#but gaddamn its close

[batshikns]

Grace and Frankie is the best show ive watched change my mind

[imtheiliad]

9-1-1 5x01: Panic

if you are new here, welcome to aj screams into the void, where you get to read my live reactions- not live. I use this as a way to stay engaged with the episode so its not all that coherent, its just in the moment things, but you can most like guess when what happened when.

spoilers under the cut

T- 3 Minutes- more nauseous than ever

2- my leg is shaking

(I swear I am not too emotionally attached to this show)

I JUST OPENED TUMBLR ON INSTINCT AND ALMOST SCREAMED OUTLOUD. NEVER CLOSED IT SO FAST IN MY GADDAMN LIFE

Ajhhhh

Oh okay we’ve seen this already which helps

MY BABIES I MIGHT CRY

I just love them okay

Eddie babes you good 👀

Ah gad flashbacks

Maddie my baby glad she’s getting help but I’m so worried about her

MEETING THE PARENTS AT A CHRISTENING

JEALOUS BUCK JEALOUS KING

YASS JOSH

MMAAAAAAAAYY DISPATCH QUEEN

YASS DIVING DUO

RAVI IS THAT YOU

OKAY DO I NOT LIKE BT AS A COUPLE? Yes, AM I IN FACT VERY QUEER AND ACKNOWLEDGE THAT BOTH OF THESE PEOPLE ARE GORGEOUS? Also yes

“The world ends as we know it.” Karen my queen

Oh goddddd I’m gonna puke

I’m notttt readyyyyh

HES THE BEST DAD

"LET'S SEE WHAT MOM THINKS" EDDIE- PANICS- OMG OMG

If god hates clowns why do we keep winning

REPRESSION-called it

NO STRESSORS EDDIE MY DUDE ????

Chris being the one to say it 😭

EDDIE BABY WHY

I DONT PANIC MY ASS

ATHENA 😭😭😭😭😭

Bobby ans Harry 🥺🥺🥺🥺

I HATE THIS DUDE🤢🤮🤢🤮like I already hated him but this this is sick

The airport 👀👀

RECOVERY ARC IS WINNING

MEDIC EDDIE MEDIC EDDIE

speaking from practical experience like it’s medical knowledge I know that trick eddie you aren’t fooling me

Where’s Hudson

FUCK

doc: mr diaz didnt expect to see you so soon

buck: 👀😱

OH SHIT OH SHIT CANT KEEP IT FROM BESTIE (aka husband) THAT LONG

“Yeah, eddie shouldn’t be exerting himself” sassy worried king buck my beloved

Eddies is like ah shit a helicopter seriously?

Oh thank god

WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK THIS IS ABSOLUTELY SICK I AM NOT GONNA MAKE IT BUT FUCK

Well that was a fucken wild ride- can't believe next week im in tech when it airs- homophobic

[seijorhi]

asks :))

a bunch of fic asks below the cut <3

Hi Rhi! I just read the usual suspects and ITS AMAZING. I was legit so immersed 😭 it’s so good, I couldn’t put it down. It was intense. I could feel Daichi’s stress and with every bits and pieces of info that was being revealed, AHHH had me shooketh. I adore your writing so much 😭💕 ahhh hats off to you!! And me being a Makki lover, I legit gasped when I read the past part!!

-nette 💕@mulberrysilk

ahhh thank you so much, bby!!! tbh i couldn’t resist throwing makki in there, once i had the idea for how i wanted to end it there was no going back and i love deceptively soft makki 

THAT RECENT FIC WAS SO GOOD. I didn’t realize it was refreshing to read a yandere story but from a different point of view. It was so good, the suspense, the crippling fear. May I ask, is this connected to one of ur fics? And would there be a part 2 to see what would happened next? Thank u so much for blessing us with your talent!

thank you! but no, this one is entirely separate from any of my other fics, as for a part two ??? who knows :))

that fic was sooo good. the writing kept me on a edge fr. daichis desperation to solve the case was portrayed so well. AND I DIDNT EXPECT MAKKI TO POP IN AT ALL

well you see the trouble is i am a complete whore for seijoh and makki in particular so?? i had no choice haha

I’m in shock. How does your writing just keep getting better and better and better holy shit

thank you, bby!!! <33

Rhiiiii!!!! Your writing is always so amazing, the newest Oikawa and Iwa fic was so good!!! And the plot twist of goddamn Makki holding you captive until the boys walk out without Daichi finding a lead was so smart!! Just a quick question about your commissions, are you willing to do something with Kawababy and Stockholm syndrome? It’s okay if you don’t, much love 🥺💞

hiya bby! so first of all thank you!! I’m really glad you liked it! as far as commissions go they’re closed atm but i wouldn’t be against writing something like that when/if they open up again :))

lawyer oikawa?? babe, you SPOIL us 😭

ain’t it hot tho? imagine him in a courtroom just wiping the floor with the opposition, it’s sexy

I love these 2 lines - “Have you found my girlfriend yet, Detective?" and “Of course I knew, but you misunderstand, Sergeant. She was never going to leave me.”

Just worded so well. hints that poor mc hasn't gone anywhere!

i was low key proud of those lines, subtle, but they were there from the start hehe

Your latest fic omg you’ve done it again 🥵🙏 I love the mystery AU, you really had the reader guessing and constantly thinking about what happened! I have to ask though...was this all just Makki acting out on his own and using the situation to his advantage or did Iwaizumi and Oikawa (maybe just oikawa LOL)get Makki to do this?

haha, as much as i love the idea of makki being a rogue agent, he really was just helping out two of his pals :)) such a good friend :))

Gaddamn. The preview you posted really made me think that Daichi is the bad guy.

ok ngl i had a few people send asks and stuff believing that iwa was innocent/being wrongfully accused and it was absolutely hilarious. like no, this time he’s an absolute piece of shit and for once, daichi wasn’t a bastard cop 

The usual suspects was so good! It read so much like a crime novel! For some reason I was suspecting daichi the whole time. I was convinced reader came to him in fear and he just kidnapped her for himself and was now trying to frame Iwa and Oiks.

love this theory, bastard cop daichi would’ve been a fun twist, but he was actually trying :(( i also love how none of you trust anybody in my fics anymore, it’s amazing

Omg. unusual suspects was just 👌👌👌imma just pray that daichi found something to lock those two up cuz god I'm scared - @yandere-writes​

i mean :)) if that’s what makes you happy :)) skhbrndjshfghjdks but thank you, bby!

