends not on timelessness but on the passion.” A critic descends, casting me as perverted and unworthy, going on in the erotication of rape that I bestow, the difference (same old same old) between pornography and art. I will show misanthropy personified, this is a way to view something as the atrocity that inspires hope, pain, and numbness: In a room of teal, we watch three figures through an iris window, looking out from within my two eyes. A man dressed like an aristocrat except for a black hood that hides his face who stands between a blonde-haired girl no older then seventeen trying to cover herself, and her mother with matching hair; whose limbs are chained to a concrete ceiling that hold her several feet high. Both are of course nude. The daughter cries, and her hands block out her pubic hair. The aristocrat that does not show his face brandishes a very clean and defined sickle with a metallic handle painted yellow. The mother becomes silent. A portrait ten feet by ten feet descends attached to two near-invisible strings, just a foot or two above the mother’s skull. This portrait is in fact an enlarged photograph tainted (artistically) in sepia; the image becomes visible, showing off a victim of Ed Gein’s immortalized by her violation. Gein, one of the first American serial killers: his victim, this aged woman that hangs by her lifeless feet chained by ankles, torn open from anus to chest. It is so awe-inspiring that you would think Dali would masturbate to it. The executioner tilts his skull slightly upward for which beams of light shine on him, thereupon a bent halo tears through his eyes and hangs above the skull; suddenly two large wings rip through his back and these wings are plastered with lined paper and drip ink. From this man’s spine, the epitome of Goodness wrings loose from him, born from the pores of skin and showing its innocent flesh to human eyes. Goodness emerges as a limbless dwarf with empty, plastic bottles planted in its mouth. With a clammy and Asiatic (recalling Shintoism) skin that turns violet from the exposure to oxygen, no longer shelled within polluted man, crawling slowly forwards like a dying slug as it approaches the child and rapes her with its bottles, to give her pleasure, for that is mutually good to the corrupt individual. The sickle approaches the mother, her child still is watching with a penetrated cunt magnified by a see-through bottle: The sickle (moving upward) penetrates the asshole by a few inches, and then a slow lift approaches; working in a seesaw motion, the blade moving quickly; slowly tearing through the outer wall of the cunt, tearing through stomach, and now torn en half. The mother is dead. The boy and critic vomit in unison, I speak, “You see how I’ve made art out of a tragedy? Showing how our world is a constant mirror, I have taken a man who wanted to fuck his mother out of love and hate. He wore the flesh of his victims much as the same as we wear masks; whereas he wore them to become what he wanted to be, we wear a mask to be acceptable. And, by that dismembered woman we witness the birth of new pleasures, and new freedom. The mask becomes our weapon, and the trophy is our freedom.”

“You’re sick!” the boy screams. “No, you’ve glorified Gein’s crime for your own profit. Simply creating a series of violent episodes does not make you a writer, it makes you a pornographer” said the critic. I speak again, “I don’t give a damn if I’m right or wrong. I will change people by showing them our world simply as it is; deep down inside they know this is true! It is all a reflection of our corrupt universe that offers no solace but hope while elites continue on in murder and monopoly, it is this idea of hope that has only given us shit and democide.” “What is true? Showing men committing bestiality? Saying there is no God as repeated for over a century? You’re nothing but a hack wishing to gain attention for his crimes!” said the critic. “What crimes? This is everyday violence; you simply ignore it and refer to it as a tragedy. It is no tragedy; this is the way of life, it is Social Darwinism prophesized by the divine Marquis! To do away with it is to do away with the society that created it, a solution through artistic genocide. This is necessity; one cannot overcome reality without having first faced it.” I speak again. “I sincerely doubt that the essence of Good is a crippled dwarf, or champions of capital punishment fuck on a mountain in celebration. This is obscene. Enough of your ‘mirrored’ world, people want the truth” said the critic. In defiance, “I am giving it to them” The critic shakes his head, bemused. I speak once more, “You hate people like me don’t you? It is of course obscene but people need obscenity! Enough of this cushy world where imaginary characters are created to live in a tedious cycle of life, death, triumph, love, and freedom, enough of these anecdotal biographies written exclusively for money, enough of everything that rebuilds people as puppets meant to follow the words of an invented prophet such as your Ayn Rand. We NEED work that will fuckin’ murder our glee and take with it our restraining morals. To gut punch us and implant it’s terrible voice in us” foaming from the mouth “We need violence to show violence! There must be this conclusion, the end of the moral coda and the end of the meaningless life and with it the end of meaning. No more a truth to be found, that absolution may only be a word to satiate the herd while men lie and give of them selves to nothing, and they die for nothing. Only in the extremes may we find what we have ignored, the Gray. Love and hate, horror and the paradise, are the same. No different to fly or fall. I do not propose to know of the truth, nor the proper way of life; but I know what is wrong, and that is the slavery of today encompassing Social, Religious, and Economic varities. Before each and every ritualistic task to find oneself, one must recognize what is around them and the idea of Good & Evil being the supreme Lie given to us by our kind and loving society, though well-intentioned it became the greatest kind of propaganda. Secondly, one must react to it. ”

The critic gives a good review of the boy’s work. They quickly undress and begin to fuck like student and teacher. … I peel away a piece of dead skin from my face, nuisance hangnails amputated with nail clippers, pieces of me fall onto this very paper with a single drop of blood, I wipe off this waste and continue onward. I, not we, you could never understand me no matter what lengths I reach, and I say that out of relenting to a truth and not a defeat nor condensation. I alone must commit transgressions out of invented mysticism; therein I will be created as I see myself and not as I dream in writing. An individual and selfish trait usually referred to as martyrdom by people who do not wish to create themselves but only follow that which has been created. I feel this is a trait that links subversion, atrocity, and glory. To be a martyr is to give your self over to the masses, and then be reinterpreted to be more appealing. When you become the individual, you are the in-understandable entity like the Sphinx or Stonehenge; the ritual and the God cemented in time. There I am in this limbo, muted colors flow from above; you can taste these colors by licking the air. Who am I? I am the one who desires to be the OverMan, to laugh at every weak last man. What am I? A man that remains hindered by what he has. With a hacksaw, I set about decapitating my self, to free mind and body as separate entities. The pain soon subsides, a fetus levitates off in the distance, there is me in the mirror and my desire. The stage has been set for metaphysics, but this body needs freedom from this reality constructed for it. Only there may mind and body become whole and separated into eternal entities of absolution. My brain is above me, awaiting me, my body is like cement in water; eating of the fish and viscera that swim by it while still rooted to this world. I will become as I desire, to confront reality and conquer it and to map out my self and remake it. Take all that you despise, use that as the catalyst for the new body like wood to the fire. When I see myself, I see only so much to still be done. … Of Nine Eleven: From the viewpoint of a misguided martyr not at all different from a child wishing to emulate dead mentors Knife in briefcase, could not believe how easy it is to fool these bastards. The others were very anxious and I was worried that the others in the other planes would back out like in the Conspiracy to murder Lincoln or some other fuck up would occur. The plane takes off. The plane is a little away so I motion to the others that the time is right. Brandishing our weapons and doing our best English, screaming aloud in a tall and arrogant voice.

“We have a bomb on this plane” My fellows were breaking down the door to the cabinet as I secured the rest. I then quickly ran in and bound the flier’s hands with those plastic handcuffs that idiots use to tie up toys and loose wires. One of the pilots pissed himself and I took the reigns of the plane, and then ordered the others to secure the passengers. My fellows went at it with but a few hostages were allowed others to gather in the back and phone whomever they wished, it was the least we could do, it would not matter; we feed the mouse before we feed it to the snake. The tower is within range; I fly into the top-middle trying to get the best possible shot. Collision. We die in flames. People scream. People will film it. And I will be immortal. Praise be to Allah, and let I be remembered. [Ending with a very average man committing what is only a spectacular suicide to prove he is something more then simply human] Even now I have not committed the most despicable of things as accorded by the moral guardians and do you know what that is? To say that 9/11 was a staged event. No room for the politic, they are a thing you cannot preach, for the insipid refuse to even listen and only condemn, this prejudice of knowledge. Êö”ºÆ_ Ö×ØÙÚÛÜ -£¼ªÙÆ @™Çö”ºÆ_@ __ __ __ __ __ ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ Only an excuse to cross a bridge, such as a meaningless parlay- like you would bring up the mundane only to get to that crass joke or make a point on the day-. Such a revolt of misguided proportions, he would even speak ‘the artist crucifies them. The artist crucifies all of them.’ … _ þª_ «_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ «_ «_ «_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ -«_ «_ "«_ ì²_ î²_ ð²_ ò²_ ô²_ ö²_ ø²_ ú²_ ü²_ þ²_ ³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ -³_ ³_ "³_ $³_ &³_ (³_ The other two would be restrained and forced to watch: the longhaired one has her hands handcuffed behind her back, her legs tied and held apart. She is cut along the thighs with a box cutter, the blade invades underneath her toenails, her hair is ripped out and stuffed into her mouth, her eyelids are held open while a match is struck and falls onto an eyeball, the cunt is spread open to greet one intrusive lit match, a breast carved into, the fat is expunged and replaced with cotton. The image of Shiva and Kali are tattooed upon her forehead and pubis. A climax is not a necessity to affect people, like a staged orgasm in pornography. When it is the moment caught in the twilight at the height of an extreme that is the necessity. Think of a boring film/book that is remembered or the weak man who became a killer. …

“I should’ve had the abortion; I should’ve had the abortion” My mother, speaking to me when I was nine years old…Suddenly that sentence just sprang into my mind so suddenly. One boy very much in accordance to what is the outsider finds his vices, and he becomes dominated by them-mimicry- becoming just as the other humans, one who putrefies while living in dreams. He is torn by the complex nature of his deranged mother, and feels intimidated by his father, which yields him to his mother. Slowly becoming aware of his errors, yet still pious to delusion, and still buried in limbo while thinking of cruel ideas. He finds an angel in fuckery; he begins to learn new things. An angel in philosophy visits him; he thinks new things. One day he no longer thinks and sets about to be what he has always dreamed of being. OverMan. The writer may be god but the writer is also a slave to their creation. If the creation fails, the writer must abandon it and forget it or destroy it and rebuild it anew. If it succeeds the writer is forced to outdo it or perish in its ravages; if not the writer is forced to create clones of his creation. One man approaches me, spouting on and on about how I am a threat to humanity and have perverted previously innocent children. He continues to harasses me for the appraisal of all freedoms and of all men in which every thinker is the Iconoclast; as he referred to me as a cancer to his utopia that had never existed. ‘Turns out he hasn’t even read of my work, so I hand him a copy while saying with an arrogant smile “judge not les ye be judged” and I leave him my email address. Weeks later amidst many emails, I received a message from this man. He tells me how my work has changed him and he has given up his ways and became an organ donor then helped bastard children by giving them much-deserved toys, and most surprisingly of all, he has donated to pro-choice agencies to raped mothers. How I wish this was true and this man existed instead of merely writing this paragraph of fiction to create a counter-image. Am I no better then he? Write to me at Etuvivrainelterrore@Gmail.com … Idols riding in Cadillac’s with open tops down a poorly planned parade, they look no different from a walking billboard, such as a living deformity attributed to Teflon poisoning. I am part of the crowd and dressed in the skin of Jack Ruby; I take careful aim and fire the fatal shot at one such idol no different from any other. This one hollow point round makes contact with the face, and dead center down the nasal cavity. The idol now resembles victims of nerve gas through a heavily deformed mouth and face, like a horse with its face blasted off and its body dragged throughout the streets, my way of giving them a purpose through a stupendous demise. That is the me who subscribes to violence being an immortal action.

That is, Immortality by Immorality. What an insipid, and at once brilliant and proven thought that violence in it self may grant eternity. A road traveled by the most insane of men; your Albert Fish, your Idi Amin, your lord Heliogabalus, and your artist. It is no better then to carve into a tree. We soon forget that the tree will die. “If God is dead… Must we not become gods ourselves to seem worthy of it? “ NIETZSCHE The Gray (in Tao terminology) that embodies man, for it is gray which grants us the ability to do both positive and negative at once. This Gray would now be truthfully recognized… and not as the purgatory or the void that is filled, but the totality of all creation. As ‘Do what thou wilt’ is not the pass to commit atrocity, but to only be human, and once we see what we are fully capable of there may be created the second paradise. The first paradise was the one created by Cavemen freed of restriction. Though, debatable as to what exactly restriction is. It may be an invented reality (such as what we have now) or reality in itself (an unchangeable thing). This applies to the mass and not in it self to the individual. Such as Jonestown, which was a reality founded by one man, with a herd that latched onto that, thereby placing themselves within another paradigm without pursuing a personal freedom -just another escapism- and perished in that reality. Whereas the individual is free to create as he pleases and walk away from that mass and his debts. His is entirely manifest. See also Perspectivism. … The book posses the author; becoming a surrogate brain of what we desire to be, no better than a log of dreams or a diary filled with paintings about as understandable as a blank piece of paper. The book becomes a map of the thought process or the external memory of ancient humans. I see it as a scarification process much like a live autopsy committed by our brains upon this limited body, no better or worse then the monk who set himself aflame. … A dead oak tree lies in the middle of a dirt field; old condoms hang from the dead branches while icy cum drips down onto mud along the road to an Orgiastic Heaven: Where man and rhino are united by a speared anus. One octopus pleasures eight women while eating pubescent girls feet first-but not before drowning them with a flood of ink. men and women fused to create bee hives joined by the hip as their genitals are the gateways for such bees where bears pluck these hives, bite into them and drink the honey. Women are impaled from anus to throat by giraffe necks, each giraffe adorned with this human necklace. Clean-shaven people are laid as the ground and ceiling to every last species of bats, these people are the toilet and the nest for the bats, for that shit to be eaten, and bodies hollowed out and homes for dozens of bats. Tigresses with immense clitorises rape young boys whose limbs are rooted in cement, the tigresses generally bite

off the ears and claws the backs of each child during the hourly penetration, and how they mimic male orgasm and urinate into the mouth of each boy. Men enjoy the splendor of birds that lift them up onto a bed of spikes; the remains are fed to young children as vomited by the birds. Pigs would bite off the fingers and toes of men and laugh while the men struggled to grab and stand. Horses would trample the old and invalid after a lifetime of suffering; where ducks and chickens would be lifted up to their faces and scratch out their eyes, or plow the fields tied by their breasts or genitals, along with previous and unheard atrocities, as newborn children are fed alive to komodo dragons. Yet, that one angelic woman that stood out was subjected to the very worst; being lifted to the sky and forced to watch it all for a lifetime. In Heaven. … Jerry Fallwell, Pat Robertson, and Billy Graham are the recipients of retribution for every man to be given a smite by a fascist, or for every man to have come so far and believe in personal freedom… only to be reminded of these wretched men and the will to be rid of them. Fallwell is strangled to death by a leather strap. Robertson is gutted and thereon stuffed with the many pamphlets promising one land for the Christian and the triangle-eye of the dollar. Graham is ignored entirely, and he and his offspring disintegrate, there exists no real life to a thing if it does not make a human connection either positive or negative…It is not to ignore a virus, but to isolate it. Religion spreads by the ears and eyes, when a virus is then isolated and cannot grow; it then rots from the inside. That I realize too late, and am now executed for murder. … "Let the most insulting blasphemy, the most atheistic works next be fully and openly authorized, in order to complete the extirpation from the human heart and memory of those appalling pastimes of our childhood; let them be put in circulation the writings most capable of illuminating the Europeans upon a matter so important, and let a considerable prize, to be bestowed by the Nation, be awarded to him who, having said and demonstrated everything upon this score, will leave to his countrymen no more then a scythe to mow the land clean of all those phantoms, and a steady heart to hate them. In six months, the whole will be done; your infamous god will be as naught," Marquis De Sade To murder the epitome of faith and beyond, to defy all others and insult them brutally like the coward, to outdo human capacity: The artist aims at this so revered and holy target. This is my great transgression; for I may never look back again, for it necessary if nothing but for my inner peace, and once there you can never go back to what you were: Jesus approaches with a solemn look and with hands laid low and open, I say ’free me’ and he then walks over with a gesture to kiss his bloodied feet. I stab him with my pen in his ribcage, clutched by my left hand, and now painted with blood and dirt. Using this pen as a lever to lift him before a giant sheathe of sheet metal with a white crucifix

painted before, cementing him there by thousands of pens to crucify this dead hypocrisy. A figure riddled with protrusions, like an Indian fakir fallen upon his bed of spikes, kept alive now by these very words that wish to torture him more with metal pens imbedded into palm and wrist. I cannot let such a thing die by a bourgeois mechanism such as the crucifixion. Therefore, he is lowered into a vat of boiling lead, consumed and now recycled into a tool for every man that thinks, both pen and rifle. I hate to plagiarize; but I have committed another meme formation of your jesus, at best he shall evolve into a phantasm long forgotten, at worst another kind of ideology. Something that Atheist and Iconoclast so worship, the destruction of a man they do not believe in, what wretched people these must be to invent their enemies such as your religious extremists and each and every last herd. What evolution we have come across, to go over the same old same old. I see god: This obese hermaphrodite figure, with crooked teeth emitting ‘round the mouth and down the chin, and ratty hair and one hundred arachnid eyes. With fingernails showing skewed remnants of little men, and a belly and breasts covered with the filth of dancing angels mocking tortured humans in cages. With a body hair like the forest and a prick miniature and syphilitic, an ugly cunt is the gateway to paradise and saint peter being a louse. Dead children fall into god’s mouth and eaten in its slack jaw like a Roman being fed grapes by his chained prostitute. I throw his whores and his meals away from him and into space; it pleads with me without emotion, like a child saying ’I’m sorry’ with a lifeless tone. It offers me immortality with no morality so long as I rejoice in putrid faith. My right fist connecting a one-inch punch to its skull, the noise of a jet breaking the sound barrier erupts while the face falls to atoms. Falling out of a throne made from human bone and crowned by fetal fossils, tearing away the crooked jaw and pulling out each of its one hundred eyes. My nails are now dirty and covered in blood and sinew. The cunt penetrated by my pen clutched in my left palm; with a pistol held by my right hand, I fire six hollow point rounds into the abdomen, legs, prick and balls. The pen blasts poison ink down a tainted uterus, an ink no different then a flesh-eating virus. The king is dead.