oh. oh, this is one of the fics where i feel sorry for the reader. trapped between an obsessive, controlling ex and her creepy boss at work- she never had a chance, did she? and i cant help thinking that she fell into the the same mindset as daichi- that iwazumi just cant handle his ego being bruised, that oikawa just wants her for sex. she has no idea how obsessed they are with her, and thats her downfall. and theres daichi (who i loved in this fic), but i dont think he can find anything

and makki! i did not see makki coming. how did he get roped into this? is the reader being held at his house, at least temporarily? does he, at least, feel any guilt? sorry if im being annoying, but i loved this fic so much and i have so many questions.

it would’ve been hard enough to escape just one of them; the two together and poor reader never had a chance :(( as far as makki goes he’s an absolute piece of shit too. he genuinely likes the reader - out of all of iwa’s friends he was probably the one she got along best with, but makki’s morally grey at the very best, and he’d do anything for his friends. does he feel guilty? not really, after all she’s better off with the two of them anyway.

rhiii can i ask youu? do you ever write or maybe want to write reverse yandere fic?👀

hiya bby, thanks for the ask but reverse yandere fics just really aren’t my jam :(( sorry!!

[joa-quin-phoe-nix-fan]

I AM ALIVE Charlie Sisters FF/imagine

I AM ALIVE

You had begun to worry. Charlie had been gone for 6 months, with only 7 letters even giving you any proof that he was still alive. You sat near your window, in the open prairie, worrying away like you did every day, thinking about how he could be dead, he could be lost, he could be kidnapped by one of his targets, he might not see his baby be born. You rubbed your belly sadly, the time was drawing close, and you really wanted your baby to see its daddy. More than anything you wanted Charlie to see his baby. You couldn’t imagine life without Charlie, who would take you hunting every Sunday that he was home? Who would make you the best baked beans in the entire west coast? Who would make funny, rhyming names for things like a Mean-Bean or a Dorsie-Horsie? Who would help you with the baby? Who would love you like Charlie did? You sat there silently, wracking your mind of reasons why he hadn’t written in 2 months. All of them more worrying than the last, when you heard a knock at the door.

You jumped up as fast as you could in your condition, rushing to the door, hoping and praying to see Charlie’s smug face looking back at you, holding the money he earned from the Commodore, ready to sweep you off your feet, covering your face with kisses. Sadly, it wasn’t him. It was Rex, a colleague of Charlie’s that you knew to avoid most of the time, Charlie said he was a sleaze who took married women away from their husbands while they were away. Normally, when he came over, you could almost smell the desire coming from him, but this time he looked genuinely concerned, his eyebrows furrowed close together. “Hey there, um...Missus Y/N. Hav-have ya heard from Charlie recently?” you moved closer to the doorframe, hoping it was one of his womanizing schemes “Uh...no Rex, I haven’t.” You started to panic, “Why do ya ask? Did somethin’ happen to Charlie? Oh Lord please tell me this is just another plot of yers!” Rex waved his hands in front of him, defensively, “Woah, woah YN, please don’t get ya bloomers in a bunch! The commodore has just been askin’ ‘cus he ain’t heard from him in a while...and the last thing we recieved from him was this...” he handed you a leaf, and your heart jumped you knew that even if he ran out of paper, he was known to send leaves with letters written on them. You turned it over and gasped. On the other side of the leaf was written, in now dried blood; ‘I AM ALIVE” Rex sighed and held your shoulder gently, “and I promise ya darlin’ this ain’t no plot...we’re all worried about him, and by association, you.” Your stomach dropped. This was the worst situation you could’ve imagined for Charlie, him MIA in the dangerous wilderness, after some bloodthirsty criminal, with the last message from him being vague and written in blood. You breathed in sharply to hold in the tears, “I-I ain’t heard nothin’ from him, Rex...I’m sorry.” Rex sighed sadly and shook his head, “I’m the one who should be sayin’ that to you, Missus...I’m real sorry...” he bowed slightly, tipped his hat, and left. Looking sadder than a dog left out in the rain.

You closed the door, putting your back against it when it had shut. Tears filling up your eyes as you held you hand up to your mouth in shock and slid down slowly to the floor, the weight of that news hitting you like a ton of bricks. It was one thing for him to not update you on what was happening, but he never forgot to message the Commodore. Where was he? Maybe he was too far to send letters...yeah maybe that was it. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be.

You woke up much later, still by the door, your eyes still stinging from crying yourself to sleep. It was dark out already. You grabbed the nearby stairwell railing to pull yourself up. You knew that the cows sure as hell were not gonna be pleased with how late you were but it’d be better if you milked them tonight, rather than have a cow-riot tomorrow morning. After you heaved yourself up again, you grabbed your gun, your bucket and a lantern, you walked outside, ready to vent to the cows about your day. It was a rather silly habit, but a habit that was strangely therapeutic and one that despite you being rather upset, seemed to calm the cows down...maybe they just liked hearing you talk.

As you walked to the cows, you saw what you assumed was a figure riding a couple acres away. You took no notice, thinking it was a lonesome hunter going back home after a long hunt. It was only after the first three cows that you realized that the sound of hooves hitting the dusty ground had gotten much closer. ‘It’s someone looking for Charlie!’ you thought as you jumped behind a bunch of hay bales, cocking your gun before they got close enough to hear you do it. You had no idea how much time had passed by the time you heard the hooves stop by the stables, the rider jump down, and hitch up his horse. ‘Why would a killer or a robber do that?’ you wondered to yourself, with your finger drifting off of the trigger as an impossible thought passed through your head, ‘is that Charlie?’

You heard him walk slowly and tiredly up on the porch, shuffling his feet as if removing them from the porch would mean that he would instantly tumble over. If this was Charlie, you had never seen him this tired and sad before. Then you suddenly heard the man drop to his knees, at this point you thought it wouldn’t hurt to just peek at the man, you looked up, seeing a man with significantly longer hair and a smaller build than Charlie, kissing your porch! At this point you knew for a fact that it wasn’t your husband so you jumped up, grabbing your gun and aimed it at the man as you quickly walked towards him. “You best be getting off ma porch! My husband’s a bounty hunter and if he were here, he’d kill you quicker than I gaddamned will!” You knew it was a bad idea to tell this stranger that you were home alone but because he looked so small and sickly, you knew you could hold your own in a fight against him. The man crawled back, his hands in front of his head, shaking like a leaf in a tornado. “please...listen to me. I ain’t who ya think i am...” he whispered, hoarsely. Even with the hoarseness, you knew that voice as if it was your own. You dropped the gun, running close to him and cupping your hands around his angular face, “Charlie? Oh my god, is that really you, honey?” Charlie nodded weakly, tears now running down his face like a waterfall. “yeah, it’s me darlin’...”