Finale The me whom I desire to become witnesses the best & worst of humanity: Abraxas I write of a fine escapism. One that requires all the energy needed to crush a minute insect -so easily in reach to an average man who gives birth to nonsense dreams- but there are cripples that envie such men. Hypothesis: For every action committed (referring to a Tao of Joy and Pain), a kind of energy is emitting that mirrors string theory in the joining of two opposing ideologies. It is a kind of energy to wallow in the wake of Kierkegaard’s ‘Single Individual’, in particular a ‘sea of individuals’ united in totality. Like how radioactivity emanates over time and poisons the inhabitants over an undetermined period; if such energy were genuine, it can then be inferred that both saint and Madman are the result of genetics. Such as the Holocaust influencing a half-Jewish man, with a wife indifferent to Judaism whose son then carries this kind of baggage. This also references Jung’s theories on the Family tree and Eternal Reccurence. In metaphysics: to create an individual (in the ‘enlightened’ sense) is by a continual process in thought and doing in order to overcome limitation while separating oneself from the herd. This creates the genius both tortured and divine, and men that the masses will not remember, because ‘enlightenment’ is a solipsist activity. That is voided when the genius creates something in order to connect him to his herd; often art is that attempt. In reality: one becomes individual by retaining popular ideas as created by the original genius; like manufacturing plants that create cheap imitations. One cannot become an individual in reality. From the artist, dictator, and fucker each and every last one is an imitation of another… proving right Kierkegaard and Jung. For the idea/dream: As we only know 1% of the universe, the dream is all that remains. What if such positive and negative energy gave birth to one man via the great and evil Abraxas beyond only an idea but created here and now. What would this man be? A flow Sacred: Knowing a man and his attempt at conquering limitation. Finale: He gives birth to an individual that cannot exist-abortion-. Return: Purgatory state. Man thinks he is individual and attempts to conquer nihilism. Incomplete/broken Man is born and gives one sermon promoting an artistic genocide. An author counters this, promoting the ideal of the masses being wood to the fire. The ‘Tower’ is referenced,

such an idea of a paradise that retains this idea of society. I recognize the value of society. I recognize the value of eugenics. All this leads to a new society; once this world dies and is reborn. … Multi-colored mammals lay out, stabbed, shot, executed By the millions. Bowels lacerated, mammals vomiting shit and blood. Among this New excreta, ankle deep in a newfound blood tide In waves, in rivers, amassed in a small pool of fat creatures as men stand in the muck prodding dying animals singing sweetly in unnoticed sighs. Yet another and another gashed, torn open, fountains of the divine essence, in a ritual swirling of all things, joining, becoming, all united in pain, pleasure, & pity in a visceral ink, endlessly. An ink without conscience; only hard-externalized memory. A needle and thread arrived from flesh hallows of dying slaves; little mouths violently react to a bio-mechanic deep throat by needle and twine, bridging ones and twos and threes united as one enumerable creature. The needle/thread are now the magic wand of a creator who mends a unity between things never meant to coexist; cats and walruses, mice and birds, two-headed cattle and dead men hung across the skies and replace telephone wires, bringing a new communication through a semblance of maggots where the citizenry writhe in a new and living ink. Otherwise, what is orgiastic and good without mantra are impounded by vanity and good cruelty. Scorpion tails are amputated through genetic regression; the scorpion no longer kills but prefers to die by its one time prey like Quang Duc who did not fight but preferred to die in a martyr-fashion. A sign of the times being a waste of resources. A woman volunteers to have her teeth pulled out; the teeth are removed and are then planted in the desert and give birth to untold acres of snow. Scorpion stingers are fitted as her new dentures, and we see drops of venom falling down her throat. Throngs of people in a brown valley; flowers stick out among atrocity photographs and old soda cans littering patches of tall grass. One photograph displaying dead children killed in the West Bank atrocities fills an empty Coca-Cola can. These people proceed very solemnly through a path; every twenty steps they stop to pick the flowers. After two miles of this, they rest atop a tree stump with arms filled with flowers. They proceed to rub the flowers in their eyes, soaking poison and pollen, awash in the fury of gathering bees and mating insects, thorns scratch the corneas along with inflamed eye sockets. Tears fall from now distorted faces onto a handful of undisturbed flowers clutched in the hands of a little girl pigeon-toed. The flowers bloom in deep shades of red and blue. Nests of bats are poisoned; mid-flight the drug kicks in and they are left dying in grassy fields being visited by merciless sunlight and the thirsty fly. By the way side of these

dying bats are the birth-process: gigantic mud puddles with tumourous bulges, reindeer watch over this in a protective manner as one giant reindeer oversees the operation; its horns are made from human fingers, and for this it declares itself the king of Eden. Out from the mud emerge young children born into a pantheon, animals of the forest partake in tearing off the wings from the previous dying bats and then suture these wings into the backs and temples of the children. The children sing in alien voices –relying entirely on body language, each child signals the depths of their torture- as the sun baptizes the bodies in molten gold. Two men embrace before a burial pit of hermaphrodites and fetal deformities that are speared and now preserved in oddly sexual positions, as though De Sade wrote the Karma Sutra and this fills with illustrations. The men commit to their passions; and sperm falls down the esophagus’ of corpses. One woman seated like a monk with palms folded and introvert. Her hair begins to fall, joyful faces everywhere, over a muddy floor that cradles a comatose people submitted to invisible bolts of electricity which puppeteer an aimless frenzy. These people are fed cowhide, are then placed in one pile to vomit their meal; on top of that are placed the finger and toe nails torn ‘way. As that cancerous woman like the virgin monk, watches like an idol witnessing innumerable sacrifices. Fallen teeth cover this pile then set upon a pyre. The strong man leads herds of animals into tar pits. Animals drown and are encased in tar. The man has the bodies dragged out and are set as stairs leading to the next ambition. No need to describe, which has been foretold too numerous a vision: But here is one before you, this very ink. Look and touch upon this blank, and here is your universe: Swarms of greenish twigs with insect faces, open sores sending loud vibrations, without voice and without the passions-angels before mankind-it becomes a mirror of a homeless people in bondage with closed eyes. While those eyes reveal images of Abu Graihb: Malcolm X: America’s conscience is bankrupt. She lost all conscience a long time ago. Uncle Sam has no conscience. They don’t know what morals are. They don’t try and eliminate an evil because it’s evil, or because it’s illegal, or because it’s immoral; they eliminate it only when it threatens their existence. So you’re wasting your time appealing to the moral conscience of a bankrupt man like Uncle Sam. If he had a conscience, he’d straighten this thing out with no more pressure being put upon him. So it is not necessary to change the white man’s mind. We have to change our own minds. You can’t change his mind about us. We’ve got to change our minds about each other. We have to see each other with new eyes. We have to see each other as brothers and sisters. We have to come together with warmth so we can develop unity and harmony that’s necessary to get this problem solved ourselves. Three Japanese women sit to watch a one man play performed by a hunchback; the man proceeds to play with a small dog. Two old men in overalls haul a crosscut saw over to the women in attendance. The women applause greatly, lovingly, when the two men took

that saw to their necks and behead them. The three heads drop in an orderly manner as the puppy licks the man’s face, Buddhist sutras falls from the bleeding neck stumps, and in those eyes for those last ten seconds of life are the reprieve of a million lives. Foetal bodies are hollowed out, computer parts are built into the cadavers; these computers produce modern children literature. A procession of bodies cut apart and sorted on a conveyor belt by grinning senior workers that dismember an unending multitude of bodies where the remains are fed into a furnace. I do not know if was an energy plant, a meat packing plant, or a mass crematorium. A man named Arundhati obsessed with cunnilingus; his home is enveloping and has a moist air that you could feel upon entering a fog of semen. In his brain played out a collage of every kind of cunt that could be imagined: black, white, yellow and brown, pierced and infected, hairy and prepubescent. He falls into another world Among reddish/pink walls drowning in a kind of urea/saliva, think of a man trapped in his attic with flooding water. This new universe where he is cradled like a planetary fetus, to feel every last sensation down to the molecular level… he becomes a new kind of circuitry for supreme pleasure. The pleasures sweep away every desire and want, all needs evaporate as starvation begins to set. An amusing sight to see a skeleton at orgasm; then he consumes the flesh and begins to taste humanity, absorbing a macrocosm of our narcissism and joy. The universe contracts Each tremor of fruition What is not ritual but New pain and pleasure The TAO fully realized In a man to die by his pleasure To become the next evolution From the cunt emerges this man, Arundhati, born as the Harlequin Fetus. Among a slave nation, a stillborn creature falls. The workers kick at the body, cursing it for being unable to work. The elites stab at the body with their umbrellas, cursing it as a useless thing as if it were a temple of knowledge. The beggars rape this body, infecting it with the sweet venom of pity. The animals gnaw at this body and see it no differently then water in the river. Your wise and bitter god and Nietzsche use the body as a metaphor; it is the mantle of the entirety of earth to be displayed and judged, this hammer of the gods. Blood pulling up from the desert floor; young girls are subjected to circumcision rituals, the immature clit is nailed onto their foreheads.

Among the massacres of the Indians, one soldier’s scalped brain becomes the map of new sensations: He sees a middle-aged nude woman, arms chained above her via wiring; she is a spider web of tubing, a new kind of human circuitry. Her eyelids taped to a close by electric tape; she dreams of paradise and weeps, tape began to slowly peel, tears fall with ebbing blood. … Chapter 3 How Candide escaped from the Bulgars, and what happened to him afterwards “Those who have never seen two well-trained armies drawn up for battle, can have no idea of the beauty and brilliance of the display. Bugles, fifes, oboes, drums, and salvoes of artillery produced such harmony as Hell itself could not rival. The opening barrage destroyed about six thousand men on each side. Rifle-fire which followed rid the best of worlds of about nine or ten thousand villains who infested its surface. Finally, the bayonet provided ‘sufficient reason’ for the death of several thousand more. The total casualties amounted to about thirty thousand. Candid trembled like a philosopher, and hid himself as best he could during this heroic butchery.” The young philosopher belched as he stepped upon the remnants of little brother and sister. Each thought strained to be produced from such obvious epiphanies that could be drawn out by a boy who has yet to know what is greatness and what is a reality –like it were a bullet wound ebbing with error & vice, collecting among a pool of individuals, and bleeding out to the very final drop of existence though it were mohammed personified in bacterium. That fine thought did come among the sweeping euphoria of epileptic convulsions and tremors of faint orgasms. With a fist planted at each pillar of cadavers, with a scream, and expelled in a putrid verse ‘Let there be a new mankind’ spoken by Candide in a manner both plain and obnoxious. A silver ship descends, fire bellows from its bottom, lighting ricochets off the surface and into Candide’s very eyes. Gigantic creatures with arachnid faces and bird torsos exited the craft and greet him. While survivors stood and watched when these creatures spoke ‘What you know as man is only a conduit, a statue of dead men’ and then leave, Candide proceeded to fuck child corpses; their orgasms shall be his philosophy, and the sunlight his dinner. … ‘Let there be a new mankind that does not wallow in the latrines of dead men’

One hand appears of our as-yet-to-be-born individual. It touches one plastic mask, woodcarved masks ‘round the world burn; each pore on the hand becomes an eye and a gateway, it sees what you are. On the Virginia Tech Massacre: My boy, you are one who does not know of much more agreeable targets. You see ‘immortality by immorality’, which is a flawed structure. Why don’t you partake in a more satisfying execution, such as the extinction of the creators of such insipid creatures? To murder only the insipid is a waste of energy; it is like setting out to destroy every usless insect on the planet, not only pointless but you fail to strike at the very heart of the matter. A lab mouse in its cage set in a sterile environment, in the corner is a homely woman with glasses and yellow dish gloves. The oxygen is plain and disinfected, a hospital all the better without a consumer. The woman proceeds to extract the mouse… Mouse: Please cease what you are about to do; I am not one to be sacrificed for nothing. Woman: Why not? What I’m about to do may save innumerable lives. Therein will be delivered my sainthood and your martyrdom. Wouldn’t you do the same? Mouse: Yes I would; but that would be performed on a more deserving creature. Woman: Such as? Mouse: Those inhuman deformities you knowledgeable types like to call ‘individualists’ if life itself is divine (to ignore Schopenhauer) why pluck from its womb, such cherished and meaningful creatures as I and every other? Is it not your tyrants, your impoverished, the unknown depths of deformities that should be the fuel to the fire? Woman: Eugenics: A series of unsuccessful experiments. Mouse: But doctor, what separates you from those very scientists at Auschwitz and Unit 731? You may say that you’re black and that alone separates you as far as racial duties. But that is only a matter of pigment. If pigmentation and this idea of genetic unity among fellows is your defense, I could so easily deconstruct it: Genetic unity is a lie. When parts may so easily be assembled by the most unskillful of creatures, that we are unified in such an insipid factory. Yet we are created blank; any individualist traits may be so easily explained as simple auteur theory. The whole of humanity can be broken down to mechanic a motivation: that tree that grows to become your paper that is scribbled upon by your children –domino theory and interconnectedness-, your art and culture-but elitism and the remaking of an idea-. Even what I speak is pilfered dialogue. Woman: So if life offers no real individuality, and this is due to a bio-mechanic paradigm. Then I ask again, why should I spare you?

Mouse: But you see at what I’m getting at? Why should I perish when you can use any other? What we think grants us individuality, is only fading memory. It is that which creates any kind of identity. Woman: Incorrect. What is real is real and not perception. Memory may be cheated by physical markings with violence, love, and barcodes. You in fact prolong life with metaphysics. No. It is technology, growth; the third eye rebuilt… enough of your bullshit. The mouse protests while being placed inside a small window box. The woman manipulates robotic fingers and hypodermic extensions via remote control, as a now tortured mouse mutters a sentence struggling to be profound. The stomach is slit open, the intestines criss-crossed with plastic tubing, veins plugged into black electronic boxes, a Star of David is excised from a beating heart housing the remains of lynched blacks and whites. A South Korean boy lays waste to whitey and darkie. Shooting a woman in the gullet, she vomits flowers. By a grin and muffled voice armed with distinctly feminine pistols-such weaponry is no longer phallic when misused, such as a dyke armed with a strap on- at close range, emptying entire clips into the torsos of men and women. What is individual? Not creation in itself, or the will to break away from herd mentality, the individual lies in neither extremes or profound awakening nor even Gray, but only in oblivion. Just as Kierkegaard was no more individual then a radical priest to be triumphed by Nietzsche. No more then Sade was a more talkative Vlad or Genghis Khan. There is your god and master, your new jesus per century, your car crash/crucifixion and your viral phrases. There is your individual: A stillborn fetus. Feel it, know it, it is our delusion and god. It is the cancer I neglect and my last futility and final bridge there may be. Total freedom is a lie. Without structure, this class system-paradigm- what are we then but a people without language, without escapism, without a Gray, in other words Haiti, a country with a people who have not gone much farther then creating the wheel and fire. A nothing. I recant once idealist values; I favor building for something, an attempt at anything for what we will never realize. Be it eugenics or free enterprise.

The individual is born. The Great Individual: A handsome face stabbed and re-worked, a screaming face that spits. A tongue made from human faces, winking as it clicks and smiling as it lies. Here is what I give you, our god and master, your prophet and mentor, your martyr and rapist, your saint and chameleon, this Tao of pain and creation. Here, I am a man that wreaks their brain to create something, only to see another summit to surpass. White hands with short fingernails, palms are painted with tar, every fine hair has been plucked; no imperfection shall dampen a fine cannibalistic meal this moment in time I take from you, how well you feed me with blood and brains. There I am as a man that rapes the earth; I take your little joys and little death and will transform them into far greater things, through art and crucifixion. The torso is my mirror; here the roach may survive without a head till the end of time, the well of vice and greatness. Each body hair upon you is a wire brimming with electricity, to touch me would be enlightenment and to die for a cause. But there I am as someone who struggles, one that creates everything and becomes nothing. The legs are great serpents without need for genitals; they wrap around you and caress, be enlightened and look into my tongue. The feet are defiled with shit, the perfume attracts herds of animals, and each toenail is infinite and is marked with the portraits of saints and madmen. A nasal cavity deep and violent, as ethereal as a rainforest while stealing your oxygen. And now these eyes, red and deformed about to burst then and now from the strain of knowing, knowing I and you, and it is dead. The Individual caresses an emaciated torso atop a Gray planet. Stars bloom, a smile brings on erect legs to swoon such a torso, unity in great things: an idea and a mutilated body.

A Return Would you think I hate people or am alone? I only resent mistakes; hence this thing, this book of mine. Life is my only burden and I completely empathize with Bunuel in that he only wanted to live in dreams. This book remains as a continual mirror, but how could anyone write down the entirety of himself when the ‘Will’ is given shape by ink, blood, and hardware? How could we possibly take this incredible force that is beyond perception, and illustrate it for a third party? How many great men have poured out everything they could into the arts, and in technology, and so on… endless volumes appear for each of these humans, and we still do not understand them. A bit of hair falls out, with each hair soaked with oil and a bit of scalp root giving a cocaine-like appearance, and each hair tells me a bit about myself: One would like to see an accident on the side of the road; the hair would be the catalyst for this event. It would not matter if people died or not, only that it did something in the third person and that it was felt. One day there was a pigeon by the roadside, the hair had attempted to crush it but the bird had flew away. Another would want to keep a pubescent girl as a slave, fuck her occasionally but ultimately enjoy her in all avenues. If she had no pubic hair, it would cut off the mane from a rabid dog and glue that hair upon her pubis. How lovely would it be to see a clitoris encased in fleabites. This one dreams of great blasphemies; it would spit on crucifixes, stab at mormon and muslim and buddhist with great vigor and strength -not the kind befitting an Atheist, nor the drone, not the mere shit-stirrer, and not a single man alone-. This one would be a herd formed into a single warrior. Tearing up bibles then praised and reviled. It will be the murderous hero to destroy every last superstructure, then suicide it self upon a throne of guns and old manifestos. This hair would soak it self with lighter fluid and other chemicals, and then be immolated. Yet again, this one seeks martyrdom. It would want to die on live television by suicide or assassination just as it delivers a particularly scathing remark. A twin to the others, but one of two colors, my dyed and natural hair color that wants to live and enjoy life in excess of nobility, and to be that one great man. It then tells me things I needed to know, that there is several conspirators here: One wants to ruin me then re-create me as a drone. One last would like to see me as a prostitute and nothing more. A humanistic side wants children if only to name them upon my mentors. This leader being the head of this little group tells me I should end it, I am not an author, I am not a creator, I am only a thing no different then the leaf. “Okay” I say to the hair “How do you propose I fight them?” It speaks “You must combat them.” But how then do you fight better judgment? It gives no further response. People don’t want art; they believe they may create a meaning out of fruitless endeavors.

Only art can love art. Those who love art without creating only seek it out of emulation of their desires. How must I fight them? How will I fight them? Praise? Great success, great deeds, great obscenity, great virtue, great spirit, beloved people, the herd, the mere animal, the pet, the toy, escapism, infinity, useless. I realize one thing that I have been suppressing for some time. Writing is for cavemen. Why do I, why should I only create an emulation of what I see? That is all it is when the primitive witnesses a deer disemboweled and eaten; it creates pictures, same as if we invent. The exception would be the thought process, how else do we paint what we think? Unless you only think upon simplistic matters, that kind of thinking isn’t interesting in the end, like examining a rat brain and charting banality; it’s just another type of purgatory. I see myself as the drone locked by his chain; this book becomes a letter to be smuggled out into the hands of free humans and warn other minds to awaken the slaves. It would be a total riot in the prison; great art and rage merge into a living spectacle of a man feeling suicidal revolution; not a one that he would destroy himself for, but one he knows will beget his annihilation. Atrocity. That is the accent, both conclusion and catalyst to a society that does not work. A thing made in a dystopia; in that the atrocity is the catalyst for new order and new tactics along with the deaths to the king and queen and cronies, the end of an era devoured by another. This is Social Darwinism as the worm ouroboros. If you break it down much more, you can see that the atrocity is only unfiltered communication; from within you is carved onto the body and land of another. No art may do justice to this when one is true and pure in great violence. The nature of violence is to escape from reality by unmaking it. … I see a circle; within the circle are untold numbers of people fused to religious artifacts with each overlapping the other: The circle is one universe housing innumerable planets. One planet just beyond our own houses men and women in the midst of fuckery projected before a Star of David giving way to a tide of human fluid, where we see men crucified to these stars, their falling blood is our comets, their screams our thunder, and their orgasms become our lightening. One other planet has a floor piled with amputated hands; above this pile is a weeping black man emitting red sunlight, and each tear resembles falling napalm. One looming planet where bestiality is encouraged, the emerging children from man/animal fusion look like angels with wings splitting from the back. Two tiny planets -which plays all too well in this macrocosm- within grasp of the other. One occupied by men, the other with women; in the center of the two planets there is born one looming hermaphrodite… birth of god from man, this Roman universe consumed in the orgiastic. The last planet inhibits

the ode to joy, a totality of love and hate in sweet chaos and total freedom via one mountainous tower in a city; this planet shall be spoken of much later. … A grotesque human where no sexuality may be defined that is hidden by emerging tumors and dirty flesh lay out in the heart of space. With a putrifying planet-shaped torso, laid out for eons while a long tumor hangs from his lower jaw extending from the chin past his left eye and into the scalp: he is a landscape imagined by Bosch and Joe Coleman. Nothing happens while the tumors age with a host immobile and uncaring, and relents to everything. The body is overwhelmed, slowly becoming one indescribable mass curled in a fetal position. That is your modern man who lives and dies. Out of that emerges a new parasite, one that may speak and hold a consciousness and as enormous as a mite, and just as compelling and fearsome. A parasite requiring all of the attention and spite as we would a deaf mute – this single bacterium pious to one and only fusion, a mantra so sacred to the herd-. From there stood alien creatures with a mutant origin, splintered by tribes, and no more human then fantasia spewed by wretched minds. Until one deformity spoke as pretentious as he could, and emerging with a language just as toxic as his species “Glorious is the man who stands up to die.” This was the beginning of a Roman society, one of divided classes and a divinity in madness when futility and mortality overwhelmed the senses… therein Decadence. What has emerged has been the classic structure of the elites and proletariat recited ad infinity. This once great Dionysian structure perverted by dead men and animals laid out side by side with erect pricks as the conduit for ebbing desire, with carved open bodies resembled looming organic foxholes. Children play crude clay flutes while bloodied spears encircle the lot: Mars, Venus, and the Child. A light rainfall occurs as with rejoicing, blood and water spill out of abdominal cavities. For there is created ritual, thereon philosophy and tortured humanity; no different then society as that is nothing more then ritual. From there a woman’s head is held aloft, from that meaningless thing spills new humans from putrefying eyes. Sixteen men and women (eight per eye) poured out; these children of a new world emerge with a new primitivism. There they create a new society ratified in unified incest with new elites and new leaders, the pariahs are born and there is now nihilism, and from the drone there is now positivism. Out of all of this, the planet is rebuilt with isms and a new language- this they call the paradise- the sixteen children then split, each professing a will to life. Each child creates a new group, which begets the concept of morality, good and evil, monopolies, and the nature of life. Typical divide and conquer strategy to prevent unified freedom, then came the little man personified as shepherd and herd as one. Centuries later atop one misshapen mound drawn by magnetism between pain and viscera, and this one creature pulled itself from the wreckage and stood.