After a long moment of hugging each other and crying, you brought Charlie into the house, sure that he was cold and hungry. As he sat in his armchair, you truly saw the difference, the crease where the top of his head usually ended was miles above the small, unshaven man sitting in the chair. He looed like a tiny scared puppy in a doghouse built for a doberman. It would almost be hilarious if the situation wasn’t so serious. After giving him some bread, butter and chicken, that he scarfed down, almost choking as he did it, you started talking with him.

“W-where have ya been? I was worried sick...” you asked, hugging yourself and barely being able to even look at him in this situation, suddenly you remembered, reached into your pocket and pulled out the leaf letter and handed it to him, sitting down next to the chair, “and what...what is this?” he held the leaf weakly and sighed, defeated “I...was robbed...” he sighed, his voice only slightly less hoarse now, “My horse, my gun, my money, my paper and pens, my food, everything.” He stared off to space as he told his tale. “I barely begged hard enough to keep my clothes and the tiny shreds of my dignity that I had left. So I had to walk or crawl my way home. I ate wild animals and random leaves and berries I found. I got myself poisoned that way twice. I never took you out of my mind. When a man on a horse came past me and offered his help in exchange for my shoes, I didn’t ask for his horse, I simply asked him to send a letter to Oregon for me. That was the leaf. After he left me I realized my mistake and i kicked myself right there, but much further on I saw a horse lying on the ground, it honest to god looked dead. But it weren’t. I fed it half of the food I had scavenged and somehow it survived the last month of the journey. That’s the horse that’s outside, could ya maybe feed him? I named him Savior. He really helped me when I was at my worst.” This story was terribly sad, it rocked you to your core that he had gone through this all this time while you were at home, moping about how lonely you were. “I’m so sorry...if I had known I-” Charlie shushed you gently, stroking your hair, “You had no way of knowin’...I’m just glad you’re safe and alive, and that the baby hasn’t been born yet.” You giggled. Despite how sad the situation was, you were incredibly grateful that he was home and you loved how he could easily make a morbid situation even slightly humorous.

He stood up slowly, pulling you up at the same time. Once you were both standing fully (which took a while) he held you close to his chest. Despite him being much skinnier, he still stood quite a bit taller than you, he held your head up to his heart, it sounded much stronger and healthier than you expected. “It’s so loud...” you whispered to him, he chuckled lightly “It’s singing to you, ‘cause it knows you’re here...”

sorry if the ending is kind of short XD I still have no idea how to end stories correctly lol

[kiutotakulady]

Hello! How are you able to port over old Mass Effect 3 hair mods into ME1LE?

Hi there anon!! I actually learn the process from this link which extracts the MELE PCC files to edit the mashes but due to my slow brain process, it actually took me a day or two to understand....😅 I kinda self learn the process to extract from the old ME3 & hopefully you don't mind my long tutorial here~

**(Just a little disclaimer, the mod assets I'm using for the example are not mine. I'm porting them mostly for personal use. If anyone wants to share their ported mod publicly then I suggest asking the original mod author for permission~)**

**edit for ME1LE**

oh shoot! You were actually asking about ME1LE but I end up putting in the tutorial for ME3LE! 😳 Since it's a whole long ass tutorial am just gonna leave it here.... T-T

Buttt if it's ME1LE hair mod then the EXTRACTING THE OLD ME3 HAIR MODS still apply for femShep only. mShep uses the 1 bone hair skeleton so I not yet figure out how to port the hair mesh. For the DLC mod, I kinda cheat a bit?? I used the hair mod already available for femShep in ME1LE. (I think there is only one hairmod in Nexus)

All I did was Import mods into ME3Tweaks Mod Manager

In ME3Tweaks Mod Manager go to Tools > Legendary Explorer (Nightly) > click PACKAGE EDITOR(PKG) > Click File > Open > search existing hair mod in ME3TweaksModManager\mods\LE1 folder

Chose the hair package you wish to change & rename it to the hair mod you wanted to replace. (or you can skip renaming cause that process took a bit of time)

Follow Figure 13 & Figure 16 from this tutorial & save.

Apply Mod in ME3Tweaks Mod Manager & you're basically done!

**end edit**

EXTRACTING THE OLD ME3 HAIR MODS

(If you already have the hair mod which contains the UDK meshes & DDS Texture files then you can skip to FIgure 3)

First, go to ME3Tweaks Mod Manager > Go to Tools > Legendary Explorer (Nightly) > click PACKAGE EDITOR(PKG)

Click File > Open > search PCC file which contains the mod you want to port (e.g. Zombrex hair mod - BIOG_HMM_HIR_PRO_R_HAIRMOD.pcc)

Before going to the next part, it's important to note that different hair mods will change/include a different hair package so make sure you read the mod author tutorial/notes on which headmorph they advise to replace.

The Zombrex hair mod follows the tutorial below so you can see its Hair_PROCustomCute Hair mesh for femShep & Hair_FormalSpikes Hair mesh for mShep.

For HAIR_Diff it's Hair_Short02 for femShep & luckily the HAIR_Diff for mShep is also under Hair_FormalSpikes.

As per the tutorial above, I'll open the Hair_FormalSpikes Package on the left-hand side > Righ-click on the [M] mesh file (HMM_HIR_Fsk_MDL) > click Open in Mesh Explorer

Right-click HMM_HIR_Fsk_MDL > Export Mesh to UDK > create file name for the extracted hair mesh & save to different folder (e.g. ME3LE hair mod folder)

Close the Mesh Explorer & return to the Hair_FormalSpikes Package in Package Editor > click on HMM_HIR_Fsk_Diff > once the texture details appear on the right-hand pane, choose the Texture tab > click Export to File > Save as type: DDS files (I prefer DDS file) > Save to the folder containing the extracted hair meshes

The extraction process is done!! If you wish to know how to create DLC mods for the extracted old ME3 mods then I will humbly suggest following this tutorial cause I am not the right person to ask that...since I'm facing ongoing trial & error with it too. 😅

The tutorial help to create hair mod that can also appear in the character creation so it could turn complicated. But if you wanted the easy way out like me then my advice on the tutorial is to:

Figure 3:

ONLY copy

BIOG_HMF_HIR_PRO.pcc (if you are editing Female Shepard’s hair)

BIOG_HMM_HIR_PRO.pcc (if you are editing Male Shepard’s hair)

Figure 5:

If you follow the edited tutorial in Figure 3 then the process can be changed to > under BIOG_HMM_HIR_PRO.pcc Right-click Hair_FormalSpikes > Clone Tree

For femShep right-click Hair_PROEva Package (with 42 bones which are used by most femShep hair mods. I'm still trying to figure how to port hair mod with 110 bones...)

For mShep right-click Hair_FormalSpikes Package (with 9 bones which are used by most mShep hair mods)

The duplicate hair folder will show up at the bottom of BIOG_HMM_HIR_PRO.pcc’s hair package which is highlighted in yellow:

After this, you can basically continue from Figure 8 - Figure 13

**Please skip Figure 14 - Figure 15 to avoid any gaddamn confusion**

Continue from Figure 16 to Figure 17 & then just click File > save.

The whole process gives me a lot of headaches but I hope it can make your modding journey easier with this tutorial. Happy modding!! 😄

[jump-off-a-clifford-universe]

Can you do a Tony stark imagine with prompt number 80 please

+ Anon: Can you write 80 for Tony stark

Prompt #80: “if you so much as say one more word, I’ll change the Netflix password when you’re in the middle of the show and not tell you.”

“No, we shouldn’t have added the sodium hydrogencarbonate first. There’ll be too much carbon dioxide.” said Tony.

Bruce Banner, perhaps one of the most gifted scientist of our time, made a face at Tony that seemed to say, ‘Really? You think I don’t know what I’m doing?’

It was 5 p.m in the evening, and the two of them have been working together for the whole day. Both of them had never been so frustrated by such a simple task, and honestly, they couldn’t believe they have failed so many times today. It was a task that only involves simple reactants and straightforward procedures, yet how is it so difficult to get it right?

“Banner, hey Banner. Listen. We need the more acidic salt to release twice the amount of carbon dioxide once the water hits it. This won’t work.” repeated Tony.

“Tony, trust me I know what I’m doing. The stuff in there will crystallise once we heat it. Then the water evaporates. Then the crystallisation stops. And this is what will bring us to succeeding.” Bruce replied as he proceeded to mix things together, his patience wearing thin.

“No, no, that’s what makes it hardens. Just - just let me do it.” Tony said as he reached out to take the mixture from Bruce’s hands, but Bruce stopped him by turning away from Tony.

“Tony, we need it to form a weblike molecular structure that holds and traps moisture, or else it will expand like crazy. And we need the gas bubbles to hold it in its place, or it’ll collapse. That’s what makes it go through the Maillard Process when we heat it. There’s lecithin in the mixture, so it will probably work, and there’s…” Tony lost his patience as Bruce rambled on for what felt like the hundredth time of the day - explaining the reaction over and over again. It was still fine in the morning, when their morale was still high, and they were in a good mood, but now, they both felt defeated and tired. Bruce’s endless lecture wasn’t making the situation any better.

“Oh my god, Banner, if you so much as say one more word, I’ll change the Netflix password when you’re in the middle of the show and not tell you.” Tony cut off Bruce mid sentence.

“”How…how do you…Nevermind.” said Bruce. Although everyone in the Avengers uses Tony’s Netflix account, they never really talked about it. All the televisions and computers in the Stark Tower were logged into Tony’s Netflix account, and usually the avengers just started watching the shows they wanted to watch without logging out or asking Tony. Now, after this long, it was too late to be brought up and they never mentioned it to each other. Bruce knew that Tony knew, he had to - they guy is a genius who entered the undergraduate electrical engineering program at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and graduated with two master’s degrees by age 19. Why wouldn’t he know who’s using his Netflix account? It really was a harmless threat, but it still made Bruce a little scared nonetheless. He was in the middle of Stranger Things season 2, and he had a bad habit of not remembering where he left off. He would hate to have to go through the trouble of looking for where he left off.

Tony gave Bruce a smug smile. “Now, let me do it.” He said as he grabbed the bowl of mixture from Bruce’s hands. This time, Bruce let him.

“I usually work with robots and stuff, but I do have some experience in baking.” he said as he cracked another egg into the flour and butter mixture which Bruce had been whisking for the last 10 minutes. At this point, after failing to successfully bake a cake for the fifth time, they had already given up on following the recipe and just improvised. Tony had seen you baked before, and now he was just trying to get the consistency of the batter you usually make. It was harder than he thought.

“God, Tony, we have to get it done by tonight. It’s (Y/N)’s birthday tomorrow and we still haven’t started decorating.” Bruce was starting to get worried. It was your birthday tomorrow and they promised to give you a handmade surprise - one where you were very excited for. They just couldn’t let you down on your birthday after getting your hopes up, could they?

“Chill, Banner, we can totally get this done. If you do it my way.” said Tony. Now he started to pour more sugar in the batter. If someone walked by, Tony would totally look like he knew what he was doing. Except that Bruce knew he didn’t.

“Alright, all set. Now to the oven.” Tony said excitedly as he transferred the batter into the oven, preheated to 450 degrees. Bruce didn’t even know should cakes be baked at this temperature. All he knew was that the oven was searing hot when he accidentally touched it.

“Fingers crossed this time we succeed.” hoped Tony. It truly takes the optimism as strong as a bull to still think that this time a cake could be successfully baked. But Bruce still crossed his fingers with Tony.

They both collapsed onto the kitchen floor without caring about the mess. A thin layer of flour, baking powder and baking soda lightly covered the floor around the counter. But the two of them couldn’t care less. They just wanted a gaddamn cake for your birthday.

“Do you think (Y/N) would like it?” asked Tony. He always gives you expensive, unique presents on your birthday ever since you two started dating, but this year, you said you didn’t need something expensive, you said you wanted something that he couldn’t just buy. So, Tony thought, a cake it is. He just never expected it to be this difficult to bake.

“I think sh- ” Bruce was cut off by a puff of black smoke from the oven. “Shit.” he muttered as he stood up and opened the oven. Both of them started coughing from the thick fume of smoke coming out of the oven. Bruce quickly turned off the oven and the smoke started to clear up. They both sighed in exasperation as they saw the disaster in the oven. If they were on Masterchef, they would describe this culinary masterpiece as the “aromatic firewood smoked lava cake”. Except this cake is baked in an electric oven. And it’s not anywhere near being aromatic. And the “lava” overflowing from the baking tin was too burnt to flow. It was just a black crispy, flaky layer over the oven rack. And this thing is barely a cake.