The Last Individual No gender was apparent for this creature at first with a height of 6’1 with barely a face, it could not be called a hermaphrodite or an evolved man, nothing human emanated from it. A third arm protruded from its chest that reaches below its knees, with raptor-like feet rooted on the haunches, and staring out with a crude face painted with yellow fingernail clippings arranged as three circles like eyes. White feathers drooped from the scalp, a mouth decorated with rows of knives and pens matching a long and black tongue, each hand came equipped with eight fingers, the third arm equipped with two thumbs parallel to the palm but with only three fingers, with a multi-colored skin tone; the chameleon made into man. It seemed to gesture with just a flick of all three hands in an upward motion, as though it spoke ‘one last manifesto’ and it bit off its tongue with black ink pouring from the wound. This is what spilled out onto the ground: God is not the invention, no opiate may suffice; the creation of a god is like the big bang, a social ejaculation I had seen a middle aged man rape three teenage girls about the age of fourteen and Asian and this man had raped each child through every available flesh vacuum, at one point forcing one girl to shit herself endlessly while he ejaculated onto her open eyes. There I sat watching them, without any spectacular epiphany or any great deal of empathy had emerged as I watched in quiet reservation. The man finished up, the girls were laid out in a circle in a drained and broken attitude. I had unsheathed my M-1911 Pistol and conducted it at the man while telling him to kneel and be silent. At the same time, my left hand brought out three appropriate blades and letting them land before the three girls in an expectant manner. I spoke in a monotone voice to these children “Do what thou wilt” while directing my pistol at the man. Revulsion had overwhelmed me to such a hysteric disbelief once these children told me the most inhuman thing I had ever heard. Without even glancing at the blades, they had explained to me that they will love this man, how they will remake him into the ideal lover, how splendid of a man he will be, and what a great life that would become. It would be nice to quote what exactly they had spoken, but my mind was too far gone in deep thought upon hearing such atrocious spectacle; this inhuman spirit based on a god who has never been there, this platitude which defies the very will of nature and humanity sans mass stupidity… yet stupidity recognizes itself for being such. I exploded “You! You violate the words of De Sade? You ignore what makes you, every essential component of humanity is a loss; you are inhuman! Your rapist, this most insipid of pederast, he at the very least pursued simple passions. For that he may not be faulted for if only to have the desire to carry out these

passions… he invites himself to have all manner of passions be taken out onto him whether murderous or simple, the ebb and flow of life in Master and Slave principals. Yet I gave you the tools to rise up and take upon him all that you have lost and wish to carve onto another in the infinity of violence and cathartic dreams. How you reject good fortune! Putrid cunts, you believe in fusion! Where the one needs the other to gain out of the lie of pacifism and goodness. There is one and only one! We use the other to gain out of conquest and manipulation; even your idols are guilty of this! The one is virus, the one is parasite, and the one is divine; that which is all that you ignore out of that pathetic will to ingest godly escapism of the drones who do not think! One is wretch, one is depraved, one is powerful, and one is De Sade, one is Darwin, one is Nietzsche, one is Goethe, and one knows when to act! The wise man walks away but only the fool takes it on his knees! Nihilism is the tool of the greatest of individuals, therein exists the mighty Sadist. Lo, you refuse logic and seek delusion, and that is your religion.” The man attempted to flee, so I shot him from behind just below his right kneecap. The pariah has the gift of invention for being handed morality and then refusing. I drag him by the wounded leg back to the girls and before those blades. Again, logic’s defied when the girls –in knowing they could not attack me and live- chose suicide. Two had slit their wrists, and one committed Hari Kari; she looked as though she was attempting to give herself head in such a position. The man said nothing. I had shot him an additional four times in the left kneecap, both elbows, and at the base of his spine with slug rounds. He rolled around pitifully while screaming. A pariah is only a thing that builds and dies. The manifesto ended, thousands have gathered to watch as the face of the creature began to give way; the likeness of Artaud had emerged, with a tongue no longer bleeding and a body emptied of verve. A sweet odor emanated from him like a candle burning skeletal debris as he raised his right arm coerced with remaining iota of strength, and Artaud offered his body to the masses. He is quickly eaten by the people who render free dry limbs without flavor, devoured and crushed on the spot. The manifesto was all that was left, and it could never be removed. Society had become hungry; it began to need absolution while being no longer aroused by the delusion of escape. A renewed passion began, recalling Dionysus and Osiris. Several centuries later: A people still in deep thoughts ringing with the tale left by that final individual; they realized that a zenith had been reached; no resources were left, nothing more to invent, and a kind of primitivism had now awakened. The end had come;

reaching metaphors from the wilting plant to the dog with rabies whose limbs quiver and collapse into itself with a drunken stupor. Mass suicides dictated by Schopenhauer-Idealism, wide-ranging depression, giving up on everything and laying down to rot. Entire armies forfeit, leaving tools and guns by the wayside as they walk back to their homes without a uniform. Prisons collapse with inmates casually jogging back into the cities committing simple passions. Churches remain decimated without a herd; the Vatican Bank has its assets plundered by bishops with businessmen fearing a proletariat uprising of all castes that would shower themselves with international coffers and Nazi gold. The corrupters assassinate each other; no anarchist need apply as one after another murdered each other, they remain as the cannibals holding that severed head –a last vestibule of power- before their fellow in dying ritual. Starvation, murder, total madness same as we know, be it the last time. The man/planet had died long ago, with his tumor feeding off his last bit of life; finally dying from prolonged starvation. Out in the heart of space: A centipede-like creature deflowers a cunt; the hymen is torn open as with tears of blood spilling out and creating a new planet. A new beginning, a valley without mirrors that female ejaculate drips down onto = man blooms once more. A new world without the words of dead men; they are cremated upon a dead planet as befitting a philosopher’s head on a pike, as are annihilated entire ideologies and the whole of morality and good and evil. Man created as they want without hindrance and therein dies once more. … When the herd begins to splinter off into single cells in anger and despair, the right catalyst is needed to set them off. The Hutu-Tutsi Genocide springs to mind in what has come and what may be. Here you had millions of people in conflict with the other. For months the anger and frustration at Hutus grew, until a radical broadcast sounded the alarms and the people were armed and slaughtered a million Tutsis, the details of such atrocity ring of the details encapsulating De Sade. Today we have millions of illiterate, homeless, and unemployed in this country all awaiting to be led and utilized, herein exploitation of resource and man’s true capacity are merged. … I had once believed in this dogma ‘Immortality by Immorality’ which suggests that one can find eternity in atrocity. I had given everything I had, every iota of strength to this doctrine where in the end I had created nothing. Such endeavors are no more glorious then a crush video with just as much callousness to a fellow. This is a Christian dogma: that violence in itself will free mankind that commits transgressions. Each religion dictates this approach to violence that without this body there is delivered your freedom. When it is without the insipid dialogue, without religion, without restraint, without

morality, without conduit, without artifice, without the masses and without shepherds, and with pain and joy, this greatness within Gray with what we discover as humanity. When we paint, as we fuck, as we give birth, there is no resolve for a ceaseless and ongoing ouroboros that only a mechanic oblivion would suffice. … The OverMan: For every man that sought eternal freedom, at his mercy are trillions of universes that each mirrors ours. This is the reward for each man to have become individual divine. Could you imagine a world governed by Nietzsche? In Nietzsche’s paradise both Zoroaster and Jesus are complimented by the Wicker Man, this was his sabotage of society. His people became primitive OverMen governed slowly by technology. Leonardo Da Vinci creates angel wings and gives his people flight as they escape limitation, law, and paradigm. Artaud’s galaxies are composed of mutes who communicate by body language and excreta, a constant motion resembling collective bacteria incarnate as the phoenix. It goes on to Hunter S. Thompson, Bruce Lee, Schopenhauer, GG Allin, Che Guevara, etc and etc. … I give birth. In my child I witness my naiveté. I see my weakness and strength. I see the seed of a shepherd. I see a deaf-mute who will be suicided with a fine pistol. I cradle my offspring and snap its neck, letting the body float into space. Am I the man who believes they are a phoenix that will plunge and with his picture in the paper to be an inspiration to another? I give up my former joys. Here I exist as someone who should have rightly died long ago, for I had nothing to create but for repulsive mirrors. I renounce suicide. I renounce the Tao. I renounce everything I had once put faith in. When one thing is roadblocked, man may use their fists, their voice, and their inherent weaponry to continue onwards to break through that boundary in ‘The Will to Power’. Then they die so suddenly and create nothing else.

Notes: Look towards the history of humankind.

The Extermination of Humanity Under Keynesian Economics "I have become death, destroyer of worlds," Oppenheimer I see comets fall, riding them are a bacteria known as refugee. A boy writes ‘fuk ur god’ on a computer monitor; within that very text, macrocosm, entire worlds feud and die, their blood runs down the computer screen, the boy licks up this blood, and how sweet it tastes. The boy walks off, half-smiling while staring at the breasts of twelve-year-old girls. Later at home he masturbates, a little fetus covered in boils falls out; he kills it and consumes the child. “Hello boy” “Hello Danny” “Hello Son” As spoken by elites. The boy is held down on an operating table. “Please help me.” As spoken by the last man. Down an open mouth, I see the real world. There are children playing atop a glass dome, inside the dome are future weapons and new innovations. A man proceeds to dig his way to China; he breaks into the dome and falls. A bound Asian man shot in the head point blank, rows of murdered civilians, some trampled by tanks, and they got their information by then. In captivity are middle eastern men being tortured by suited whites. Sen. Wellstone is laid to rest. In Haiti, the results of a puppet who rapes children: people living in cardboard houses with flooded latrines, the UN forces leaves a message by executing a man and leaving him rotting in the streets, forgoing the usual media. The Democide of the once saintly individual, there now is your Pinochet, here overcome are the murderous Spics. There is an image of a black man crucified onto a monolith. “He’s coming out of it now; notate the foam falling out of his nose. I know we’re only to record spoken word, but I feel it necessary, this may convey a kind of poisoning” “What a trip.” “Indeed.” Air force pilot Alex Harmen awakens from his Demerol-induced trip, he has been given a code name he will not remember; he has seen such horrible things.

“How do you feel John?” “Fucked.” “That’s good you feel something, better for that then the usual depression, eh? We can set you up there John. Ermm, uh, just, waitaminute, there we go, sorry about that I forgot hit the record button. You feel fucked right? Testing. But the depression, how is the depression?” “Neutralized for lack of a better term, I feel weakened, my testicals ache, and my feet are trembling a little. It’s like feeling drunk in a way.” ‘Good.’ They never suspect, nor will they ever. Our media and Devine Tesla. We shall make these birds sing, we shall let them see what we want, o’ mighty, o’ infallible rouge, that be our religion, what a nice and pretty thing. You kind birds that part my hair; you pursue our interests, you make us strong, O insipid and great mankind! Riding alongside Gary Powers, we do not have our cyanide capsules… he refused and I forgot. The plane is shot down so suddenly by a patriot missile. I see the Tesla coil as the crucifix. There is Tesla palming balls of lightening, at that moment I realize just who is the true prophet. There exist no beautiful cherubs, but only HAARP, Tungeska is the fall of man, every last man being tracked with radio chips – a list for who’s naughty and nice – what a pity for men that will never realize Saint Peter is a computer. Summary of the MK Ultra Project: was put into action when U-2 Pilot Gary Powers refused to take his cyanide capsule when captured. To prevent the leaking of any information, his plane was shot down on return from the Soviet Union. Though it were researched well into the late 40’s/early 50’s, it was after the Powers incident that the program when into effect for all airmen. Reasoning: It costs millions of dollars to train an airmen, versus thousands of dollars to train a grunt, they would sacrifice one hundred grunts to reclaim an airman. Execution: The subject would be placed in a drug-induced coma (once done with LSD now done with Demerol) and given a trigger word, when the subject has been captured, the trigger word is given to the subject in some manner and the subject commits suicide or assassination (see Sirhan Sirhan). Dr. Keynes, god bless you. What amazing spectacle, the brain of Keynes downloaded into an android. I see over a dozen people in lab coats covered in vomit, computers reaching orgasm through a mass of new information, paint-like fluid ebbing out of hard drives… they know now and see the rebirth of their messiah. Here to witness, the fall of every little man; cementing a warped ideal of the OverMan as recited by the great Nietzsche; an ideal that perfectly validates Darwin and De Sade, Natural Selection via Master & Slave.

Dr. Keynes gives his speeches by binary code, it takes 5-10 minutes to translate each senteance uttered. “My people, how far you’ve come. To advance upon an idea to mutate this wretched, deviant species into something without future, without a god, without anything but to give to us. And you have taken it even higher then I hoped, with worthless paper, and great and holy media. How splendid it is to have only the consumer. We need a more controlled population, for that I refer to the great and beloved Rwanda. With what we have asserted, the white protector to save the poor and dying niggers, by the simplest possible manner, upon these very hands (invokes the crowd of sychophants, spooks, and idealists) are befallen diamond and crude, how justly to reep material from a people who do not think. And so our bases were made, our men deployed and (begins speaking even more pretentiously) sheltered they that were provoked, they that were our fuel to the fire, they that ranks among the greatest of parasites that which partakes in a social cannibalism.” How much longer should I see it continue? Cameras which monitor every last gesture, and every conversation recorded with a multitude of triggers. I see people re-wired and dumbed down. A sick and meaningless people (Image of the American flag, the masses, cannibalism) Arise Dr Keynes; you will be the eternal Ugolino Della Gherardesca. You will be remembered as the man who gave us the television. You have won the battle without a Stalingrad, for you are Mengela and General Shiro Ishii. You are the Wiseman who says to us ‘May you live in interesting times.’

In The City Excavated buildings, rainfall of black ash & rivers of saliva. Trees upturned with roots soaking of blood and fused knives. Held under a red and blue sky with no wandering humans, no arranged ode to pain and joy, but only a sacred misery. There’s people lynched from atop rotting buildings with protruding skewers, their agony muted by cut vocal chords & blank faces. A people united under not cruelty, but Instrumentality beyond pain or love, but the flesh married to idealism & completed with the utmost in artistry. A nursery holding mutant children; one child’s fingers are broken backwards; the fingernails grow immense & dig into his torso & now paralyzed in a sitting position with his toes plugged into electrical sockets for eternity. Untold rows of dear minority hang in the sun with amputated noses, tubing runs from each nasal cavity up into a high structure where biological weapons are dumped into, & bodies stay in constant rot & convulsion. There is a stadium rebuilt by one crucified muslim who becomes a new kind of circuitry, his limbs become extension cables to power the one thousand electric chairs for seated cowards & every last & remade fuck machine. Among his attendees, holes are cut into the tongues of one dozen women, funnel-like jowls erupting from the earth, and ants are lead down their gullet & begin to nest. When a queen emerges, she will lay her eggs down into her victims’ open mouth, under the shadow of mohammed, under the shadow of dead jesus: the begotten people who do not realize what they are, walk past such spectacles while speaking to themselves in tongues who stare with the eyes of an insectseeing but a few millimeters ahead of them in this glory of the planet now minimized-. On billboards promising newfound glory, there lay the image of one male pubescent, with each limb amputated including the minute prick, the flesh filleted ‘round the chest, re-wired to become a polygraph device to listen in on each confession by godly men who have had their ears stabbed by crucifixes, stars of david piercing the eyes, and etc. In the streets, two dozen people laid on their backs, their feet pin pricked by intermittent fires, pointing up at the sky & doused by the concurrent rain looking out into nothing, these living anchors. One lesser building is crowned by young girls held and raped by gargoyle automatons, fucked by a constant mechanic motion & emptied with sperm at every hour, and pausing just before any child could ever reach orgasm. Each child has an opened stomach by cesarean where a new child is plucked, the fetal legs ground up and fed to the mothers; the remains are left in gutters that house rare flowers, broken glass & vomit –this is the manure for a rare plant that arises with a human hand clutched in an Anarchist fist-. In the glory of the sun, there beams a gigantic mouth with a jaw like a guillotine & a tongue like a needle, people are kissed by that tongue & bitten into twos & threes, and left to writhe and live by that wretched kiss. Dogs with sewn eyelids live inside each hollowed & sustained bodies. New-Age solar panels with opposing men & women are speared upside down in a criss-cross fashion, they are let live by a series of tubing

leading from the cunt, prick, & ass to each mouth, one couple are impaled by a spike through each head in a kiss, being held together in sun light, giving vital energy to this very paradigm. In school yards I see giant men at least seven feet high, are run around with razor wire like a may poll by wounded children while the wire is wire is rooted in the palms & may easily give if any slack is applied. On the beach a man is crucified upon a dying whale, spray paint marks a cross outline, black natives appear & sing, guided by a road of dead animals opened by bullet holes, such beautiful chants from atop a mound of dirt –an island within the city- the natives kiss this man on the cheeks, the whale explodes from expanding gasses. Laughing; dying refuges lay out on hospital beds, feeding rows of tears to mosquitoes sat upon unblinking eyes; a white nurse looks after them, a white man is born from a shotgun wound (pellet round), pulling himself up & emerging now as a thing beyond little wars & little men, the white man & woman proceed to fuck. There is a thing levitating upward,

The Tower From the extremes of Hedonism, O’ mighty Libertine and significant herd In the middle of the city, one tower pulls up from it immeasurable in scope and all too palpable to the richest of men. It seems to root the city as it touches the sky, like the handle for a dradle, an anchor, a tool, a thing with life. Too difficult to place it into the limited confines of language, you can only see and know what it is from the outset, seeing something so powerful it brings enlightenment. No entry is apparent, this is not a thing made for humanity, but just a painting made manifest. Each floor follows a different variation on total freedom: Populated by nude women, and sustained entirely by diluted urea. These most exquisite of women neither anorexic nor obese, those extremes lay only to consumers. Some with a gap in the teeth, or slightly crooked, others with minor baby fat, others still with shaved cunt and a light stubble, every race is welcomed without a creed, their numbers in the tens of thousands, haven’t I said that the herds have been separated and retained? What of birth? There is no need to create a vice when one achieves totality. Another floor, a mirror of the previous, but only with men; and one other going a step farther with hermaphrodites. On one floor all three converge, it resembles the birth of the universe. A domain of creators; philosophers, scientists, inventors, etc: Many are re-incarnations of previous great men, and some request to be placed back into their original and mighty state once they acknowledge the outside world. Some do nothing and enjoy the view,

saying that everything that can be said has all ready passed, and while others questioned their meaning on a planet where an ideal has been reached and now attained. God is here, a monochrome deformity useless and preserved in a vat of ecstasy. A plaque above him reads ‘Paradise is a shifting element that must always grow and evolve, if satisfaction is ever reached thereon it mutates into purgatory. Here lies your idea of heaven.’ A school environment, nude children are encouraged to watch Madolescenza. Free love and little angst, with those vital years recycled and re-invited, pick your parents; for once you may actually choose a destiny. Dead civilians from each war, united here in a new state. Theirs to grow and nourish, strangely Masochistic in its appearance, pain is too familiar to them. There is a family portrait in bondage. Ocean of cum, nudist camp set on the beach with an orange light that would tan. People frolic and enjoy, but not at all sexual as they remain unaware and naïve of such things. Children swim in the ocean, by the side are women masturbating in a frenzy, emptying their selves to give these children water. A floor of fetishes from necrophilia to crush, with imagery too obvious to recall. The castle of the Four Libertines from De Sade’s The 120 Days of Sodom are granted the gift of modernity. Only here the children are replaced by realistic Japanese androids. The Holocaust: The camps are now bordellos; it resembles an Italian Nazi-sploitation picture where Jews, Poles, Christians, Homosexuals, and Deformities converge and writhe with soldiers. Not offensive at all once you subvert a thing sexually, no one may resist pleasure and the most abundant of escapism. An electronic floor; children are seated in a Chucky Cheese-like environment with wires run to their brains. They play the arcade games; each victory brings a flood of endorphins. The games, you might be wondering, are wired to pedophiles trapped in a hidden room. Each victory brings a prolonged electric shock with a minimal amount of endorphins injected. On the example set previously, with androids being a catharsis: There exist an infinite amount of floors dedicated to each little group and their hatred. From pigs beating to death minorities, Black Panthers executing corrupt white, muslim extremists stoning women to death and committing suicide – though they let live, a secret room houses 72 androids who remain virginal due to blood pumps and an automatically regenerating hymen-. This domain of metaphysicians granted a second set of arms, an extra finger, dual genitals, and a third eye, etc. They speak of their thoughts and given little applause, repeating how they will begin to do something in creating a new and better planet, amounting to only the usual masturbation.