“Well, there goes experiment number 6.” joked Bruce dryly.

“What in the world is going on?” Tony and Bruce both whirled around at the sound of your voice. That may be the first time they’ve realised the mess they had made in the kitchen. No wonder you made that remark.

“We…uh, we wanted to do this thing, um, is that,”stuttered Bruce. He wasn’t sure was he supposed to tell you since it was Tony’s birthday surprise for you.

“Ok. Truth’s out. We’re trying to bake you a cake and we failed. For the sixth time of the day. Can you believe this?” He walked towards you, his expression showing a hint of defeat behind the confidence.

“Was it for my birthday? You guys!” you said as you extended your arm to give Tony a hug. You didn’t expect Tony to give so much effort in it. When you said you wanted something he couldn’t just buy, you didn’t expect him to, well, you didn’t expect him to remember this minor detail in one of your many conversations with him. And by ‘couldn’t just buy’, you meant something more simple, like a handwritten card or something, certainly not a cake.

“We still get points for effort, right?” asked Tony as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

“Oh, you get all the points for effort.” you replied as you peck his lips in response. “And let’s order a cake from the bakery down the street.”

“Good idea.” you all said in union.

“We’ll just leave that there and take a rest in the living room. I need to be away from all this.” said Tony as he led you and Bruce to the living room, his hand gesturing the mess behind him.

You agreed as you three collapsed onto the sofa. Although you didn’t get a cake baked by pâtissier Tony, his effort in attempting to bake one already brought the widest grin to your cheeks.

[thedeathdeelers]

yo i might get rant-y in this ask and need to send multiple and i’m so sorry in advance but i saw your post about letting people like/dislike whatever characters they want and then specifically addressing bobby in the tags and it brought up FEELINGS for me. like i lowkey feel like you made that post bc you saw the same one/ones i did and i just - i need to get it out there ... i don’t understand - people being upset at bobby antis/people not liking bobby ... like y’all do realize that ... all the fanon stuff you think up for him ... isn’t real? like - canonically ... we see the dude for 10 minutes total? maybe? of screentime. and all we really know about him is that he in the band with the other boys and then betrayed them ... like ... that’s literally it. i know they all wanna make up all these excuses and backstories for him and stuff but - to anyone who isn’t a bobby fan, that isn’t how we see him? like i’m sorry it upsets you but ... you can’t make people follow your fanon and view this character the way you want them to when ... the show tells us what kind of character he’s supposed to be ... like. the show gives us the narrative he is not a good guy ... so that’s the narrative i’m gonna follow. sorry not sorry. and people aren’t bad because they don’t like him or stan him or whatever??? like we’re not /supposed/ to - like i-i just ... i don’t understand. and getting so upset at people not wanting to include him in sunset curve in fics or as the boys’ best friend and such ... do they not also realize also in canon ... the boys themselves don’t really seem to consider him a part of sunset curve or a best friend? they introduce themselves to julie as sunset curve and don’t say “sunset curve minus one”, they ask julie to join sunset curve and they never once say anything like “we need a new fourth member”. bobby is an afterthought to them, that gets briefly brought up and then forgotten about until ep4 where we find out he BETRAYED THEM!!! (also like w that brief mention, that right there is a prime example bobby wasn’t as close w the boys as everyone wants. luke is going on about how the three of them have each other and that’s all they need. you think if bobby was as close then he would’ve mentioned him them especially considering they had just done so minutes before???). like - i just ... stop getting mad at people for not wanting to follow your fanon and for literally following the ideals the show itself tells them. i’m sorry it sucks that not everyone loves the same character you do but you only love him so much because of the ideas and headcanons and stuff that YOU’VE made. you can’t expect everyone to just follow that, it isn’t fair. and if bobby antis/people who don’t like him bother you that much ... block and move on? i don’t know. again i’m so sorry for this rant in your inbox but i needed to let this out and i’m far too nervous to post this publicly. also please note none of the “yous” in this ask are directed to you - they’re all general “yous”. anyways i hope you have a lovely day/evening/etc and again i’m so very sorry for this!

aw please don’t apologise! you have a right to your opinion just like everyone else in this fandom, and you shouldn’t be attacked or argued with just because of those opinions (as long as they’re not harming anyone/are not racist/sexist/etc)

i’m glad you went on a rant because i get it - sometimes we just need that lmao l. my post was a long time coming seriously - i’ve seen quite a few in the last few months and sometimes you just gotta...let it out 🤷🏻‍♀️

i wasn’t attacking anyone per se- i just wanted to remind people that you have a right to enjoy fandom the way you want to enjoy it. you have a right to enjoy the show and its characters the way you want to enjoy them

i mean i’m friends and mutuals with a lot of people who love their version of bobby and idm!!! good for them!!! i’ve even enjoyed a few fics and their portrayal of bobby. i just don’t appreciate it when people get aggressive saying you have to include him in your fics and hcs etc

like i’ve said it plenty of times, i have no real opinions on bobby, (genuinely don’t care about him as a character) we barely know anything about him in canon so imma leave him out of my fics most of the time! and that’s my choice! doesn’t mean i’m shoving anti-bobby propaganda everywhere or purposefully being malicious just by doing that

i’m literally just. vibing. in my own fics and on my own blog, surprisingly enough

(also ya i get u. the thing that always hits me is how much of an afterthought he is to the boys..like they get angry when they find out trevor stole their songs but then that’s it...::they barely think about him so i HC that he was just a later addition to the band and not a very close one at that. but again that’s a headcanon because we know nothing about it. at all.)

but again- lmao that’s me y’all. you do you just as long as you remember this IS A HOBBY. A FICTIONAL SHOW ABOUT FICTIONAL CHARACTERS

like gaddamn

anyway. hope you have a good morning/afternoon/night anon!! 🥰

[briteboy]

stealing @bratsims format because i need a less ugly way to mass answer your messages which will hopefully motivate me to stay on top of this! at least i can say i tried

so if you sent me an anon message in the past...idk MONTH (i’m bad i know) it might be here. (older ones are near the bottom) if not, check my faq because it’s probably answered there. (and if you’re the person/people who sent the twin flame & 7th house asks, i plan to answer those separately because i have a LOT to say. get ready)

game of thrones, nuclear war, real life santis, lou theories, i’m evil, HERE WE GO!! i literally had to cut it off at the last one because it was just too much for now. i’ll try to answer some more later ok

we’re starting off on a great note

Anonymous said: gaddamn rooney's tiddies lookin' hella ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

STOP!!!!!!!!!!! THAT’S MY CHILD soaidfnjds she’s supposed to have like b/c cups (goals for me tbh, the big boob life is not fun) and sims 4 pregnancies just fuckin make them...NYOOM i’m mad you can’t edit sims’ bodies during pregnancy even with cas.fulleditmode on -___- so i let her live with her giant preggo tiddies for now

Ngl I want a kiss between Santi and Gianni (I'm sorry I'm literally trash)

then i’m here to satisfy your desires: they do kiss periodically because gianni is one of those people who’s like “why shouldn’t you kiss your friends?” free love 4 everyone

IM SCREAING AT UR YOUTUBE CHANNEL OK!!!! I LOVEEE IT, WOW

DON’T IT’S UGLY EXCEPT FOR LIKE TWO VIDEOS

hey this is kinda random but i thought joe seaward from glass animals looked kinda like santi? he has quite a weird face too lmao

oMG i actually love that, i know what you mean. that dude reminds me of a bull terrier lmao i actually saw glass animals like two weeks ago!! i didn’t really get a good look at the drummer but now i wish i did. missed connection

i just finished reading santi's story and ugh it almost had me in tears! beautiful, your story telling skills and editing skills are perfection!

ahhhhsdkgkds thank you so much ;____; that means the world to me <333

Unpopular opinion: im so done with game of thrones tbh. It's not even good anymore :/ I liked the first season but since then i've skipped through episodes because they are just sooo fucking boring and dragged out!

see like the first three seasons were pretty good because they stayed true to the books. (actually that’s a lie, littlefinger’s chaos speech in the s3 finale was real fuckin bad because guess what: it was original material LMAO) the fourth season was where it started to get messy and then the fifth season was a fucking shitshow because they completely IGNORED the fourth book and cherrypicked all the “good” parts out of it (read: the most action-y parts, while ignoring all the most important pieces of character development) and they botched the dorne storyline, oh and who could forget the iconic moment of throwing in a rape (THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN IN THE BOOKS) just for fun :) love it! but anyway if you think the show is boring i probably wouldn’t recommend the books, they’re even slower getting through them lmao. but it’s worth it in my opinion. there’s so much they don’t include in the show and it makes me Angery

Okay, game of thrones fan here, I haven't read the books (yet at least, I bought book 1) but I feel like dany is going to practically turn into her father, this season she is already showing traits like his.......

OH YEAH i definitely feel like they’re moving in that direction in the process of revealing jon as the “true” king of westeros and it’s so bad lmfao. the thing is, like...cersei is already mad king 2.0? why do we need another one?????? the entire point of dany’s arc is that she’s constantly trying to deviate AWAY from the way her father ruled, demonstrated by the fact that she freed the slaves (whereas all the targaryens before were slave owners), the fact that she’s not perpetuating the whole incest thing (LMAO GUESS AGAIN BECAUSE JONERYS HAS TO HAPPEN FOR SOME FCKING REASON), the fact that she has dragons which haven’t existed in how many years...like, if she ever ends up being like her father in the books, it’s NOT gonna fucking happen like this. but i don’t think she will anyway, george rr martin has been pretty clear about her trajectory thus far. anyway this show is so ugly, next question

rooney's eye are so BIG

just like her tiddies lmao i kno sometimes i forget how big they are and then she does one of those silly endearing animations and i’m like o ;-; hello big dumb baby cow eyes

Cows? Are you secretly Matthew Daddario?

WHO i had to google him lmao i was about to say “oh the teen wolf guy” but jk @ myself u idiot it’s shadowhunters damn i literally googled “matthew daddario cows” and

tru

I love how fragile Lou looks like but the truth is that she is strong af and you can't play with her bruh

SHE IS ;-; and that’s a huge theme in her story, i’m excited <3

ima leave ur blog and come bk and spam you so you will finally notice me

im part of this online forum of girls that talks about our period and weather or not one of us might be pregnant and once this girl posted saying that her husband invited his mom without telling her to thier honeymoon and she didnt find out until they arrived at the hotel and she was already there. the most recent part reminded me of it. but long story short, her dad moved all her stuff out of his house and her friend came to pick her up and they got a divorce.

OISOJDFAKNLJSD WHAT!!! i’m guessing you sent this because of that thing i said about the reddit post lmfaooo imagine your mom on your honeymoon. why. that’s soooooooooo good 4 her u know. u don’t need to be married to his mom as well

thanks 4 trusting my love santi. he's beautiful

thank u he thinks ur beautiful too 💘

do you have any tips for runing game in good quality and fast?

euhhhhh the only tips i have for you are to merge your cc, close all other programs while you play your game, maybe invest in a cooling pad uhhhhhh yeah idk any other tips you can probably find on google

You told that thing about unfollowing people and I thought you unfollowed me, but then I checked and you didn't and I'm crying omg

lmao omg ;-; i literally cut my following list in half, it was so chaotic and it was making me anxious. so if ever unfollow any of you please don’t take it personally (i know it’s a stupid thing to say, and it’s a lot easier said than done) it’s just my brain explodes when there’s too much going on at once and some content blends into others, i’m trying to only follow people who i’m genuinely interested in enough to keep up with their posts from now on

I haven't been able to sleep in over 72 hours thanks to the constant fear over the looming world war. I'm fine. Completely fine

Oh shit, have you noticed that the media has been putting out more 'what to do during a nuclear attack' kinda articles? This world is slowly going to shit, for real. I'm not even near any of the danger really, but it still absolutely terrifies me to see all of that bc it could very well go wrong and hit my place as well yknow? I have no idea why i send this to you but you seem chill and calm so thanks for reading my freakout askfjsls

YEP it’s pretty terrifying. but at the same time don’t let fear overwhelm you, fearmongering is an ugly, ugly thing and you don’t want to live your life constantly worrying. so just prepare yourself for what might come, but at the same time, just spend as much time with your loved ones as you can, do all the things you’ve ever wanted to do, and then if it doesn’t turn out as bad as we thought it would, you *tim mcgraw voice* lived like u were dyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyin’

@ Jesus anon: I really don't think it's the right time to complain about "using the lord name in vain" when there are people terrified of leaving their homes bc they are afraid to get killed (aka that poor, poor Jewish anon in charlottesville)

yeah idk like i want to respect everyone but it seemed to be in poor taste to bring that up at a time like that lmao. and also i’ve literally never in my entire life met someone who actually takes “don’t say the lord’s name in vain” seriously. 