Topping off into the crown this floor of deformities without language, but only a screaming cacophony, and with a wallpaper of mutilated holy figures: There stood mohammed tied to a crescent with a star anchoring the mouth, there sat jesus in an electric chair, the usual mockery as you could imagine for buddha and vishnu accompanied by a dance of these people. One inhabitant without eyes, four arms without fingers, and pointing needle-appendages up at the roof where it meets a giant hand plain and forgiving as they touch and sing. The roof opens, light beams, it looks like Bosch’s painting of insect angels flying into heaven. Populating yet another floor, one without anything, but these deformities who lay and weep, and arises a cloudy-ness of a stillborn people that anchors this planet. It stays like this for eternity.

apocalypse The Chameleon has died and the spider has escaped from its nest Travelers enter a ravaged village smelling of blood. Huts broken open, dogs torn to pieces and impaled with sticks. Screaming faces forever set on beaten bodies. Men and women crucified upright and upside down, torrents of blood falling down the hillside. People half-buried, an old man dragged across the fields by his intestinal tract; hands and feet cut off and hung from tree branches, now limbless people struggle to crawl up the hillside, away from the forest, begging, whimpering, covered in lively essence. There’s a boy crucified through his palms, castrated, and still drawing breath. A forest of hanged and gutted animals. Every woman lay destroyed, crucified upon those trees, pierced and impaled by every phallic limb. Mother s torn open a daughter s cunt impaled and stretched wide, funnel-like. And I was the ruler and the Devil: Spreading from me this biological infierno, flesh-like walls lined with entrails, demons conjoined to screaming children fused to the skull, back, and genitals with weeping faces sprout, these demons stabbing screaming people laid out on all fours with finger nail-shaped blades. People falling, screaming, laid on needle mountains, constant and everlasting screams, and a hot steam arising from a river of blood and ejaculate. I was there, eating these broken bodies . May you come to the attention of those in authority. . Seeing Human heads falling, cut off by massive swords protruding from the palms. Phallic and spear-like blades arising from arms held high above a massive human form clouded by shadow, each arm parallel to the other, and each blade toped by human heads, one head is white and the other is black, the Ying and Yang of mutual decapitation. Mountains of human heads stretching for miles upward, young lovers begin to fuck on these mountains, blood ebbing from torn hymens. It is all here within this coliseum, and there was an obese Caesar presiding over this accursed place, thumbs down. Sparks fall from the sky and there is a loud electronic hum of machinery. Black wires decorate the walls and floors; it is difficult to find your footing. People in the stadium stare down at you; Lightening bolts fall and strike me, my limbs are numb and scalp is set afire, struck again and again by lightening falling from heaven. Other people tortured with electrodes attached to genitals and nipples, and another crowd joined together by holding hands lit up like a live circuit as electricity courses through them. Man attached to flying kite and once he is struck by lightening he plummets; blood, shit, and random viscera covers the wires, a floor drowning in a small pond of blood, low-level electricity slowly killing those who drown, death by heart attacks, charred flesh, aneurisms, ruptured veins and destroyed eyes, ulcers exploding and exiting bowels. I hear a great electronic hum in tune with my heartbeat, a subtle pounding of what may be generators or the trampling of dying slaves, I hear it so often and so familiar, even when I fall asleep it continues, this electronic beat. Children take bullet hits for the Elites who watch onward in the stadium, one of which is dressed as Caesar: the king of Earth. There is an orange/reddish light which permeates throughout this place, an underground cavern, a ground of jagged stones and bits of dirt, naked human feet, a ceiling of stone spikes almost touching the ground. Man with outstretched hands walks over the thriving

bodies as if he is in a drugged trance, and with blank and lifeless eyes. A blond woman presides over this, not a queen but an heir apparent to butchery and grace. Man masturbates a woman laid out on floor; his hands are then cut off, large clumps of hair pulled out of now bloodied scalp by a clawed hand reeking of chlorine. A threesome with a brown-haired woman fucked with two pricks in her asshole, a knife forced into her mouth, with her nipples and pubic hair draped in falling cum and blood, held in the splendor of the stars. Beautiful Italian music with a woman singing elegantly plays on, labia s bitten away by plaque stained teeth, a man tied to the ground on all fours, his asshole fisted, he is decapitated, and he gives birth to a child through his opened neck. The child is the idea, the blond woman holds the child and say’s ‘oh king of god, open your gates’ and the child levitates off into the sun and perishes: Plants grow, buildings fall, no more vices to find once blighted by supreme pleasure that no one may resist, and therein the world is reborn. ... Blue The most morose of colors, there is something about it that conjures the feeling of depression, and much more simplistic, easily grasped things such as the abyss of water, memories and flight. There is hope in Blue; the world may be destroyed as would Pariahdom and there would arise and forever be of permanence Individuality. Limitation is a forgotten memory. The world is opened and we have become the new bird no longer chained. People begin to swim in the air, and they are set free. Ascension, free from paradigm, and there allows new humanity. When I die, no one will remember me. My body will nourish this planet; I will be the nourishment for all people. I will be this great and kind thing once I am gone, no more will there be this void to be filled. My escape shall be Manifest Destiny, and then to let it all go and lay in peace. I witness the limits of violence and pleasure, and I see how limited they are. There is only so much you can take away and rebuild, when you see that a corpse is just a corpse without a freedom or final descent. But a nothing. I am at peace with that.

Final sophistry of a Pseudo-Maudit: Infierno: There is an orange light interwoven with needle mountains, mud pits filled with black pikes, flames, howling, and ongoing groans of pain. On one scaffolding to my right there is an Asiatic adult male laughing while he is whipping a young girl with what looks like intestines, a violent strike to her lower stomach splits her open like a cheap piñata, I am awash with her viscera. I see a man impaled by a Catholic drill and held over a group of slithering pigs, his eyes are furious and drip ink. Large human erupts from the dirtlayered earth sprinting miles upwards with an extended right arm and a clenched right fist; the body explodes with a rain of blood and refuse. Constant sounds of fucking high on the mountains, motherly woman overjoyed by one dozen pricks, her skin melts away as a flood of sperm falls. Girl squatting and masturbating with a white horn filled with termites that eat out her womb and spill out of her body, she presses a button on the horn and it ejects itself out through her body and emerges through her back. Yellow birds fly to the crucified that hang below and pluck out their eyes. Up high between two mountains, there is a man trapped in a webbing of medical gauze, he is pinched and prodded by a scorpion created by fused humans hanging just below him, its phallic tail bores through him, a poisioned torso, with blood and venom overflowing. Ancient woman with amputated limbs laid out on her side, her stomach lined with nipples, infants suckle from her. Preserved fetuses attched to umbilical chords hang off the ground, tortured by lit candles planted below. A sow’s breasts are bitten way by infantile boys. A woman sweats, her cunt pulled open and filled with hot lead. Man is pulled inside out, still alive as ancient men eat him. Too many more that passes by and are too easily forgotten. I see the exit, appropriately a grail doorway and what I thought was the pubic hair were instead pikes which bore through a multitude of screaming people of all genders and all ages, a man crucified to the clitoris. Paradiso: It is much more tropical, jungle-like then a forest. There is a blue sky mixed with clouds and stars and even bits of most cherished night, there is a constant sunset here, a grassy floor rich with green. Every women lay entirely nude and there lies no shame nor morality, and no punishment given to a free body. Many orgies under the trees before not a one who is holier-then-though but your fellow Wretch, and foliage-covered mountains echoing screams of glory. Children even involved with this mass and consensual pleasure, involved with their equals or yet even older, not following the law of Give and Take but only Need. A mad sense of pleasure without fear of being stricken by plague or that of parasite. Elephants howl and bathe women in water from a lake of ejaculate. A baby hippopotamus steals the clothes off the backs of young virgins; they give chase to that infant animal with a great deal of joy. There exists no oppression; there is no opponent that shall rob man of their want and desire; everyone has achieved what is manifest, hence their point of existence made realized through physical interconnectedness.

PaRaDISE I love you please please I don’t want to be alone anymore Someone love me, someone need me, I need you to leave I’m all alone in the world I have died and gone to hell That were my innocent and weak self You have awoken me, I the sleeping demon I would gladly bite off these feathered wings and bend these horns I just don’t want to die alone You will be with me, for without I would gladly die then to be without a goddess I will be with you darling, you are my Lover You will be my awakening from this limited planet I will spare you agony upon agony You will not feel pain, nor birth, nor wraith For I would give to great attrition Moreso then any woman on the planet, as I have no mother My mother the queen of lies and pity All men should destroy their mothers All women should defeat their fathers For we are Apollo & Dionysus This tao of mighty things Thy will that man becomes whole again The void filled with not flesh nor ink But unity among a fellow Let us glide and dance Let there be a new ego One evolved and loving Not to die like a philosopher Not to live like the prisoner But a void filled With all manner of what begets Instrumentality For you, my Love

birth Rioting Asiatic people rampage through villages, they are driven by some religious/political right that brings back an ancient practice of their culture. As they decapitate begging men on their knees that they do not see as their fellow nor as opponent but only as a trophy, three heads placed on a roadblock and the people cheer as the camera records it. It was done mainly to gain attention for the people‘s cause or the media wouldn‘t give a damn and there would be no world coverage. There is a photo of a man in military fatigues seated by his trophy, the putrefying head of a young man. Here we have a prime example, where violence is committed not so much to gain attention for a cause, but to be noticed by a third person. Not so much as a cry for help, but a method to prove one’s identity. We may have an existence through one and the other; two humans become a mirror of the other no matter the relation of blood. By committing this act, they have drawn attention, people know of them, no longer as the powerless specter, they have an existence in the third person, their cause is no longer an esoteric spectacle for their people, it is their identity to all people on the outside; they have murdered in order to establish their existence. ... I tear away my flesh, and there I see my true self. We forget that we are alike underneath this nervous system of physics, the flesh is only a microbiotic society of interactions, and the society that houses the one is not the identity to the self, it is only a delicate ecosystem that may crush the one. Just as spirit/mentality is individual, when the flesh was born it was plugged into to this society, it is joined to a fragile thing and the cure is when that single cell is extracted from the diseased creature and it evolves to a higher being that wipes out that disease. ... To amputate your Index and Ring fingers is to be free of marriage and of making accusations. ... What are fascists but sexual cripples? ... These new creatures, adaptations of humanity One is a black thing, near shapeless with few defined features. With a mouth cavernous and wide like the spread cunt, five fingers often held together as three sharp and scissorlike fingers. The body overall is mutilated and deformed, often walking on its haunches and leaping onto the weak to eviscerate them with an intense speed. With needle-like teeth and it shall vomit napalm and without asshole or genitalia. This is the Ego, and the Ego does not shit.

It brutalizes a single man who is defiant to it, slamming his head against the wall effortlessly, cutting off the face whilst amputating struggling limbs. It culminates when this man is disemboweled at an instant and napalm falls onto the exposed entrails. The Ego feasts on that castrated organ with a subtle joy. The second creature: The ‘supposed’ Goodness, I say ‘supposed’ because a sense of good is not born from within the human, it is an implanted idea. It is a thing that is mimicked so long as it may serve the one; Goodness is only a modified clone of the Ego. A figure clothed in a deep blue gown with awaiting arms in faux-human form, as if to embrace you and bring out a goodness; a goodness that is ultimately an inhuman thing wherein a cancer grows from that tainted heart now blackened and ugly, pumping that diseased blood, topped by disintegrated marrow, and a toothless mouth. It grabs handfuls of pubic hair and shit glued together by saliva and forms wings out of these ugly things attached to its spine, masking the ugly as pure and clean. It attempts to live onward, deluding it self with visions of grandeur. ... That which separates man from lower animal: For the benefit of the insipid, cut off your thumbs. Then we would become equals.

D e p r a v i t y (Justification) D e c i m a t i o n = C r e a t i o n. This is an Anti-Christ Complex; the death of everything could only beget the creation of a new and better thing, a Fascist approach. One may draw parrallells between the Inquisition and the democide by the Khmer Rouge. E x i s t e n c e a n d t h e n a t u r e o f V i o l e n c e. Philosophy clefts at one point, that the animal exists for it self or it exists for the nourishment of the other-just as humans are social animals. That is a flawed argument, man chooses to exist as a social creature (Fusion) and that gives way to Pariah. One cannot exist for the other (society) and maintain wholly, physically and mentally, a new filter is created as an intrinsic piece dissolves to achieve life in a Society, and that being our individuality. The Pariah gives up only the albatross to Society, and grows a further enhancement, and that is to evolve. When I exist for my self, therefore my inner ecosystem implodes and takes away, nothing. Nothing collected, no genetic tree of life, nothing added and nothing gained, a human worth -0. Art and Action are the one loophole to this truth, when one engrains their existence upon another… they in fact violate the nature of the Pariah. When I exist for the other, I have become a molecular creature bound to the other. You may find metaphors in paradigm and evolution, the splendors of life that they may affirm. Both values imply Eugenics –either the one who exists for himself evolves then dies, or we are fused and evolve as the mass- and have then been executed by Democide and the Serial Killer. How often Social Darwinism clashes with Peace & Love. V i o l e n c e a s i n t r i n s i c t o E x i s t e n c e: Those within Society go towards violence to escape this universe. The Pariah retorts to violence as a counter action or overt anti-influence to create a new paradise that suits their comforts. According to Kierkegaard, the Single Individual is the one who has separated from a society of individuals (individuals as if cells that work in conjunction of one being). That is, complete separation, becoming an alien thing to that former society; like birth of a deformity. How does one separate from society? Separation from the masses is an impossibility when taken into accord the unionification of mankind… there is that scientific suggestion that we each interact with each other via mass energy, negative input creating negative output, and etc. It seems that growth is the ideal he went for, but it has been misapplied. Chaso Applied to the Masses: The Negation of state, the Negation of the politic, the Negation of the dictator and all democracies, the Negation of money, the Negation of religion, the Negation of morality. Therein is the man that seeks his fame and destiny, he is that Single Individual and OverMan with another kind of irredeemable growth so easily available to people with a horribly precise logic. Like Consumerism; the simplest possible method to fill the void.

Tao of Joy & Pain (Chaos depicted in terms of the Madman witnessing the fall of society) One, one vast land of a natural yellow-ish pallet overgrowing with unimportant minutia (grand buildings, televisions as large as oceans, scrawling text/propaganda) non-human models, in-human models, dead animals and living cannibals, brief vestiges of former slaves, new generations of fused races, and half-dead Methuselah’s connected to biological mechanized hard external memory. Birth of new man; an unending violence that is both catalyst and result, a thing which creates itself; a man who disembowels himself and gives birth to the embodiment of his ego in a child’s body draped with his innards = rebirth. Therein man invents his destiny and reaches it. Foam streams through the sewers from mouth and wetted cunt, from the armpits the people give birth to new beings no longer blank but entire ideologies created in the flesh, millions with knives, guns, and untold weaponry, and to drown in flooded latrines. No heat or wind, no weather of any kind, constant falling of cum -tears of freed humans- the sewers stuffed to the brim with bodies, and shit arises among the converging masses. Omnipresent laughter and screaming, screams of joy and pain, man in black guns down gyrating fuckers in Tiananmen Square and he begins singing Strange Fruit shooting them thrice out of a luminescent joy. Craniums broken open on concrete sidewalks, people kiss the ground housing their buried lovers, a man takes a screwdriver upon his finger nails, tearing them out one after another and feeding them to a child, and the man then writes a poem in ode to Will Inman’s The Flowers of God . Pricks grow from a man’s shoulders, rows of them as with several rows of teeth, he lacerated his tongue and cannot speak, he keeps biting his pricks, and he then amputates them with his teeth thereupon bleeding to death. Average woman clubs a man until he is in a coma; she amputates his hands and fucks his stumps, and riding those black arms endlessly. Wounded humans run onto the highways and suicide themselves while pilgrims use this collection of bodies as a massive raft to a new world. All races/generations of people fuck one and other not at the final dawn of apocalypse, not to fuck out of futility but only to live freely, all people fuck openly, splendidly, in that are expelled what makes humanity, creation in not a blank, creation of the joy of life. ….

I see the nature of Chaos. Is it a throw back to grand primitism, or an explosion of mind and body? Only bullshitters seem to know the exact answer for that. I no longer see anything in Chaos, there is no great thing to it, only a mass of imagery-our purest language- however great and divine it is, it is only built upon a simple logic, and Nietzsche said that the OverMan should not follow only logic. If Chaos can then be evauluated as an act of an Individiual, then no longer can violence be claimed by an individual if it is available to the masses. Therefore; the individidual would be a wholly unique creature that applies to no real set of standards, but a shifting set of principals that works like Evolution (an inescapable idea blighted by herd mentality and a limited manifest destiny) that suits that same man. With that, we discover that Chaos may not be violent, but only another life form like water, a thing that can become anything. May you find what you are looking for.

The Madman and his lover What I see now remain as fragments But pieces of a landscape Still morphing and being molded By what is the same old same old Even for the approaching hurricane Nothing new to find in this final image So obvious and unexplainable When you try to find your self and escape But predictable paradigm The usual ‘cause’ of all errors on this planet The experiment has failed Start over How comforting it is to a people Never once to find absolution Never to gain what is cherished and so sacred The death of God and all masters Let us become the new masters So we may chisel away the teeth Of little slaves and little men The final solution But turmoil and grace What little depth and pity For the blood of billions Like a newfound virus –cured by the bullet and furyWhat is Manifest and what is insipid Oh worldly genius and dictator Every last who will perish on this planet Now manure for fresh creatures A magnificent age The Dawn of nothing but individuals To battle time it self Without finish nor last glory What we see now Is endless possibility Infinite Divine and Cruel

[spacemilkies]

Could you do a Ben Hargreeves request where the reader and Ben dated and were in love before he died and the readers always been there for Klaus so they're like best friends but the reader doesn't know that Ben is with Klaus after he dies since he wants her to be able to move on even though he's always gonna love her but obviously it comes out? Like fluff flashbacks to them being happy and in love. I love your writing btw!

title: the wheels go round and round

pairing: ben hargreeves x reader; platonic!klaus hargreeves x reader

summary: 

the three of you were like a three-wheeled bike

but then you lost a wheel

its a good thing most bicyles can run on two wheels …

right?

a/n: bless the day to umbrella academy. after months of drought, it rained down 5k+ words on my soul

hope you like!

It was more than just an itch.

When describing the sensation of feeling the departed, Klaus had always summarized the connection to an itch.

But it was more than that.

It was a whisper at times and a shout at its worst.

It was both the burn of a cigarette and the sharp punch of frost.

Klaus no longer just enjoyed life because since the day he was born, he’d been destined to share it. Whether it be someone’s brother, mother or aunt.

He couldn’t simply exist without the obligation of presenting himself as a window to those who have departed. They were tethered to him, mere specters unable to indulge in their own whims.

But more often than not, Klaus felt like the collar was around his own neck. The hallucinations tightening around his throat like a noose.

It was suffocating.

Until the few times it wasn’t.

The moments where Ben was on one side,

and you were on the other.

“Please … Klaus. Not tonight.”

Had he had the energy, Klaus would have rejoiced. In the sea of hell, submerged in a pool of souls, hearing his dear brother’s voice was like breaking the surface.

Regrettably, at times he’d been too deep to begin with. The rapid ascend cracking his chest with aches and muddling the shores of his mind.

Or perhaps it was just the cocaine.

‘Twas all a blur at this age.

Except for his brother.

Klaus had been convinced that his brother’s multiple appendages had followed him into the next life, where they finally joined into one.

One string enough to define the parameters of life and death.

One potent enough where Klaus could almost feel the warmth of his finger tips.

No, this was definitely the cocaine speaking.

Shuddering past the residue, eyes fixated forward despite the obvious request for his attention. He learned long ago that it was much easier to escape the allure of desires that were not his own this way.

Of course, the notion worked better with strangers.

“And what exactly did I promise, dear brother?”

He knew.

Ben only sought him out for two things: loneliness and you.

And the two were often more intertwined than independent.

The phantom steps weren’t quite as soundless when the familiar gait in his memory coupled with reality. With his head bowed, Klaus only allowed himself the view of the restless sneakers planted in front of him.

He would account for deniability for just a little longer. Just until the fog lifted.

Yes, there was one plus to his powers.

No matter how much his brother wanted to launch him into kingdom come with the flick of his very murderous friends, there was just no true density to his physical wants.

“Klaus were going to be late. The recital starts in less twenty minutes. “

And in the other side of town, Klaus recalled groggily of the event he wasn’t suppose to remember. Not only would he be pushing the limits of his rather shallow physicality, but he would also suffer to the sharp keys struck in cohesion to whatever dated classical piece chosen for the night.

He could still hear the thundering notes of the last one echoing off the sides of his skull.

The agony of the preservation of music.

“Klaus!”

“Fuck!” Scrambling to his feet, the disheveled man shakily reached for the wall for balance. A few of his trivial belongings clattered to the street below. At least they were disposable now, there was no way he’d be able to make the trip back down again.

Beyond the determination, there was a hint of sympathy in Ben’s gaze. Despite being forever frozen in time by passing, Klaus felt like he was still growing despite the absence of aging. That and Klaus always had a soft spot for his sixth placed sibling.