I asked about the poses and HOLY CRAP THANK YOU SO MUCH! I finally have good poses to use for story telling. Thank you soo so so so sooooo much!

YAY i’m glad you found some good stuff <3 and honestly just going through lana’s blog you’ll find a ton of good poses, it’s a gold mine

Idk how much tv you watch, but have you've ever come across a tv show that used music from The Sim? Because once in a while I'll hear Sims 3 build/buy music on some random show and I'll get a lil shook because I find it so weird that the generic music they're using comes from a major game title.

OMG LMAO NO what i wish i’d come across that tho. one time i used sims 1 music in a video i made for school and someone recognized it

I love your stories gosh I check your page "it's everyday bro with femmesim flow" Lol sorry for that awkward Jake Paul "poop" ❤️

lmao thank u i had no idea who jake paul was until my friends started talking about him

yo, I also remember once in french class real life santi asked me what videos games I like to play. When I told him the sims, he looked at me for a while and shaked his head. He was like, "why do you want to watch your sims use the toilet?"

WHY DO YOU WANT TO WATCH YOUR SIMS USE THE TOILET SAME that’s all i care about when i play

that rooney face in the 5 facts is so iconic, its my fave picture of her. You should blow it up and frame it

i should tbh. i should print it out and put it in my wallet to show everyone because she is my child

sorry the bother you, merging cc makes your game smoother? can you explain to me please?

boop

hi i love you ♡ pass it on

I LOVE U

Can I say that hearing a MacBooks fans screaming for dear life as they try to cool down when playing the sims has actually started to haunt my nightmares

SAME my macbook is actually doing it right now for no reason. thanks laptop

Maybe Santi should go to therapy to talk out his issues.

maybe he should 🤔  but tbh he’s already talked out everything, there’s nothing really more to talk out. he just has to cope with it. he’s treated lou like his therapist thus far and that’s not okay

i love ur story and omg i totally get where lou is coming from with being tired of being compared to molly by santi, thatd hurt so much esp with how much she cares about him

thank youuu ;-; i’m glad you understand, this was a part i’d wanted to get out for a loooong time now, and i know you guys were always like “um why does she put up with this” lmao. she just loves him, that’s why. but you’re right, it does hurt.

My theory is very similar to the other anons in that Fiona's dad/Lou's ex had a mental illness (schizophrenia, depression, what have you) but he actually did kill himself and that's why she's not completely losing it on Santi because I feel like most people in that situation would have not handled it as well as Lou did

🤔 you’re right about the last part, and there’s a reason she has so much patience, das all i’m sayin

i started your story from the beginning last night and i am in awe. Its amazing. It inspired me to put a little more effort in learning to edit and write. It was like reading screen caps from a movie! I didn't want to stop reading. Anyway thing was a super sappy ask, but i appreciate your stuff. And i'm bad at putting my thoughts into words.

omg ;__________; when people tell me i inspired them it means the most to me, my brain just can’t process it lmao. so thank you so so much ;-; <333 THE MOVIE THING ESPECIALLY GOT ME IN THE HEART because i feel like that’s my aesthetic with most things i create because i’m such a film person lol. don’t worry i love super sappy, and you did a good job of wording everything because it got me right in the feels <33

Okay I've been snickering for about 43 minutes bc SANTI GOT THAT GRU CHINNN

WOT is that i googled it and the only thing that came up was the dad from despicable me lmfaosdkjfs but ok

Please, please do punk edits of your some of your characters! I'd die.

WHAT DOES THIS MEANNN do you mean like. those 2010 tumblr edits of punk disney characters and then the joker from suicide squad looked like one of them. do u want santi to be the joker. because my boyfriend already relates him to suicide squad joker because of his face tatt lmao

You love to make me cry

i do i’m sorry. if it makes you feel any better i love to make myself cry too. but my biceps grow stronger with every tear

I reeeally dont think those chancla comments were offensive??? Why would they be?? I'm hispanic (born and raised in the sunny Dominican Republic, received a fair amount of chancletazos myself) and I laughed out loud when i read them 😂😂

I JUST WANT U TO KNOW I SHOWED @ichosim THIS MESSAGE AND SHE LAUGHED FOR 12 HOURS AT “CHANCLETAZOS”

whATT my little brothers name is santiago n we call him santi for short!! guess it's not rly that uncommon but we live in a small country and he's also 4 so like,, no other santiagos!! idk why im saying this its completely irrelevant just kinda surprised me :'))

OMG wow hell yeah another real life santi...santi acts like a 4 yr old so he might as well be your brother

Just curious.. Do you play sims or just use it for storytelling? Sorry if thats weird haha

well my recent gameplay pics should answer your question lmao. i do like to play but i don’t have enough time to both play and pose scenes so i mostly just pose scenes for now. :[ i am gonna be off work for like two weeks tho so hell yeah gameplay here i come!!

I'm starting a Fiona appreciation movement because she is the real star of santis story RT and i love her and she is way underappreciated and I love her KThxBi

SHE IS THE REAL STAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i’ve said this before but santi’s relationship with her is the most important to me, out of every relationship he has in this story. i’m so glad you love her so much, sorry about what’s about to come in the next few scenes tho

Oh my heart, Santi is alive, god exist

I have a pretty hard time understanding Santi's story mostly because I'm not English but I'm sure I'll figure it out:)

ahh oh no D: i’m sorry i wish i spoke every language in the world lmao. if you want, you can message me off anon and i’ll help you understand it!!

Lou is an angel honestly

“there are worse things than seeing an angel before you die”

what tablet do you use? or how do you draw hair? it looks so pretty.

omg haha i don’t have one! i wish i did tho. all of the brushes i got from deviantart, i’m trying to find the specific ones but they’re all elusive wtf. i’ll post them when i find them! for now, here’s a good guide to drawing hair, by airi <3

Nah nah I always knew you'd save him.....eheheeh.....THANK YOU FOR NOT KILLING BABBY SANTEEEEEEEEE DNDDNSKANW YOU WOULD HAVE HAD SO MUCH BLOOD ON UR HANDS AS ALL UR FOLLOWERS COLLECTIVELY DIE FROM A BROKEN HEART BUT DW WE DIDNT BECAUSE UR QN ANGEL....but I toooootally knew you'd save him... /sweats/

I’M GLAD U HAD FAITH <3 i know omfg i would’ve expected a mob at my house if i’d actually killed him. if i ever killed him i would just lay down somewhere and die. that’s it for me