Well, shit, there went his small window of deniability.

Smoothing his hands down the tattered and grimy black of his clothing, Klaus snuffed audibly as he looked down the alleyway.

“Well let’s get going then.”

____

“Fucking cmon, man.”

Klaus let out a quiet groan of disgruntlement when he peered around the corner once more. Much like like last three times, funding his brother just as ensnared with his significant other.

Despite his warnings, neither of the couple had kept things chaste. He’s managed to get more than an eyeful of Ben’s wandering hands and exposed skin.

Keeping a timer was a futile attempt.

They were too young to die.

Practically skinned alive by their father for sneaking out again.

Getting caught for it again.

All for love.

Teenage reckless love.

Counting upward, skipping a few useless numbers along the way, Klaus finally decided on a limit and turned back to the pair with a stronger resolve.

“As distastefully envious I am of your abrupt jump from bases so quickly, I’m afraid you’ll deny me the opportunity to try the same in the future if we don’t get going,” he emphasized with a pointed look at anything but the two flushed individuals.

Ben let out an equality frustrated huff and you laughed in turn.

And Klaus…,

Poor Klaus was just ready to end it all.

Ben drew you in close once more for a quick snog, one teetering close to another endless makeout fest without his brother’s grunt.

“Alright, alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, after your classes?”

Your face scrunched in thought, before clearing with recollection and you shook your head,” I have practice tomorrow evening.”

Ben’s bottom lip pulled downward at the thought, but you quickly remedied it with a peck on the cheek and a suggestion.

“But maybe, we can meet at night? At the cafe?”

The question was directed more towards the lingering Klaus, who rolled his eyes.

The gesture met by silence.

Seconds ticking into minutes, until he couldn’t take it any longer.

He threw up his arms in exasperation.

“Fine, you little miscreants. I swear if you two drag me through a teenage pregnancy. I will kill you both and drag your souls into my bedroom to view a true the horrors of entangled lovers.”

_

“Ugh, I don’t know.”

Rubbing sleepily under the droop of his eyes, Klaus was willing to bet anything as long as it got him back in bed before noon. If someone told him something like friendship was such a binding contract, he would have gladly done without it.

The remaining option of pure solicitude and his family be damned.

Anything less would have had him in bed still.

“Look, Ben will love anything you get him. He’s easy like that,” he quipped around a yawn.

What he didn’t mention was how frankly any of them would take a grain of salt if it came as a gift on their names-day.

Who knew being born without an identity would come without the rest of the joys in the world. But with everything else denied, what was one more traumatized shard of a misplaced childhood.

When he finally returned to reality, he found you standing just under him, your nose barely bringing the line of his shoulder. You were watching intently, in a way that could only be described as expectation.

Ah, you’d said something else hadn’t you?

God, he was just making this much longer for himself.

What did Ben even like?

Surely under all the endless screaming and turmoil Klaus had been present enough to at least learn something impertinent about his brother.

All of his siblings mumble of wants.

A proper life.

A real family.

Friends.

Bringing together all two of his lingering brain cells, he squared his shoulders with a posture of authority. “A music book.”

To his suggestion, your nose twisted into a look of pure disbelief.

Oh, you unfortunate clueless little doll. If only he had the time to introduce you to the chaotic world his brother had created to express his undying love for you.

“A music book, because he likes to understand you. You and that complicated, beautifully musically-inclined brain that he’s so obsessed with. Poor boy is tone deaf, but if he can keep up with you literately, then he’s a happy monkey.”

His lips pulled at the joke that went over your head with no reminiscence.

All that mattered was that his brother would be happy.

You would be sated.

And he could get his ass back to sleep.

Klaus felt like something worse than a train had plowed into him. Which was ironic, because he couldn’t think of much else that would leave his body wriggling in agony.

Just the effort needed to part his eyelids felt like shouldering the weight of cinderblocks. The trials of it all would have been much more terrifying had it only been the first occurrence.

Fortunately, or supposedly unfortunately given his state of health, this was far from the first time that he’d found himself plastered to his brother’s couch. His impromptu visits were really beginning to affect the integrity of the upholstery, he mused as he picked lethargically at the dried flakes of his own spittle.

Not even on his best day could Klaus recall exactly where they’d drug him from this time. He tended to only bare the scorches of hell not the memories of it.

A low rumble of thunder tickled at his consciousness, and his body managed to comprehend the action to find the available window perched just east of his grungy nest.

To find only instant regret as the bright rays began the thrall if his punishment.

No storm then.

Then what was- oh.

“The parents are arguing,” He sang alone and off tune to the accompaniment of two voices just beyond his reach. Despite its size, their cute little kitchen managed manifest acoustics only found in the hazy mists if his shower.

“He needs to go to rehab, Ben! This is getting ridiculous.”

“Rehab isn’t going to cure the voices. “

Understanding the horrors behind why Klaus was such a dysfunctional mess had done nothing to deter your efforts to provide him with solace.

More often than not he found himself drug to recitals and practice performances where you felt the noise would help to overcome the screams.

It may have been a nicer sentiment should he have control of the playlist if songs. He was more likely to fall asleep and face his maker than find peace.

Indirectly he found himself observing Vanya on more than one occasion, however, a Samaritan token that he hoped he could cash in at some point in the future

“So were suppose to just let him keep doing this to him self. “

Oh bless your soul.

Klaus shoulders rolled in a crooked dance as his hand touched the three places out of order to a religion he had no experience dabbling in.

May the big guy or women upstairs truly gift you for your heart.

“Baby, it’s not that easy…”

Well, gift you more than they had when they wrapped Ben up and presented him to you.

Klaus wondered if you recognized the veteran you were when it came to keeping the real monsters at bay.

“You think when this is all over … think I could marry her?”

The question was asked so causally that Klaus nearly inhaled the paper roll balanced between his lips. Ben, this little rascal, hardly missed a second as he reached over to take a puff for himself.

A slow dazed smile curled at his lips, his mind floating up and away in chase of the cloud.

All the while, Klaus nearly died from an abrupt pneumonectomy.

“Sorry, I’d like to dissect this first. When what’s over? Sorry to break it to you, but those powers aren’t going anywhere.”

That was a long dead dream amongst all the siblings. This was their life and they just had to adapt to make the best of it.

Funny, he couldn’t remember if he’d heard that from mom or dad.

Frankly, their mother was an autonomous robot programmed by their father, so he supposed they were one in the same.

He shudders at the visage.

Ben took another long drag before handing the joint back, letting the smoke settle in him before releasing it out into the world. He was becoming such a professional, Klaus almost wanted to cry.

Rolling his head back, Ben caught his brother’s gaze, the same languid grin still plastered on his lips,” I mean the old man has got to die at some point right? Then we’d be free.”

Except the old geezer just couldn’t seem to find the bucket to kick. Klaus had to wonder if he was even born with one.

Maybe that’s why he took everything from them, because he lost his bucket. Since he had to suffered it was only right that he did.

Scoffing, Klaus fell back into the cushions of the couch. Their father dying would just be one nightmare for another to him. While his other siblings lived their life, he’d be the unlikely bastard still hearing dead old dad.

He waved his brother to continue,” So dad dies. He has no more control. Enter your bride to be. What could go wrong ?”

“They could say no.”

The taste of rejection was familiar and thick, a viscous emotion that was contagious in all the worst ways. It was an airborne virus, a bacterial infection- a stigma embedded into the very walls they grew up in.

They’d spent their whole lives being discarded from the inside. How would they handle the same on the outside?

Well Klaus certainly didn’t think that Ben deserved that.

“You’re an idiot. Of course they would say yes.”

And when that lazy smile brightening with the energy of the sun, Klaus thinks, yeah it’ll be alright.

___

Except it’s not.

It’s the opposite of okay.

___

“Did you know he wanted to marry me?”

Klaus looks up in surprise, though somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he shouldn’t. You were equally as expressive as you were aware. To be honest, you had to be to keep up with them.

Just because they were a danger, didn’t mean they weren’t inherently surrounded by it as well.

As fate brought about.

Ben always made sure to keep you on your toes. Scolding you when your back was turned to the happenings of the world. It was done out of love, to protect you from what you couldn’t see.

Your defense when he wasn’t there.

So of course you’d been primed to pick up on little mannerisms and peculiarities. Lately, when the two of you were alone, wrapped up in your lovers nest, Ben often lost himself to his own thoughts.

But naturally that wasn’t enough to support the little investigation.

No, you needed evidence.

The little box hidden behind the bookshelf was more than enough to close the case.

You still had it.

Unsure of what to do with it now. It didn’t seem like a family heirloom, but what did you know ?

The touch of your own hand stroked fondly over the fingers of your left, a quirk of a sullen smile twitching halfheartedly.

“Yeah, I knew. It was so easy to tell with him.”

Ben’s manifestation came as easy as a whisper yet felt like the heavy side of an iron hammer. He hovered between the two of them, uncertainty rooting his presence just short of reaching you.

His face twisted at the sight of your solemn agony as you picked apart the memories of your life together.

“Every recital I kept wonder if that was going to be the day. “

Klaus could only watch it play out, no plausible intervention available in his capacity to offer comfort. The wound was still so fresh and deep with all of them. The two of you together were just barely managing to keep the gape from tearing wider.

“Then I realized, that wouldn’t be his style. He’d probably try to stick it in a milkshake then freak out when I went for a spoon.”

Ben’s broken laugh cracks his chest, rattling like a case of skeletons. Klaus is glad you can’t hear it, the torment of its sound would only plague his nightmares.

“I would have said yes without a ring.”

When Ben reaches for her, Klaus can’t help but do the same. The urge feels like his own, physically, but when his brother lays his hand atop the pile the warmth doesn’t feel like it’s coming from his own body. At the touch, it sparks an array of emotions he’d only once viewed through a one way mirror.

Now he was the window.

Too bad it was already broken.

“I would have said yes to anything.”

____

“Every time. I know you say you’ll see me again, but damn, you really surprise me, Klaus.”

When Klaus draws you in for a hug, its more than instinctual. Its not an ambient desire.

Its a whim of his own, something that he takes his own personal comfort in.

His.

So maybe he’s a little disgruntled, when a third pair of arms joins the embrace.

And maybe, he’s a little smug when you only respond to his warmth, and his alone.

Call it his own payment.

Grinning, you brush away the damp fringe from your flushed cheek. You always called performing a rush. He thought living with Vanya would help him understand that, but it seemed that music lover’s were truly just one of a kind.

“Tell her how amazing she sounded.”

Ben encroaches on the moment again, and Klaus grits his teeth to bare the grin as he recites the words. Sometimes he wonders if he you can hear his voice as well as he can. The two of you always had such a special connection.

It was a shame that death had to be the one thing that built a wall between you.

With a sigh that could double as exhaustion, you leaned back on your heels. The adrenaline of the recital was finally wearing off. All the long nights and endless dance of fingers across the keys had waned down to this moment, and now it was over.

For now at least.

Give or take a few weeks, just short of a month or two and you would be back at it again.

“So … you look … good?” You winced at the delivery but prided yourself on how it didn’t come out sounding like an interrogation. It was so difficult to properly voice your worries when it came to Klaus.

So much had changed over the years.

You thought you would be able to function without the third wheel.

Most bikes ran on just two after all.

But Klaus seemed to need that third wheel in a capacity that you just couldn’t understand. Frankly, there were a lot of things you didn’t quite comprehend and you had practically dated a superhero.

But with Ben it had been not easy but simpler in all the ways that came natural as being together.

Klaus was the opposite in more ways the one.

Yet so explicitly streamlined down the single reason that he wasn’t alone.

He was never really alone.

No matter how often you tried to fill the space with your presence, some skeleton from the past managed to draw him away.

You think thats the one thing you hated most about the house he grew up in. Despite all those people, it had been voided from so much love that it got to the point that he’d let anything in.

And now he didn’t know how to close the door.

He was getting so weathered just standing at the entrance, taking whatever was thrown at him.

Klaus managed his usual exaggerated grin, and you made no comment of how it drooped a the side. “Oh, but thank you my dear. Truly, here I thought no one would noticed how I walked straight off the runway to make it here on time.”

Laughing came easy, even when it was forced.

“Well, I appreciate it. I really do, Klaus. Everytime.”

Klaus lifts his shoulders and let him fall in his own quirky way,“It’s what he would have wanted.”

“Still wants.” Ben’s words drift like a breeze.

You reach for his hand, meaning every word as they cross your lips,“Yeah, well, he had a great brother.”

There was no denying that your friendship had fractured from being on the receiving end of the blow that was Ben’s death. Things weren’t quite as they were, lacking the instrumental piece that his ghost couldn’t be to bridge your worlds.

But it wasn’t broken.

Ben wouldn’t allow it. He kept Klaus alive, pushing him to remain conscious and aware of the world. Even if his brother’s motivations were selfish demonstrations of his own agendas.

At the end of the day, Klaus retained your friendship.

And in a world of apparitions, it was nice to reach for something and have it met half way.

“Yes, thank you. I’m glad he can hear that and my efforts are for naught.”

Ben flittered between the two of you, instinctively drawn into your orbit. Klaus tried not encroach, but unable to not watch as Ben tried in vain to grasp the wisps of your hair. The intentions phased through you without your notice yet Ben’s look of complacence didn’t falter in the slightest.

It’s what he wanted for you after all.

Your blissful unawareness would be necessary for you to properly prefers in a world without him.

Even when he was still there to watch your steps forward.

“We should treat her to her favorite cafe.”

Ben was back at his side, flickering in and out of space with ease. The question snapped Klaus out of his revere and he found himself answering audibly in reflex,“Oh yes, with my limited funds.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion,

“Sorry?”

Klaus waved you off, not having to explain in detail for once or come up with an exuberant tale to mask his insanity. “Oh, not you.”

Your eyes flashed with recognition. Apart as you were, you weren’t as accustomed to Klaus day to day demons. The man who was once a constant in your life managed to fade to the background without your say so. You knew he was doing it out of his own attempts to shield you. 

With Ben, you were a proper team, one that could at least attempt to maintain the forlorn sibling. But alone, it felt like you were a mere spectator.

“Is it getting worse? I mean its, always worse right?”

“Not… always,” he trailed off.

“Klaus you cant keep drowning them away the way you are. Its not healthy.”

This really wasn’t how he planned for this evening to go. But you were a lecturer at heart and consequently he was your favorite subject. He had resist the urge to make a face when Ben hummed in agreement. “I know that.”

He looked up at the touch of your hand, trying hard not get to far swept into your altruistic stigma. Without Ben around, he’d managed to do a better job of dragging you into his mess rather than allow you to pull him out.

You were just too helpful.

Always loaning money or your couch to rest on.

Just attending your performances hardly felt like a redemption to all your kindness. Ben certainly felt that way. In Klaus defense, he never lead a very virtuous life to begin with. Besides, wasn’t the point of all this for you to live your own life?

Ben had died, leaving you two to reform a friendship in his absence. Sure, it was the squeakiest wheel but it turned.

You had just as strong of a hand in keeping him afloat.

“Then act like you mean it. I know its not fair for me to simplify something so difficult, but you just have to cut them out.”

Klaus wondered if he’d imagined the hitch in your voice or if Ben had noticed it as well. Your gaze had lowered as you delivered into your speech, hiding away the true emotions festering beneath. Klaus didn’t know what he would do if the sniffling began. He was oh so terrible when it came to managing emotions that were not his own.

Who was he kidding, he hardly had a reign on those.

But you continued on. Your stance growing sterner with every word.

“Let the past go.”

“Forget about them.”

“Move on.”

They were the same words regurgitated from Ben’s own request to see that you moved on properly after his death. He hadn’t wanted you to remain stuck on his ghost, remembering what had been and constantly reimagining what could be.

More importantly, he wanted you to let go of him completely, so that you wouldn’t seek him out in Klaus.

Klaus always found it odd how you never showed any addition resistance to Ben’s ‘dying’ request. Not that he expected you to declare vengeance. But you knew, he was a walking window to the world of the dead. Knew that if he tried enough, he could manifest Ben back to you. But you never asked.

You just smiled and nodded.

Ben pretended to be unaffected, tried to convince himself that it was what he wanted. But Klaus knew he was hurting from the lack of contact. Yearning to use the advantage only his brother could provide.

Wanting.

Needing.

It just wasn’t fair.

“Even Ben?”

Ben was in front of him immediately, his face hardened in the event of Klaus breaching their deal. But Klaus was done with the suffering, tired of making everyone around him feel it too.

At one point in their lives, they were all happy.

And it was time to stop acting like Ben’s absence was the end of it all.

“Ben…”

Klaus expected more tears. Something of a sort of production of dramatics that would call attention to your private moment. He certainly had the theatrics in him to do so. But you were just … quiet. As if hearing Ben’s name aloud had stripped the sound from your voice.

Ben looked at him with chagrin, mouth already moving to berate Klaus’ impulsive decision,” Look what you did- all our progress.”

“I didn’t want to! I just-”

“Ben, its fine.”

The silence that followed was deafening. It took them both a moment more to realize which of the pair you’d called out to. And with such confidence. You’d just included yourself in the conversation as if you’d been there from the start.

As if you’d-

“You knew…”

Klaus somehow managed to add more foundation to Ben’s fractured words. The weight of the realization suddenly splintering the mirage you’d all built together to keep the world spinning. You’d all contributed to the great tragedy in which no one was truly happy.

“That you could see him?” Your shrug was lopsided. The weight uneven as you offloaded your own demons. “Klaus, you can see everyone. Of course, I figured you would seek out your own brother.” You said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Like there were idiots for thinking otherwise.

In a way they were.

“But you never-”

” -said anything?” You interrupted with another sluggish shrug,” Ben made it pretty clear that he didn’t want me to know. The least i could do was respect those wishes.”

You’d do anything for Ben.

Even forget.

Or pretend to, at least.

What would you be, if you couldn’t meet his last request.

Frankly, it was all too much for Klaus, his body shaking with misplaced laughter as the situation settled within him. You truly knew them- knew them both better than they knew themselves. They’d presented a game and got played by it.

Ben was fairing slightly better, daring to even smile a little in muted pride. Klaus finds himself thrown back in time, the same feeling of trespassing establishing within him when Ben reaches out with a phantom hand to stroke your cheek.

Swallowing around the barrier, Klaus narrates helpfully,” He’s uh- stroking your cheek. Or trying to at least.”

For some reason you all laugh, your accompanied by bringing your own hand up to touch the side of your face. You’d managed to find the right cheek without either of their guidance. Not that anyone was surprised anymore.

“I’ve missed you.”

Oh how Klaus wished you could hear Ben. Something you could all agree on. But he played his part, being the voice needed to maintain the connection,” “He misses you.”

When you open your eyes, your gaze is more watery than it had been before,” Yeah, I’ve missed you too.” 

Klaus is caught off guard when your hand extends out, fingers flexing. At first he thinks you’d dared to try to reach for Ben, hopeful for a missing touch. But instead he finds your gaze trained on him, your touch as warm as he remembers.

“I knew I could rely on him to keep you alive. “

Ben chuckles fondly,” Damn right.”

You sigh audibly through your nose, giving Klaus one last squeeze before letting go. “Honestly, this is great. I felt so weird trying to pretend like he wasn’t there. Seriously, you two share one brain cell. As long as you’re functioning, it was safe to assume Ben wasn’t far.”

The jib was popular joke of yours when Ben was still alive. The two brothers were a mix of mischief that you rarely managed to keep up with. Together they were a duo, but the three of you were more than a trio.

A unit that sheltered each other from the harshness of reality.

“I’ll take you up on those parfaits now. Maybe a hot chocolate with a shot. I know you’ve got something on you.“

Klaus was going to end up with whiplash by the end of the night with the way this conversation was going. You departed from them with a promise to return as quickly as you could change, leaving the two siblings floundering in place.

“I know I said this before, but your fiancé is strange.”

The way Ben smiles reminds Klaus of the day he decided that he was in love with you.

Ben didn’t even try to correct him.

“Yeah, but we like them that way.”

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Confessions of a Coffee-Eater | 01

Genre: Smut, College/University AU

Pairing: Student!/Poet!Namjoon xStudent!/Poet!

Warnings: Public male masturbation, sub!Namjoon, allusion to smoking and poverty, swearing/cussing

Summary: It is in hard times beautiful things can occur and the addiction of primal instincts be suppressed in their proximity. However, when two souls from different social worlds meet in a poetry class, any former urges gain a new direction.

Some of which are sensual in emotion.

And may not be reciprocated.

Masterlist

Next part

Not everything starts off smoothly, time occupying more of the mind than the designated task or destination. Students tend to deal with this occurrence more often than it would like to be admitted, especially on the first day of the new academic year when everyone has the silent resolution to begin with a clean slate. Withal, there remain some who, nevertheless, manage to sneak into the classroom as the introductions have almost come to an end and thus go from being an absent first to a present last. 

Hence is why regardless of the few remaining students introducing themselves all eyes in the vast yet bare space shift to the tall man entering the room in a wake of smoke and cologne. It is not unlikely to think they are as intimidated by the painted canvas on well-defined arms as the girl sitting right next to them after furiously wishing to be left alone, the desire denied as it is the sole empty chair left.

Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact.

Nevertheless, the thought does not mean a glance at the artwork covering alluring honey-toned skin cannot be stolen. And the gained treasure is the sight of an intricate tribal design flowing over from bright turquoise into sleek black on the left arm and a Victorian clockwork overlapping with a nautical map and a compass, the former element stopping at the wrist after peeking out underneath a feather. That is all that can be picked up on from the side.

But almond eyes immediately sneakily take revenge by also looking at a source of interest for it is the natural thing for an individual to estimate the nearest person when being in an alien environment without a point of support consisting of friends. Unfortunately, each of them from private personal circles has chosen a different direction within the study, none of them daring to take on or simply interested in poetry. 

‘And who might you be?’ The round of rapid-fire introductions ends at the newcomer, who flinches as if waking up from a dream with the heavily blushing cheeks of a crumpled composure.

Which are mirrored in the flustered expression of an embarrassed heart futilely trying to cover up the chest area more by means of pulling up the slightly see-through white loose top thinly striped with lines of black. Regardless of the attempt, the pastel pink push-up bra decorated with a beautiful flower pattern in onyx remains visible very much so from above and a tad less from the front. Thus, when realizing the uselessness of the endeavour, the worry of coming across as an indecent person increases as now not only the professor is taken into account but the still nameless newcomer as well.

‘Oh, ehm, I’m- I’m Namjoon, an exchange student from Dongguk University.’ Eyebrows rise at the baritone voice trying to speak in a composed manner, miraculously managing to do so to a fair degree though fiddling fingers give away the surprise of suddenly being called to attention. Oddly, a thought pops up which almost encourages hands into action to calm tanned nervous ones but just in time can they be lowered into the lap while watching the speaker politely. ‘As for poetry, I believe it’s an expression of a person’s mind. However, this also means they are puzzles to be solved because a thought is chaotic and can have a double meaning.’

‘Very well. It’s funny you should mention poems being like puzzles. My son is currently in high school, also studying poetry and he and I had a conversation about it recently. He could not for the life of him figure out what any poem meant and was astounded I do this for a living. But, as any fifteen-years-old with a literature professor for a father, he wants to become a game designer.’ Chuckling arises in the classroom at the enthusiastically told analogy and all tenseness disappears thanks to the dry humour of the resident Manchester man. At the same time, eyes which swiftly avoided each other find one another again only to repeat the rapid break of contact, those of the too-exposed girl wavering instantly after strangely wanting to make sure Namjoon is more at ease like the others. Why the deep-voiced man looks back with the intention - if there is any intention at all - to lock gazes instead of, fortunately, accidentally letting focus wander lower to bared skin, shall remain a mystery.

For blushing cheeks to never unravel.

Get yourself together, Y/N. I don’t know him and he’s clearly more interested in my chest than myself. Although... just now he looked at me. And he’s kinda adorable. And handsome. No, no, no! Jesus, what am I thinking?

Professor Brown happily continues, pacing the room. ‘But if we think about encoding and poetry, they are similar on the grounds they are both, indeed, essentially the same in the manner they are carefully composed in order to work.’ Steps halt in the middle of the space, academic sight switching from one face to the next as hands fold behind the back clad in a neat black jacket. ‘There is something I would like to ask you. Does any of you write poetry?’

The majority of the students' palms rise in response, including one of which the arm is decorated as if by a traveller of old and one which finds purpose after being mentally prevented from ridiculously serving as a means of soothing. This risen pair does not go unnoticed by the minds which control them, the air in the narrow space between bodies filled with silent curiosity pertaining to the written work. The possible style, the possible words, the possible message.

The possibility to hear it being spoken.

The possibility to connect.

But neither says anything, focusing intently on the empty pages of the notebooks lying on the elongated table and clumsily fiddling with pens between fingers. Notwithstanding, every move is carefully composed to not make a wrong impression, both parties trying to prove a point which is supposed to be interpreted without any double meanings. Certainly so when rejoining each other’s company at the end of a swift ten-minute-break to allow room for breathing something else other than poetry in four hours dedicated to it.

Nevertheless, it cannot be helped but let shoulders relax when smelling nicotine mixed with sharp cologne and sensing two intricate paintings in contrasting styles settle on the empty chair again. It can even be admitted the presence is liked, certainly when from peripheral vision perceived americano irises follow the movements of the pen noting down a random lyrical thought.

And thighs have to clench together in slight awkwardness when unconsciously sensing them looking away swiftly after likely having been distracted anew by the revelation of the shirt that does not want to stay in place. However, the emotion changes when remarking upon an almost anticipating shiver disturbing the fairly intimidating man’s aura as knees accidentally touch.

Panic.

But something undefinable and incomprehensible forms its undertone.

‘I’m sorry.’ Clenching the jaw, the contact is immediately made undone by crossing legs and focusing on the penning down each poem, any poem that comes to mind. 

But nothing appears at hearing the shy stumbling over words, picturing all too well how Namjoon’s face is adorably flushed with timidity. ‘Ah, i- it’s- doesn’t matter.’

Which only worsens the uncomfortableness of a consciousness slowly turning corrupted as the long hours of the seminar pass, wondering what lies at the heart of the cause to behave so jittery and rush out of the door to smoke. Wondering is the wrong choice of words for it are more sensual ungrounded fantasies which rise one by one while listening to the flustered ocean deep voice answering a question here and there.

Fancying how it would sound when being completely controlled by the girl keeping up an innocent façade.

Me.

God-fucking-dammit, focus on class and not your own perverted imaginations. You’re here to learn, not to lose control like this.

This warning spins around a chaotic mind at least every quarter of an hour, swirling among the perversion and bringing common sense back for perhaps a good ten minutes before either Namjoon’s voice is heard or a glance is thrown in the man’s direction. Then the whole circus starts anew without hope of redemption.

Henceforth, it comes as a relief when the class is over at last and everyone packs their things to rush to the nearest bus station to make it home.

The first to disappear are arms made of ink and smoke.

Restraint is one of humankind’s most difficult issues to face on a daily basis, seeking refuge in what brings tranquility to a tempted consciousness. Withal, the nicotine purchased with the little money put aside from working the night shift at a nearby gas station did not help erase the vivid memory of pastel pink embroidered by lace as black as night. If anything, it was all in vain as the confrontation with it happened as soon as walking back into the room to which all of us are confined for four hours once a week.

Igniting a type of hunger which has not been felt towards any other girl in Korea, too busy working the same job as now to help make ends meet and send the little brother with big aspirations to high school because the sibling deserves a proper educational basis as well. Hence is why there was no room for letting attention stray towards anything but the means necessary to help pay for the rent.

  Three people could barely manage to bring it up each month. But out here on foreign soil and alone, being kicked out of the rented place nearby the university is not so much a surprise. Fortunately, the boss does not come in until seven in the morning which allows for two hours of sleep before packing up the makeshift bed consisting of a jacket for a mattress and rucksack for a pillow. It is difficult, but hardship is inevitable for those who are seen as pariahs, the people who do not fit the norm in one way or another.

Yet, strangely, Y/N - the name glanced from the improvised name tags the professor asked to be made to make it easier for everyone - was not as tense as the rest of the students. In fact, intrigued is perhaps the best description to give the overall attitude of the girl caught occasionally glancing sideways.

I did fuck up great time, though. Why did I stare at her boobs?

The painful twitch below that had to be awkwardly shielded against all the eyes of the room, certainly the pair of newly met ones on the adjacent chair for they are the cause, makes the memory of flesh resurface as a rapid turn is made towards the abandoned unisex restroom. Swiftly, the lock to the tiny space is turned.

Alone.

God, I really blew my chances with her. I should apologize.

The phantom of touching knees makes lashes flutter shut and teeth bite down on the bottom lip as a hand brushes over tight grey denim.

Obsidian with a pearl undertone.

A cute black bow from which a small diamond dangles between breasts.

‘She’s so pretty.’ A squeeze sends the mind reeling further away from sanity, recalling the warm scent reminiscent of the autumn which hangs in the air. Wild berries, dark plum and bergamot.

Her.

‘I could be so good to you. For you.’ Tanned fingers barely possessing a sliver of logic undo the zipper concealing heated hurt, firmly enveloping the source for distraction when slipping past the rim of plain grey boxers. To suppress any sound, their counterparts fold over the mouth on the brink of falling into whimpering submission, trembling like during the seminar in the sudden craving to be touched.

By Y/N.

If only I’d push my thigh a bit more to the side, she’d have caught on. What am I thinking? You’d never do that.

After all, what does have a poor man from Ilsan to offer to a foreign woman who is better off without an outcast glued to her? Moreover, there are financial priorities that have to be taken care of and it is highly improbable there is a willingness to help a wretched soul out of the gutter with money.

She does not know me. 

I do not know her.

We are strangers.

But lovers in this fantasized instance, having pretty small hands replace clumsy desperate ones as ears naturally attune to the echo of what little has been heard from a charming voice. Howbeit, it is speaking in a sweetened tone furiously wished to ever be heard truly in private. ‘Namjoonie, why didn’t you tell me you were so needy?’

‘I- I didn’t want t- to- we’ve just met and- and- fuck~’ The curse comes out on a breathless whimper as the chin is flicked up to gain access to the neck, glossy lips kissing the warm skin at random as the thumb circles the heavily leaking part of corrupted fancy.

‘If I’d known you’d be submissive like this, I’d done this to you sooner. You wanted to grab my hand earlier, didn’t you? Place it in your lap to rut against during the rest of the seminar?’ A cheeky grin chisels itself onto the coy mistress’s delighted expression at the unashamed nodding confirming the intention dismissed in the last second after the second smoking break. ‘Make sure I know what I do to you? Who would have thought that such a big buff tattooed boy,’ a whine falls into an appreciative growl when the stimulating palm tightens its hold significantly, the reaction eliciting a chastising click of the tongue, ‘would be such a mess. So cute, all submissive.’

‘O- only for you.’ Hips snap in time with the movements below, aching for release from the building tightening in the lower stomach. Breath comes at a greater difficulty as speech becomes harder to manage as well, feeling too heated to think properly and dwindling further and further into the urge to please the one who ignites a sense of safety. ‘Wan- Wanna be goo- ngh, ah, ehm, b- be good for you.’

‘As you should be as my baby boy.’ Y/N stands on the tippy toes of obsidian and alabaster Puma sneakers, arms suggestively snaking around the back of the neck and nails digging wonderfully into skin when whispering. ‘If you actually do grab my hand next time in class to rut against, I’ll jerk you off under the table but make you cry in overstimulation for being impatient. Am I understood?’

‘Y- Yes, M- Miss.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’

‘C- Can I- Need to- shit!’ All attention of action shifts wholly to the most sensitive part, erasing every last sliver of sense while barely refraining from coming undone without permission. ‘Plea- Please, ah, ah, Miss, m- may I!’

However, the request remains unfinished as the stimulation becomes too much to handle and the world is sucked away into pleasant nothingness, taking fantasy along and leaving a poor man from Ilsan alone in perverted satisfied warmth.

Together in an imaginary self-made world. 

Alone in a bathroom in reality.

Stained in more ways than with solely thick ivory. 

Yet having to say sorry.

[ixlander]

[Bisexuality: A stage

   Many exclusive homosexuals do experience bisexuality as a stage (as indeed do some heterosexuals). This obviously bolsters the belief that “real” bisexuality doesn’t exist. People who have had this experience tend to look back at their old selves with condescension and embarrassment. I suspect that the word “bisexual” triggers unpleasant feelings in many of them which they project on anyone claiming a bisexual identity. While most self-defined homosexuals and heterosexuals may be correct in seeing their own bisexuality as just a stage, inevitably some people who see themselves as exclusively homosexual or heterosexual will have repressed rather than “grown out of” bisexuality. As some lesbians in the fifties who were neither butch nor femme felt forced to choose, so do some bisexuals. Both sides often exert so much pressure to “make up your mind” and direct so much contempt at people who are unwilling to do so — and most of us are so unaware of bisexuality as a legitimate possibility — that a simple need for acceptance and community often forces people (particularly, and often most painfully, young people) to repress one aspect of their desire. Just as closet queers (also perhaps bisexual) often lead the pack in homophobic attacks, so may closet bisexuals be the most intensely biphobic. I think this is particularly true among women who came out via lesbianfeminism.

   Many women, in fact, who now identify as bisexual, experienced lesbianism as a stage. I identified as bisexual before the women’s movement, but as happened with many women, consciousness-raising and traumatic experiences fueled an acute anger and disgust with men that led me to lesbianism. Some women became lesbians because “feminism is the theory and lesbianism is the practice.” Or they may simply have succumbed to peer pressure (even some heterosexual women “became” lesbians for these reasons). Over the years, many of us, often because of working in political coalitions, have reconnected with the world outside the “women’s community” and have discovered our heterosexual desires. We are now attacked for having “gone back into the closet,” as traitors, and as self-deceiving fools.

   The theoretical and emotional need to keep alive both the notion that all true feminists are lesbians and the belief that no rapprochement with men is possible fuels lesbian-feminist hatred of bisexuals. Many lesbians who oppose other forms of separatism, who work with men politically and have male friends, still see sexual separatism as an eternal given. But as political separatism falls into disrepute, sexual separatism also loses its rationale. As many lesbians recognize that class, race, age, etc. may be as powerful sources of oppression as gender and sexual orientation, they also recognize the futility of separatism as more than a stage. Few people — and fewer sexual radicals — really want a movement which forbids us to relate sexually to people whose race, sex, class, physical abilities, age, looks, etc. aren’t exactly the same as ours. And many of us also refuse to have our desires and sexual practices dictated by anyone else’s idea of “political correctness.”

   Many bisexuals, like many homosexuals, have never identified with gay politics. But some of us, including many women who have rejected lesbian-feminism, have committed ourselves to gay liberation. We see gay identity and solidarity as crucial, since heterosexism oppresses all gay people, whether homosexual or bisexual, and we can only struggle against it as a self-conscious group. The ambiguous nature of our sexuality needn’t imply any ambiguity in our politics. By choosing gay identity we acknowledge that sexuality dominates our identity in a heterosexist world while recognizing that in a non­oppressive society no one would care who we wanted or who our sexual partners were, and sexuality would no longer be so central to our sense of who we are.

   Unfortunately, political movements and embattled subcultures have particular difficulty acknowledging ambiguities of any kind. Add to this the current plethora of “ex-lesbians” and we can see what haunts the political unconscious of the lesbian and gay movement. Clearly, the rest of the gay community ignores or ostracizes us at its peril; embattled as we all are, we need all the forces we can muster. Bisexuals often encounter unusual opportunities to confront and contradict homophobia and, if we have been encouraged to develop a gay consciousness, we will act powerfully and efficiently in such situations.

   But if it rejects us, the gay movement loses more than numbers and strategic force. It also loses another opportunity, similar to that offered by other “sexual minorities,” to re-examine its commitment to sexual freedom rather than to mere interest-group politics. What would it mean for the gay movement to acknowledge that some people experience their sexuality as a lifelong constant, others as a series of stages, some as a choice, and many as a constant flux? It would certainly mean a drastic reworking of the standard categories which have grounded gay politics over the last decade. And it might mean a renewed commitment to the revolutionary impulse of gay liberation, which, believing that homosexual desire is a potential in everyone, insisted that “gay” is a potentially universal class, since sexual freedom for all people is the ultimate goal of our struggle.]

lisa orlando, from loving whom we choose, from bi any other name: bisexual people speak out, edited by Lorraine Hutchins and Lani Kaahumanu, 1991

[allysacademicadventures]

“I love you but I can’t accept this”: On Parental Challenging of a Child’s Trans Identity and How it is Unproductive and Harmful

On first coming out, and, unfortunately still, my mother was of the persuasion that this is not something she can accept, at least – at the very least – without challenging. She questioned why every authoritative source or guide on dealing with your child coming out as trans said that the first thing one must do is accept one’s own child as they are. She didn’t, and still can’t, understand why one must accept it without challenge, and I feel she is missing the point if she believes challenge doesn’t exist (she has and continues to challenge this at every opportunity, I think she doesn’t see why she should accept this), though I appreciate that the types of challenging of this identity change varying on the age of person.  I will discuss the effects and outcomes of challenging over affirmative parental behaviour towards their trans children at three different age intervals: young child (pre-puberty), young teenager (puberty), young adult (late puberty/post-puberty) [these are rough ambiguous categories to be taken with a pinch of salt and some of things are universally held between them]

If a young child identifies as trans, the parents’ priority should be the child’s health and wellness, and more often than not this should be managed through affirmation, social transition, and facilitating gender therapy; the challenging here comes from both therapy, where the gender therapist will be able to help the child understand their own feelings - there are many types of gender therapist and, as you are the parent, most likely it will be you choosing and you may choose one that aligns more with your thinking, and if the idea of a child being trans is unacceptable for the parent then they may seek someone that encourages repression over affirmation. However, what I would caution is that ‘reparative’ therapy prioritises the parents’ comfort over the child’s happiness, whereas, affirmative therapy works only to prioritise the child’s happiness and health - and allowing the child to explore their identity socially and psychologically with no real and tangible commitment to it. By allowing the identity to be lived by the child we are prioritising the child’s physical and psychological health. If we deny the identity of the child not only do we put them through unnecessary stress, but we also deny them the opportunity to experience, live, express, and either challenge or affirm their identity.

If someone in their early teenage years identifies as trans, once more the parents’ priority should be the teenager’s health and wellness throughout the turbulent time of puberty. At this point we should acknowledge that the young teenager has greater agency and understanding of how they identify, that is not to say that young children don’t, but it is to say that young teenagers have gone through the formative years of social understanding. If a parent wants to challenge this identity they should understand that if someone of this age is identifying in this way challenging will most likely not change any outcome, and their challenging and rejection of the identity is more likely to damage the young teenager over actually helping, though in a warped way parents may see rejection of the identity as a way of expressing care for the child, but once more rejection is prioritising the parents’ comfort over the child’s happiness and physical health. As we enter these important and turbulent years of puberty the parent must acknowledge the damage rejection of the identity could cause and mustn’t be surprised if their child suffers from poor mental health, reduces familial communication, reciprocates the rejection, or attempts suicide as these are the lived and protracted consequences of rejection. The ideal approach to a young teenager coming out as transgender would be socio-familiar affirmation of the identity and seeking an appropriate and affirming gender therapist to facilitate the medical intervention of puberty blocking hormones to facilitate a reversible exploration of their identity and prevent the pain of a dysphoric puberty. The effects of puberty blockers are reversible and give the young teenager more time to think about their identity, the effects of not intervening are, to be blunt, horrendous, not only does no intervention force a child to go through the psychologically damaging event of experiencing an unwanted puberty, but also increases their risks of experiencing violent crime when they transition as an adult as they are seen to transgress gender boundaries to a greater degree.

If a young adult identifies as trans, once more the parents’ priority should be to their child’s health and wellbeing, and at this point challenging the identity is nothing but futile as the young adult will have not only been thinking about this for a long time and come to a strong conviction in their identity but also may well have started the processes of coming out to friends to develop a support network who seek the happiness of the child and thus have some hard earnt social conviction on which to stand on. Challenging their very identity is fundamentally harmful, and if a parent is to continuously do this then they mustn’t be surprised when relationship with the child deteriorates or when the child is no longer in their life, either through leaving them through reciprocal rejection as an unaccepting home environment becomes unliveable and unbearable, or through suicide, in which, to be blunt, I would argue the parents become culpable in manslaughter for such abject familial rejection which leads to this. I am by no means saying parents should not ask questions of their child, which is in a very broad sense challenging the identity, as that allows the for the parents to understand the needs of their child and what they should do – that is if they are willing to prioritise their child’s happiness over their own comfort and way of thinking – but what I am saying is challenging which either begets or is intertwined with rejection, or anything which does not affirm their child’s identity, is the most ill-advised approach and I would contend that this, in a protracted sense, is equitable to abuse. The ideal reaction, naturally, is an acceptance and affirmation of their child’s identity, one which allows the child to take charge – as they are a young adult – and in which the parent is supportive of the journey their child chooses to take socially and medically.

Lastly, as there is a trend with some formerly authoritative – a polite way of saying now discredited – figures pedalling a pedagogy of gender variability in autistic people, if an autistic child comes out as trans, please see above for the best approach. It is ridiculous to believe that autism renders trans identity a rejectable variable to some, which, if the autism is supported, will go away; this is preposterous and there has been no compelling evidence to suggest the validity of this. Moreover, if a parent is to hope that their child is not trans, rather they have some other diagnosable issue which will, if ‘treated’ and/or supported, reduce the child’s performed gender variance, then they have a perverse hope. They have a hope in which their desired outcome is developmental difficulty on their child as they find that more comfortable than their child’s gender variance, and that is a perverse hope. Moreover, parents that use things like autism to simultaneously show the ‘source’ (obsessive tendencies leading to a fixation with gender) and invalidate a trans identity in a child, they are unlikely to be supportive of any special needs the child may have for autism, and I question both why they would have children and their own moralistic ground in which they stand as they use a developmental issue for their benefit, placing themselves before their child.

Overall, a parent should accept and affirm their child’s trans identity as it prioritises the child’s health, happiness, and wellbeing, it is, medically speaking, the most sensible approach, and it mitigates against the risks and damages rejection and aggressively challenging parental behaviour can cause. If parents want the happiness of their child, they must understand that by rejecting, dismissing, or aggressively challenging their child’s trans identity then they are telling their child, ‘yes, I want you to be happy, but only in a way that is palatable to me’. Although the parents’ love may target the authentic individuality of their child, the parent is telling the child that they love them, but they can only love them in an ‘ideal’ image of them which they have assigned to to the child (this is usually a preconceived notion of what you want your child to be and in this case lacks contingency and fluidity), and if the child cannot be that ideal the parent is thus telling the child that they are not loved, they are telling them that in order to have the parents’ love and support the parents get to define the child’s essence and it mustn’t vary from this preconceived vision they have, and in this circumstance the child sways from this vision and the parents’ notion of love will result in mutual damage. Thus, don’t ask your child to compromise for your own comfort or idealised vision of your child, rather accept and affirm your child, watch them blossom into happiness.

NB: I shouldn’t have to say this but please remember that not all experiences of trans youth, their households, familial relations, their development, and coming out are the same. This is representative of both lived, shared, and studied experience, primarily focusing on experiences in western Europe and North America, though some principles are universal, some remain contingent on a certain social context which I have experienced. If you feel anything needs added or omitted please let me know, and if you can add things more relevant to a different social space please do!

[jeragar]

Homebrew Race: Pagheim Elf's

Hey i want to see if a homebrew race of mine is well balanced, please leave a comente and don't repost this. This race is a custom race for my book. It is not complete yet, but i would like some feedback

Pagheim Elf's

"Ishvalda gave us new life, but at great cost"

The head monk, Sarutobi, was finishing his prayers in the temple, remembering one of the most important verses of their sacred texts. He looked around the other members, all their heads shaved,  a reminder of their simple lifes. After a brief pause he proceeded: "But the cost of immortality as worth it, so we could enjoy a life full of challenges to overcome and wonders to surprise us". We joy they thanked the food and enjoyed their breakfast. So we also did, since we were their guests.

- Verse from the diaries of the Halfling Willian Adams

Cites tall as trees and made of intricate carpenter techniques, great swordsman and martial artists along sages and gurus are just a few of the things that define aspects of the elven cultures. Even though divided by land, faith, magic and tradition, all still respect Ishvalda gift that is their new life. Well, mos of them at least.

Similar but different

They are slightly shorter than humans on average, ranging from well under 5 feet tall to just over 6 feet. They are more slender than humans, weighing only 100 to 145 pounds, but can easily become heavier if given them enough food. Males and females look almost the same, and males are only marginally taller than females. Elves’ coloration encompasses the normal human but rarely are in lighter colors and also includes skin in shades of copper and sometimes ebony. They favor elegant clothing of silks in bright colors, and they enjoy simple yet lovely jewelry and well made wood craftsmanship.

The price of true life

Before Ishvalda the elves were immortal in the fay, however their lives were devoid of purpose. Ishvalda offered them a new life in the material plane in Pagheim, however they had to sacrifice their immortality and the possibility to return. At first they lived for 700 years, now they can't pass the 250, same as the dwarves of Pagheim who once lived for 400 years. Besides that they lost the ability to return to the fey when they die and often prefer to reincarnate, to become a perfect soul and one day return. Such ideals made their cultures revolve around perfection and self improvement and companionship. Even the lowest thief will try to be the best and strongest, and will die to protect his friends (if he is honorable).

Five kingdoms first, three left

Elven kingdoms can be divided in five groups: The island of the Kaze Yōsei or wind elfs, the jungle kingdom of the Aag Yoginee or fire elfs, the half country of the Kkoma Yojeong, the small communities and temples of the Yù Jīnglíng and the mysterious kingdom of the Dark elves. Due to their distance and long tragedies, most of their culture became fractured in many diverse and unique ways. The wind elfs prefer to avoid overuse metal due the lack of it in their islands, while the jade elves covered their palaces in gold. Since the destruction of their kingdom, alongside the kingdom of the river elves, there isn't a jade nor river elf government. But if there is something they agreed is that the dark elves are weird and melodramatic.

In search for something

Elves that take on the adventure life when they are in search of something. It can be becoming the best warrior, the greatest sage, the greatest pirate or even the best cook. The desire of being the best at something, helping the people or of surpassing their own expectations is what drives the elves of any nationality to go adventuring. Sometimes Honor will be one of the key factors for them oher the desire to connect with the world. Searching for their place in the world is what drives them.

Brave but intense

Even though they make the best martial artists, they tend to be extreme in some aspects. Be it in their tales or themselves they always expect a lot from the other races, witch causes them to sometimes see the others as either not strong, graceful or espiritual as them. Still, they know when someone is worthy of respect.

Dwarves "Strong, but stubborn. How they manage to stay alive if they fight a lot against each other surprises me. Then again, it was the discord of the jade emperor that made most of our people die in the tragedy of jormungand. They are also worthy smits, since they have the best metals"

Humans "Confusing and disorganized most of the time. The ones form the desert and of darkish skin are extremely beautiful. Sure they have a more organized political system and good warriors, but they never have been in civil war for over a century." 

Dragons "Brute, rude and sometimes crazy. Is easy to be surprised by their skalds singin of their battles, their art and brave warriors. They might be simple compared to us, but they are honofull and they respect worthy foes. Wish they could be like our lungs though."

Elven names

Elven names vary with their subraces, but all are well thought and have deeper meaning. The Kaze Yōsei, Kkoma Yojeong and Yù Jīnglíng firts say their family name then their first name, mostly referring the children by their given name, but the Aag Yoginee say the family name first then the initials of their given name. Only the dark elves follow the rule of given name first and family name last, but for other reasons. Your names are defined by the elven culture you were raised by.

Elven traits

Your elf character has a variety of natural abilities, the vestiges of your fey origins.

Ability Score Increase. Your Dexterity score increases by 2.

Age. Although elves reach physical maturity at about the same age as humans, the elves stop aging naturally when they reach 50, and they can live up to 250 years.

Alignment. Elves love freedom, variety, and self expression, but they do it so through either chaos and order, same as the world. They value and protect their own freedom, and they are more often neutral than not. The Dark elves are an exception; their self-exile into the Underdark has made them more chaotic. 

Size. Elves range from under 5 to over 6 feet tall and have, sometimes, slender builds. Your size is Medium.

Speed. Your base walking speed is 30 feet. 

Darkvision. Accustomed to the dark nights and the adoring the night sky, you have superior vision in dark and dim conditions. You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light. You can’t discern color in darkness, only shades of gray.

Language. You can speak, read, and write Common and Elven. Elves do not possess a common language between themselves, but their spoken languages can be understood by the other members due their roots. 

Subrace. Due to tragedies and geographical preferences they became divided in five main subraces: Kaze Yōsei (Wind elves), San Yojeong (Mountain Elves), Aag Yoginee (Fire elves) and Yù Jīnglíng (Jade elves). Choose one of these subraces.

Aag Yoginee (Fire elves)

One of the oldest elven cultures and the one that gave origin to the mountain orcs, due their faith in Ishvalda. Passionate and driven by faith the Fire elves are now for their spirituality, as well for their combat techniques. Their bodys are flexible as the vines from their trees, their culture is well rooted in the belief of reincarnation and futility for material conceptions and illusions such as wealth, gender and class. That unfortunately doesn't stop them for having a caste system among themselves. They generally have darker or tanned skin, hair dark as the night or withe as ivory and eyes of darker colors.

Ability Score Increase. Your Wisdom score increases by 1.

Elven weapon training. You have proficiency in short-swords, scimitars, hand crossbows, hand axes and long crossbows.

Yoginee yoga. Your unarmed attacks possess the reach property, you also don't need to sleep, you stay in a trance semiconscious, for 4 hours a day. After that you gain all the benefits that other humanoids do from 8 hours of sleep.

Gift of the chakras. Due to the teachings of Ishvalda and the many incarnations of Shiva, the first Aag Yoginee, you possess the ability to reach one of the seven chakras in your body and have special abilities granted by them. However the process is imperfect so you can only have one chakra activated at first. When you reach 5th level you gain the ability to change between chakras after a 8 hour long rest. Chose one of the following:

Muladhara. The "root" chakra. Those born with this chakra unlocked are innate survivors due this chakra connection to the earth. You have advantage in saving throws against being frightened as you are no longer blocked by fear. You know the cantrip Mold earth. At 3rd level you can cast the Sanctuary spell once without expending a spell slot or using material components.

Svadhishthana. The chakra that establishes the "self". Those with this chakra unlocked are happy as they follow the flow of the river, same as the water the chakra represents. You have advantage in saving throws against being Charmed since you are free of worries and guilt. You know the cantrip Shape water. At 3rd level you can cast the Expeditious Retreat spell once without expending a spell slot or using material components.

Manipura. The brightest chakra "the jewel city". These chakra might be the best to represent the fire elves' way of living, be it represented by the element or by giving strong will to their bearers. You have advantage in Constitution saving throws as you no longer feel ashamed of yourself. You know the cantrip produce flame. At 3rd level you can cast the Absorb elements spell once without expending a spell slot or using material components.

Anahata. The chakra of those who are "unhurt". The chakra of love and purity, those born with this chakra unlocked are free of grief and able to love many others. You have advantage in wisdom saving throws as you no longer feel grief of having old loves. You know the cantrip gust of wind. At 3rd level you can cast the Charm Person spell once without expending a spell slot or using material components.

Vishuddha. The chakra of space and of the "Purest". Those born with this chakra unlocked are trustworthy and hard to deceive using lies. You gain proficiency in Perception checks as you no longer are blocked by lies. You know the cantrip Word of Radiance. At 3rd level you can cast the  Detect Thoughts spell once without expending a spell slot or using material components.

Agya. The cakra of "Command". Those born under this chakra no longer are tricked by the illusions of the material world and live knowing the truth. You gain proficiency in insight as you unlock the third eye. You know the cantrip Mind Sliver. At 3rd level you can cast the Augury spell once without expending a spell slot or using material components.

Sahasrara. The "thousand-petaled" chakra. These chakra might be the best to represent the fire elves' passion of comunion among the cosmic power of the universe. You gain proficiency in Religion as you no longer feel attached to the material world. You know the cantrip Resistance. At 3rd level you can cast the Enhance Ability spell once without expending a spell slot or using material components.

Kaze Yōsei (Wind elves)

Chosen to live in the mysterious islands close to the dragon and dwarven kingdoms, they are persevere and almost as passionate as the fire elves. The wind is your guide, as well as the elements surrounding them. The mysterious spirits surrounding them as well as many years of conflict have forged them into a proud and strong nation. Sometimes hornful others cunning, their origins always help shape their destinies. Hair dark as the coal and skin mostly withe and blue eyes on the north, hazel in the south and brown in the middle, they are different as they come.

Ability Score Increase. Your strength score increases by 1.

Elven weapon training. You have proficiency in longsword, shorts-word, Quarterstaff, spear and longbow.

Spirit of Kaze. You gain an extra 5ft of movement and also when you are reduced to 0 hit points but not killed outright, you can do one action before losing your consciousness. The action can not be class related (like two extra attacks) and you can only do it once per long rest.

Yōkai marks. Due to their faint connection with the spiritual and elemental side of the fey, mostly by the high spirits known as Kami, the Wind elves are born with a special mark and the presence of a yokai companion. Each mark reflects the Yokai main characteristics. You can always invoke your Yokai as if by the spell find familiar, without expending material components or having to cast a one hour ritual. However they have the following limitations:

You can't change the appearance of your Yōkai unless you have the mark of the trickster. If you do they can change once per short rest.

The Yokai stats and skills are the same as the creature he looks like, but he knows the same number of languages as you.

The Yokai can't interact with anything physically.

The Yokai appearance is related to the type they are. If you have the mark of the mimic your Yokai looks like an average object, if it is the mark of the trickster they might look like a fox or a tanuki for example.

You can't cast any spell through them, unless they are spells related to your mark. Those they can cast the same amount of times as you.

Their size can't be higher than medium, unless you have the mark of the colossus.

The Yōkai have only one action and bonus action, however they can use your class passive abilities and actions that don't cause harm or are not used to attacks (such as rage and extra attack), or that affect or give the ability to cast spells.

All yokai have darkvision of 60ft and flight speed of 10ft (unless they are an animal that can fly).

Chose one of the marks bellow, and work with the DM what Yōkai you have for their appearance and quirks:

Mark of strength: The strength of the mighty Oni, or the terrible Mazoku now reside inside you. Once per long rest you can use your bonus action to make yourself count as one size larger and gain advantage in all strength based rolls, attacks included, for one minute. At 3rd level when you use your transformation your appearance changes to something more unnatural (extra eye, one horn etc) and you gain a claw attack that deals 1d4 plus your strength modifier. At level 5 your transformation now grants you the ability to subtract 1d4 damage from any damage that isn't psychic and add 1d4 damage to all your strength based attacks.

  Mark of the trickster: Be the mark of a Kitsune, the Tanuki or the Bakeneko you are born with magical trikery abilities. You gain the Prestidigitation cantrip and the minor illusion cantrip. At 3rd level you can cast the spell Disguise self at will without material components. And at 5th level you can cast the spell alter self once per day, but the spell can also change your size and basic shape, doing so doesn't give you the abilities of the race or change your stats, it also reduces your movement to 20 ft if you grow larger or smaller than your natural size. 

Mark of the elements: The power of the mighty Tengu or the weather abilities of the Ame Onna, you are gifted with their elemental based abilities. At first level you chose two of the following cantrips: Control Flames, Produce Flame, Shocking Grasp, Thunderclap, Druidcraft, Mold Earth, Gust, Thaumaturgy, Acid Splash or Ray of Frost. At 3rd level you gain the ability to cast one of the following spells once per day without expending a spell slot: Burning Hands, Catapult, Chaos Bolt, Create or Destroy Water, Earth Tremor, Faerie Fire, Feather Fall, Jump or Thunderwave. At 5ft level, once per log rest you gain the ability to either gain a fly speed of 10ft, be able to breathe underwater, use the hellish rebuke spell once per turn, gain a +1 to your total AC or cause one extra 1d6 lightning damage for one minute.

Mark of the colossus: Be the mighty Nurikabe, the dreadful Gashadokuro or the gargantuan Bakekujira, you share their size. At first level you gain one extra feet to your total size, you also can't be grappled by anyone that isn't larger or above. At 3rd level you can cast the Enlarge/Reduce spell without expending a spell slot or material components and you don't need to concentrate on it, but you can't cast on anyone but yourself, and you can only cause the enlarge effect. At 5th level while in your enlarged form, you can now add 1d6 damage to any strength based attack, if you fal on someone you cause 4d4 bludgeoning damage, but you can only move 15ft while in the enlarged form.

Mark of blood lust: The kamaitachi possesses a contradictory nature, being able to harm as well as heal. Now you share one of those traits. At first level you must choose either blood or balm:

Balm: Once per turn you can use your reaction to heal anyone you can see at 60ft with one 1d4. 

Blood: Once per turn you can use your reaction to cause 1d4 extra damage when you succeed on one attack roll.

At level 3rd level depending of what you chose before your ability is replaced by the following:

Greater Balm: Once per turn you can use your reaction to harm yourself 1 hit point to heal an ally 1d6 hit points, you can not do it to yourself.

Greater Blood: Once per turn you can use your reaction to harm yourself 1 hit point to gain 1d6 extra damage to your next attack until your turn ends.

At level 5rd level you gain one ability based on what you chose before:

Self Balm: Whenever you use your Greater balm ability you can now heal yourself a number equal to half the hit points healed, as the karmic response of your actions are rewarded.

Healing Blood: Whenever you cause damage to an enemy using your Greater blood ability, you recover a number of hit points equal to half the damage you caused him, as you lick the blood of his wounds

Mark of the mimic: The power of the Tsukumogami, or objects with spirits, are given to you, even though not good for combat it is great for espionage. At first level you gain proficiency with a set of artisan tools related to the object that is your Yōkai (Wood carving for Kasa-obake and Chōchin-obake) if you already have proficiency in the tools related to your Yōkai you can chose another one. At 3rd level you gain the ability to assume the shape of the object that your Yōkai is shaped. While in the from of the object the following things happen:

Your max hit points is one.

Your total AC is 10. 

Your total speed is 10ft.

You can't cast spells because you can't talk or do any somatic movements.

You can only do one action and bonus action and use your passive class abilities.

You keep your equipment but you can use it.

You can only look like the object of your Yōkai (Umbrella, lantern etc) and you can't change it for another.

You can do this a number of times to equal your proficiency, after that you must take a long rest before you can do it again. At 5th level your ability to become your Youkai object evolves, you now have the following benefits:

When you roll for stealth you count as if you had expertise on it.

Your max Hit points now is 5. 

You can now use objects as your arms can now appear and disappear from the object you are shaped like. 

You can now cast spells that don't have the verbal component.

Your total speed is now 15ft.

While in the object form you can gain a number of temporary hit points when you consume a weird substance (Ex: oil from the lanterns). Work with your DM to define what substance you can consume. The number of temporary hit points you gain  is equal to your proficiency bonus.

[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

[wolint]

FRESH MANNA

TRADITIONS OF MEN NOT OF GOD

Mark 7:8-9

Traditions are those practices of long-standing rituals handed down in families, ministries, and organisations. It is often used to speak of denominations or distinct theological viewpoints, such as the Baptist tradition, Pentecostal movement, Anglican or Catholic traditions and many others or the historical traditions of the church.

The word of God is powerful and effective, and once pronounced, it doesn’t return empty to God according to Isaiah 55:11, unfortunately, the tragedy of our generation, however, is that many people have turned away from what Hebrews 4:12 calls the gospel of truth.

Have you ever considered your or your family’s traditions?

Many of us were born into traditions that we’re unable to shake off. We have adopted and accepted the traditions of the society where we operate and have no desire to grow out of them or change them.

Our traditions sometimes are what defines us, but they keep our lives normal and mundane or they may be things that break up the monotony of life and bring us happiness.

Traditions in themselves are not bad but when it begins to fight and clash with the doctrines of God, they become problematic.

Tradition is good but it’s not necessarily right.

Some religious traditions are necessitated by the scripture, such as tithing in Leviticus 27:30, first fruit in proverbs 3:9, and giving in 2 Corinthians 9:6-8, these traditions are scriptural instructions that are to be observed as part of the Christian faith because they are stipulated by the scripture and count towards an eternal reward.

Consider the practice of our Christmas holiday traditions. Decorating the house, buying the presents, putting up the Christmas tree and the Christmas meal menu and preparations, are usually individual and family orientated. But what do they have to do with the scriptures? With Jesus as Messiah? Do any passages of the bible mention Christmas and how it’s to be celebrated? No! These are all traditions of men used to symbolise a scriptural occurrence.

They are traditions of men!

Another mandated tradition of God in Hebrew 10:25 is service and fellowship, but many worships, celebrate, and praise God only on Sunday mornings because “it is the holy day” and Monday to Saturday belongs to them to do as they please.

Christians hardly analyse the traditions that they partake in. So, what does God say about our traditions? Colossians 2:8 says to not allow anyone to captivate us with traditions that are deceitful but generally accepted.

Many practices in the body of Christ can’t be backed by the scriptures, they are simply perversions of the true gospel but they’ve worked overtime and have become the tradition of a church or ministry.

Sadly, according to Matthew 15:2-9, 16 these doctrines and principles are merely the traditions of man.

The Bible warns against any tradition, custom, precepts, or laws that are in opposition to, contradictory to, and nullifies God's commands as written in the scriptures. These customs, rituals, and practices are inventions and traditions of men alone, apart from God. We must be cautious of the emptiness of the traditions of men passed down through time ... even those from our forefathers or elders.

According to 1 Peter 1:18-19, believers are delivered from a life of futility and meaninglessness of the traditions of men.

PRAYER: Lord, deliver me from whatever practice going on in my life that is a tradition of man contrary to your word in Jesus’s name. Amen.

Shalom

Apostle Blessing

Women of light international prayer ministries.

[mousieta]

Review: Addicted Heroin, 2016

Watched in 2020 Year End Review

Country: China

Watched on: Viki

Oof… this show. This show is… still stuck with me, I will not lie. It’s gotten under my skin and I contemplate it regularly. 

This show is my textbook example of the importance of understanding *what* it is you are watching, which may take a little more work in a different language. The way I approach developing my take on any work is two-fold. First is the evaluation of *what* the thing is or what it is trying to be. An action/adventure movie is not the same as a romcom drama, as a scifi novel, as a volume of poetry. This evaluation is completely separate from how much I enjoy it. One can stem from the other or inform the other but sometimes your brain/ heart love something thats pretty terrible and sometimes you can recognize that things are good they just aren’t for you. 

This is why my evaluations of something like The Wolf was so different than that for Meteor Garden despite the parallels between the two main leads. 

And I preamble with all of this because it is important to know about me as I dig into how I felt about this show. 

Surface level first: most of this show is pretty rough. The acting is rough but in an unpolished stone kind of way. The directing/ editing is at times bizarre, with visual story telling conventions sometimes dangling by a thread. Though, to be fair on that last part, this is definitely a drama where I suspect it ran into the censor’s shredder constantly and just barely (but not really) managed to come out. Unfortunately, this is probably always going to be a thing with Chinese dramas, particularly BLs. I have to give credit to the attempts even as I can only judge what is, not what may have ben. 

The writing leaves a lot to be desired in the early episodes. We are rushed through our setup and early development to get the conceits set up for our main characters to show up. They are walked through the early motions of a conflict-ridden relationship. There are cute moments in their prank wars but they always feel on the verge of going too far. 

But, the title of the show tells us what to expect from our OTP: Addiction. This isn’t going to be a healthy, happy, light-hearted relationship. And… we got exactly that, a pairing of characters who are obsessed with one another. And much like their pranks, it always feels like they’re on the verge of going too far, of crossing too many boundaries, of being - ultimately - redeemable.

I almost stopped a few times as the lines of ‘rape’ and ‘assault’ aren’t straddled so much as tossed around in the wind to fall where they may. I couldn’t really root for the OTP as much as watch the car-crash unfold in horror, hoping there’s some happiness at the end but, much like them with each other, I was  addicted enough to keep watching. Appropriate for a couple who’s ship name literally means Heroin. 

 There is a key moment at the beginning of the bed-scene in the last available episode that so clearly defines one of the characters that I feel if more of that bit of characterization had been shown earlier on, would have made the dynamic we’re watching much clearer. Overall a lot could have been made clearer but asking for clarity through the darkened glass of censorship is an exercise in futility.

Eventually, the line the show tries to toe is pushed a few times too many. It ends abruptly in episode 15 on a forever unresolved cliffhanger as the show was taken off air (in fact I don’t believe the last 3 episodes even aired in China). So it just left me feeling restless and unsatisfied. 

Thing is, though, I can’t stop thinking about the show. As much as we like to compartmentalize things nicely, as much as we want a clearly delineated line between good and bad, healthy and unhealthy, consent and non-consent the reality of human messiness can make things blurry. 

I have to give points to the show for walking right up to that boundary line and pushing past it. They were punished for it. But ... sometimes boundaries should be pushed, sometimes they absolutely shouldn’t be, wisdom would say that the risk of the former demands we always assume the latter, but human beings aren’t known for their sagacity. We’re fucked up. And that means sometimes our relationships are too. 

2020 Year End Reviews Masterpost

[lifeinechos]

A Cult named “AF Matthew”

Preface: 

26 June 2017:

 I joined IIM Kozhikode to pursue my Masters considering:-

Engineering job at an MNC in India is low paying and has a low growth curve (Though my work was exciting, and for a fresher R&D job was a dream come true)

My family’s financial health didn’t allow me to go abroad and take admission in a great MS institute (i loved engineering), and didn’t want to settle there as well in the long run in order to pay-off the loan undertaken

So, i wrote CAT(admission test for MBA in India) and got into this college. Though i was engineer by blood, but who cares. You have to feed yourself and in India, you need an MBA to swing up the ladder. It was here i came across this legend!

5 March 2019:

I bid like all my fortune(in this case grade-points), to get allotted the subject taught by AF Matthew! Had heard a lot about him, and as i was few of those unlucky souls who weren’t given an opportunity to attend his sessions in the first year, this was long due.

And, well fast forward to the end of the session, it was all worth it! He challenged my thoughts, ideals, questioned my beliefs and swiftly moulded me. Whatever he said wasn’t at all sweet and soft. There were times when the entire world which i was a part of for 25years in my life, came tumbling down. But he had his facts, and he was RIGHT! 

He showed us the classics which was too much for a mainstream person i was, for whom a classic meant Lord of Rings franchise or Rocky Balboa Series, and then i was a transformed intelligent soul, now who could sit in a group and take part in knowledgeable discussions, and not fight based on mob-opinions. Also was I struggling with the aftermath of a life-threatening accident i had on Sept 14th,2018. I was no more a confident girl who was strong-headed in her stance and could think clearly in the midst of difficult situations. I was running from my inabilities and HE gave me the strength to face them! 

The following piece is a tribute to him and the art to which he exposed me and built a better person if not perfect. The journey is long no doubt, but i am forever indebted to have had the foundation stone laid by him.

PS, this is a reflective essay which i wove around my life based on the movies and art (highlighted and referenced in the piece) he exposed me to.

“Everyday I breathe, effortlessly I lie Roll back my tears and curl up a fake smile There THEY stand, every movement do THEY eye With my head held high, its time to push another mile”

The statue of Liberty… Yes, this is where my earliest memory of the word “liberty” takes me to. Today, as I write this piece after 30 hours of mental turmoil, I found myself in GC’s class, it would be rather befitting if once I could stand straight, look into the mirror and confront myself. Its long that I have hidden myself in a cocoon of safety and comfort, and hopefully here in this reflective narrative I am able to “woman-up” to my vices and insecurities. 3 Colours: Blue incited in me an emotion which until recently was a far-fetched dream. For the first time in my life, I felt “liberated” too much to the extent that I don’t shy away from the idea of being alone. The night of 14th September 2018 changed my life or so did I think. Now, as I look at it, I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I speak out loud that it “completed me”. Empathising with Julie’s struggle to let herself free as she tried to pay off all her debts and run away from her past, I understand clearly now why after my accident I found it difficult to be at rest. Always was I trying to push people away- blaming & snapping away from someone who’ll try to give me solace.

It was a time when all I wondered was what could I ever do wrong to have had this fate. After 6-pelvic fractures, 1-shoulder fracture, 1-hip surgery and a bleeding clot that rendered half of my brain unreceptive; I feel I am in a good condition to vouch for Julie’s behaviour to untie herself from all bodily aspirations when you are not able to settle the turmoil of emotions that challenges your mere existence day in and day out. Countless times have I found myself since that day questioning my actions, feelings, thoughts and more than that the people around me. “Why me” was something that kept me up at night and tired & helpless all I could do was hide myself in my room away from the eyes that always seem to follow me. It took me long to realise that those eyes actually were supportive of me and some of them genuinely were ready to take part in my sufferings as I once again started a quest to discover myself. But even that was not enough. No matter how much have I been the admirer of the emotions with which HW Longfellow’s “A Psalm of Life” claims that “Life is anything but an empty dream”, there were times when everything around me felt futile. When anyways everything is supposed to end, why the struggle to end everyday with perfection? In fraction of seconds, the course of life can be changed so much that you never know if it’s the end. These months have been long, tiring and restless to the extent that I would end up scratching myself, inflicting pain just to remind myself that it would all be over soon. Everything is supposed to end and this too shall pass.

In the beginning of the end, you try to treasure onto the memories you have in order to make them last longer. Same did I experience in these last few weeks. Change is inevitable and no-one is ready to accommodate it into their lives that easily. My days in campus are about to get over and all I can see now is a life full of competitions and unnecessary races for which I am not prepared for, rather not been accustomed to for long. Then one day sitting by the edge of my classroom, lost into the serene surroundings into which my college is built; I let my thoughts take a flight just like the flapping wings of the bird I was staring at. I was no more scared to be lost. There is a world full of possibilities and it stuck me that just one setback doesn’t define your future or justify your past. I came onto terms with my life. I accepted my limited ability and sufferings that accompany the same, something which I know will eventually pass no matter how hard it seems now. Something which I was looking and searching for outside, was inside me. That thought gave me power. It gave me freedom. I accepted that the unfortunate incident was no-one’s fault and accepted the things as they are now. I forgave myself,those who were in the car with me that night and decided to move on, following my life’s route destined. The moment I faced these things, I was no more caged. Neither did I feel helpless, nor did I want to hide. Rather, I started respecting and treasuring all the more those who were throughout besides me in these unfortunate times no matter what. And then I decided lets “Leave Footprints on the sands of time”.

Yet another gush of emotions I felt was in the face of acceptance of the fact that how society has long demeaned women and have pre-decided their boundaries from the day they were born. And if you decide to over-step these “Lakshman-Rekhas” created, you have exposed yourself to the barbaric world and are immoral for sure if not unholy. The movie Caterpillar lays out one such example and shoves conservatism straight in the face. Lieutenant Kurokawa serves the right-wing parties and rapes the women on his way claiming them as the spoils of war. But once he comes back home mutilated, the desire to dominate still doesn’t seem to leave him which can be easily seen in his sexual intimacy with his wife. He seems to force again himself on her with aggression when all she does is take care of him, feed him and carry out all other “duties” that a woman is bound to carry out for her man. Well, in this case, he is the “War-Lord”. Many-a-times have I seen this in my surroundings, silently closed my eyes and kept quiet because this is how the system has trained me till date. My mother used to feed us, wash our clothes, clean our mess and all I would do was to accept it as it is because its her duty. And why was not it supposed to be? Didn’t I fill in my school almanac “Housewife” against her occupation field! The pain and cries of the women in Invisible War even more made me question the system I have been brought up in. There are facts and then there are beliefs. When and how did I start accepting, or when did my mother start accepting that she has to subdue to my father’s wills. Or when did I justified the sad reality that dress modestly else you can get molested, or worse raped! I was mere 10 years old when every morning while going to the school a man used to swiftly pass by pulling my skirt from the small gaps under my rickshaw. At that time, I didn’t even know how to behave or react. Though I knew something was not right- something that stopped me was the thought that how will I explain it to others or come out in the open. Maybe I am overthinking and wrong about my feelings! Well, now I know the reason to all these questions. The system had trained me to come to consensus with the supremacy of male gender who considers women as objects meant to be fu**ed.

When was I immodest in my simple school tunic, or where did I go wrong when I used to follow the Catholic principles in my missionary school? But in the image of Father Amaro, I received an answer to the same as well. Why is there the need to depress the bodily desires and preach in the name of religion the things which you can’t follow. Humans, so petty they are! They lead sad, depressing and meaningless lives. All they need is a religion to back them up and fulfil the void in their lives. But thousands of wars are being fought under the name of same religion and not to mention countless women get grilled under the expectations that the system imposes on them. Who’s responsible for it? But, yet again if you have power and hold a reputable position in the society, no-one will question you. Rather the voices against you will be silenced at the hands of the mob itself who want to stay in their safe, comfortable cocoons around them. Similar thing was seen in the smile of Gomez in “The Secret in their Eyes” that in its entirety meant that he is untouchable. No matter who he rapes, no matter who he kills, he is the hitman of the right-wing conservatist party and is bound to walk free as he is indispensable to the system; The system that can silence anyone, crush voices and indulge in anything to protect itself and its “ideologies”.

The manner in which the glory of war is demystified and we are exposed to this grim reality of the war, something which physically and psychologically transforms you, is shocking. The idea that the movie Caterpillar and Invisible War highlights is something that stays out of the green light and is something which the system won’t let you talk about. Lost in these wars are the futures of countless children who have witnessed it in their surroundings, suffered losses of their near and dear ones and felt pain which is unexplainable for them. But more than this what I am worried of is the loss of Innocence. At small ages they have seen things which shall scar them for years to come. The character of Chava in “Innocent Voices” brings it in light how these children constantly live in fear of death and even are hesitant to openly discuss on the idea of birthdays as that brings them closer to the D-day, when their childhood officially ends. In Baran as well, the same issue is highlighted as the plight of Afghans who live in Iran as refugees is pictured out. Feelings such as first love, innocent emotions- all get eroded under the idea of things that are beyond their control and they can’t even understand them. The mere thought gives me chills down the spine if today in my cosy surroundings I think of the continuous terror under which the children in Kashmir are living. How difficult life has become for them under the whims and fancies of a selected few who are staying true to their beliefs and justifying their actions throughout in the name of Nationalism.

It’s a common saying that “All is Well that Ends well”. As I end this piece, I don’t want to be true to the system and the common beliefs where everything is rosy and turns all fine. Rather I wish to confront myself and accept that there are insurmountable pains that lie under the lies that are spoken and preached. There’s a propaganda that is followed by those who are in power and its they who decide the rules to play their game. Amidst all this, An Affair of Love gives me hope. A woman putting out an idea of string-less and pornographic affair was more than a bold step. It challenged the beliefs where identity has to be put on such women & an affair of gossip for all those witnessing it. It was erotic and had its charm at the same time. Similarly, the tale of Yossi and Jagger was moving in the sense that their love was pure and Yossi articulated it as Jagger “died in his arms”, a phrase and scene which is defines tragedy in an ideal girl-boy movie story. It was heart-breaking and sad to find Yossi lamenting his loss as in the funeral he sings Jagger’s favourite song. Last but not the least, the character of Nora in “The Divine Order” stands for women’s liberation and freedom as she fights her way against the social norm to make a place for herself in the society. The day all these emotions shall be respected, and unheard voices given an ear, can we expect an uprising against the system.

[scifigeneration]

Fighting the common fate of humans: to better life and beat death

by Cathal D. O'Connell

This piece is republished with permission from Millenials Strike Back, the 56th edition of Griffith Review. Selected pieces consist of extracts, or long reads in which Generation Y writers address the issues that define and concern them.

The oldest surviving great work of literature tells the story of a Sumerian king, Gilgamesh, whose historical equivalent may have ruled the city of Uruk some time between 2800 and 2500 BC.

A hero of superhuman strength, Gilgamesh becomes instilled with existential dread after witnessing the death of his friend, and travels the Earth in search of a cure for mortality.

Twice the cure slips through his fingers and he learns the futility of fighting the common fate of man.

Merging with machines

Transhumanism is the idea that we can transcend our biological limits, by merging with machines. The idea was popularised by the renowned technoprophet Ray Kurzweil (now a director of engineering at Google), who came to public attention in the 1990s with a string of astute predictions about technology.

In his 1990 book, The Age of Intelligent Machines (MIT Press), Kurzweil predicted that a computer would beat the world’s best chess player by the year 2000. It happened in 1997.

He also foresaw the explosive growth of the internet, along with the advent of wearable technology, drone warfare and the automated translation of language. Kurzweil’s most famous prediction is what he calls “the singularity” – the emergence of an artificial super-intelligence, triggering runaway technological growth – which he foresees happening somewhere around 2045.

In some sense, the merger of humans and machines has already begun. Bionic implants, such as the cochlear implant, use electrical impulses orchestrated by computer chips to communicate with the brain, and so restore lost senses.

At St Vincent’s Hospital and the University of Melbourne, my colleagues are developing other ways to tap into neuronal activity, thereby giving people natural control of a robotic hand.

These cases involve sending simple signals between a piece of hardware and the brain. To truly merge minds and machines, however, we need some way to send thoughts and memories.

In 2011, scientists at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles took the first step towards this when they implanted rats with a computer chip that worked as a kind of external hard drive for the brain.

First the rats learned a particular skill, pulling a sequence of levers to gain a reward. The silicon implant listened in as that new memory was encoded in the brain’s hippocampus region, and recorded the pattern of electrical signals it detected.

Next the rats were induced to forget the skill, by giving them a drug that impaired the hippocampus. The silicon implant then took over, firing a bunch of electrical signals to mimic the pattern it had recorded during training.

Amazingly, the rats remembered the skill – the electrical signals from the chip were essentially replaying the memory, in a crude version of that scene in The Matrix where Keanu Reeves learns (downloads) kung-fu.

The Matrix: I know king fu.

Again, the potential roadblock: the brain may be more different from a computer than people such as Kurzweil appreciate. As Nicolas Rougier, a computer scientist at Inria (the French Institute for Research in Computer Science and Automation), argues, the brain itself needs the complex sensory input of the body in order to function properly.

Separate the brain from that input and things start to go awry pretty quickly. Hence sensory deprivation is used as a form of torture. Even if artificial intelligence is achieved, that does not mean our brains will be able to integrate with it.

Whatever happens at the singularity (if it ever occurs), Kurzweil, now aged 68, wants to be around to see it. His Fantastic Voyage: Live Long Enough to Live Forever (Rodale Books, 2004) is a guidebook for extending life in the hope of seeing the longevity revolution. In it he details his dietary practices, and outlines some of the 200 supplements he takes daily.

Failing that, he has a plan B.

Freezing death

The central idea of cryonics is to preserve the body after death in the hope that, one day, future civilisations will have the ability (and the desire) to reanimate the dead.

Both Kurzweil and de Grey, along with about 1,500 others (including, apparently, Britney Spears), are signed up to be cryopreserved by Alcor Life Extension Foundation in Arizona.

Offhand, the idea seems crackpot. Even in daily experience, you know that freezing changes stuff: you can tell a strawberry that’s been frozen. Taste, and especially texture, change unmistakably. The problem is that when the strawberry cells freeze, they fill with ice crystals. The ice rips them apart, essentially turning them to mush.

That’s why Alcor don’t freeze you; they turn you to glass.

After you die, your body is drained of blood and replaced with a special cryogenic mixture of antifreeze and preservatives. When cooled, the liquid turns to a glassy state, but without forming dangerous crystals.

You are placed in a giant thermos flask of liquid nitrogen and cooled to -196℃, cold enough to effectively stop biological time. There you can stay without changing, for a year or a century, until science discovers the cure for whatever caused your demise.

“People don’t understand cryonics,” says Alcor president Max More in a YouTube tour of his facility. “They think it’s this strange thing we do to dead people, rather than understanding it really is an extension of emergency medicine.”

Alcor president Max More.

The idea may not be as crackpot as it sounds. Similar cryopreservation techniques are already being used to preserve human embryos used in fertility treatments.

“There are people walking around today who have been cryopreserved,” More continues. “They were just embryos at the time.”

One proof of concept, of sorts, was reported by cryogenics expert Greg Fahy of 21st Century Medicine (a privately funded cryonics research lab) in 2009.

Fahy’s team removed a rabbit kidney, vitrified it, and reimplanted into the rabbit as its only working kidney. Amazingly, the rabbit survived, if only for nine days.

More recently, a new technique developed by Fahy enabled the perfect preservation of a rabbit brain though vitrification and storage at -196℃. After rewarming, advanced 3D imaging revealed that the rabbit’s “connectome” – that is, the connections between neurons – was undisturbed.

Unfortunately, the chemicals used for the new technique are toxic, but the work does raise the hope of some future method that may achieve the same degree of preservation with more friendly substances.

That said, preserving structure does not necessarily preserve function. Our thoughts and memories are not just coded in the physical connections between neurons, but also in the strength of those connections – coded somehow in the folding of proteins.

That’s why the most remarkable cryonics work to date may be that performed at Alcor in 2015, when scientists managed to glassify a tiny worm for two weeks, and then return it to life with its memory intact.

Now, while the worm has only 302 neurons, you have more than 100 billion, and while the worm has 5,000 neuron-to-neuron connections you have at least 100 trillion. So there’s some way to go, but there’s certainly hope.

In Australia, a new not-for-profit, Southern Cryonics, is planning to open the first cryonics facility in the Southern Hemisphere.

“Eventually, medicine will be able to keep people healthy indefinitely,” Southern Cryonics spokesperson and secretary Matt Fisher tells me in a phonecall.

“I want to see the other side of that transition. I want to live in a world where everyone can be healthy for as long as they want. And I want everyone I know and care about to have that opportunity as well.”

To get Southern Cryonics off the ground, ten founding members have each put in A$50,000, entitling them to a cryonic preservation for themselves or a person of their choice. Given that the company is not-for-profit, Fisher has no financial incentive to campaign for it. He simply believes in it.

“I’d really like to see [cryonic preservation] become the most common choice for internment across Australia,” he says.

Fisher admits there is no proof yet that cryopreservation works. The question is not about what is possible today, he says. It’s about what may be possible in the future.

Cathal D. O'Connell is the Centre Manager, BioFab3D (St Vincent's Hospital) at the University of Melbourne.

Top image: Johnny Depp as Dr. Will Caster  in the 2014 Warner Bros. Pictures / Summit Entertainment film “Transcendence”.

This article was originally published on The Conversation.