Lou & molly almost always have teeth showing, do you draw them on each pic?x

no, only sometimes i’ve drawn them when i felt like their mouths weren’t matching the expression i wanted. but most of the time it’s just the pose.

is it too late to send 16k dollars to guarantee santi's inclusion in a loving home with loving friends

it is absolutely never too late to send me 16k i promise you that

I just bought school books for $550 who knew studying marine biology could be so fuckING EXPENSIVE

EWW WTF...i’ve been lucky and haven’t had to spend a ton on books in my college career (one time i even went to such lengths that i got access to free trial version of one of my school books in a pdf, screencapped EVERY SINGLE PAGE, which was more than 400 pages, just so i wouldn’t have to spend $70 on it. i love cheating the system)

waIT i never saw ur selfie where is it, must see

u could probably just search “selfie” on my blog and find it, or enjoy the ugly closeup drunk snap i posted last night

Hey guys I'm a happy trans man that has no mental illnesses. I'm fucking pissed about Trump's ban. And to any one that says it's logical FUCK YOU! I'm having flashbacks to don't ask, don't tell because this is the same fucking wacked up logic. I'm so angry, like I'm a human, yes I may require testosterone shots once a month but that's it, I even administer them to myself. I pay for them with my own god damn money so fuck you transphobic bigots who say this law is fair. It's not. WE ARE HUMAN TOO Also same anon that ranted. Sorry about that I'm just really pissed and I love and thank you for sticking up for the community. We love you and I love you. And you're right not all trans people transition. We all do what we want to. Some start on T or E and have the full surgery. Some just have top surgery. Some just do testosterone or estrogen. Some never do anything. We're all still trans and we're all valid.

YES ALL OF THIS, sorry i didn’t answer this when it was all happening. but askdkjfas thank you for this message, I LOVE YOU TOO, SO MUCH <333 and i’m glad you feel comfortable enough to voice this in my inbox. yes every trans person is valid no matter what they decide to do with their bodies <3

One of those old hot topic shirts that said " if Darryl dies we riot " but with santi instead of Darryl.

OMG LMAOOOOO NOW THAT’S A CONCEPT who’s making these i want one

your use of references and reaction pics and gifs fucken KILLS ME

Crystal anon here. I googled around my area to find there are none of those y'know, crystal, candle, incense, magic type shops. I have panic attacks when I go outside and I wanted to look into alternative stuff since I'm on meds and w/e. I wanted to know if you or friends had any experience or recommendations for buying crystals online like on etsy or amazon. How can you tell if they're real?x

ooooh ok. usually there are shops like those in cities or even in towns with like kitschy little promenades with independent shops. (i know there’s one around the town over from mine, which is so random lmao) i do have friends that have crystals but i think they mostly just collect them for the ~good vibez~ and don’t really look too far into the healing aspects of them. i would say first go with the one that coincides with your birth because those are the ones that are like specifically catered to you and strengthen your being. as for buying online, hmmmmm i mean i don’t really know any specific trustworthy sellers because i don’t have much experience with this, but definitely read the reviews! those will help you a lot <3

Hello could you please tell us how you edited the pic of rooney in that one post that the anon asked for the unedited version?

i honestly didn’t do much of anything that differs from my usual editing process! i made her eyes a bit bigger by using the clone tool, cloning the top of her eye and applying it a little bit farther up...if that makes sense. it’s hard to explain how to use that tool lmao. and i think i used the liquify tool to bring part of her eyebrow down to look more worried.

there's still a part of me that says she ain't dead and molly is just in a coma lmao end mE

OMFLDKGKJS yeah she’s not dead surprise. i WILL say there is still flashback stuff that will be revealed. well not “revealed” like molly’s death was revealed, like i just still have to showcase some things that happened afterward. because it doesn’t just end with molly’s death, there’s stuff after that as well :~}

I'm Mexican, have lived around Mexicans, have been to Mexico multiple times growing up, just came back from a family trip at practically the border between Mexico and Guatemala and never in my life have I ever heard the word "joder" i had to look it up xD (not hating or anything I just thought I'd mention it cuz I found it funny...lol) k bye...

OK NOT SURE IF the ppl you’ve been around just don’t curse or whatever but...joder is DEFINITELY something i’ve heard mexican people say before lmao

Okay so this is random, but i was telling my sister the name of one your characters in ur story (santi) and she kinda just starts singing his name, and she said "santi high, santi low, santi go." And im just sitting there, like woah.

LMFAO WHATKNJDSKJGD “woah” same

u gonna incorporate fis hat into a really like emotional sad thing in her story huh

oMG i wasn’t planning on it but hmm 🤔

Why no el chingo? NO ME GUSTA (I'm joking btw ily)

LMFAOOOO because i didn’t wanna have to defile my son by downloading the penis mod RIP

let santi grow out dem eyebrows 2kforever

omg he does let them grow out except for the little line he shaved in when he was 14 that never grew back RIP

in ur bio it says "kt" and i know why,, it means killing them as in killing off ur characters slowly i see u gurl

i bet this story was just an excuse for you to see the world burn. well done.

OMG i mean, that was definitely one of the side effects of it all. but really it was just that i NEEDED to get this story out after it had lived in my brain for so long.

ur dead 2 me

I... just.... can't... too much pain Y U DO DIS 2 UZ?!?!!!

[kandadiff]

Missing (1)

“I know that lowlife tricked her into meeting him again.” GD growled, the once neat meeting room now messy from his act of unbridled rage. Papers thrown on the floor, beautiful statues broken and the table had a few stab marks from when he stabbed at it in anger. The others around him (TOP, Daesung,Taeyang,  Seungri, CL, JB, Jin, Suga and RM) were careful not to test his anger. “They probably met up and he kidnapped her, ever since the gaddamn engagement hes been trying to get back with her. I should have fucking tied her to this house.” He slammed his fist on the table. “Where’s her phone?”

“She-It was dumped about three miles into the city.” CL said frowning. “Her last three calls were to an unknown number, Kay and you.” Gd sighed and looked around at the table for any other news.

“Our contacts in Newcrest and Oasis Springs haven’t seen her” JB said equally as worried for you. He didn’t like Edward that much but he was also scared what GD would do if he found out that you hadn’t been kidnapped, and instead chose to run away. “But they are still looking, and I’ve sent Bam Bam, Changbin and Felix into Del Sol to check there as well.” 

“The parents?”

“Well Edwards father is a drunk and has been estranged from his kids for years” Taeyang said looking at his papers. “And I mean it looks like he was planning this, his mother suddenly moved from her home in Oasis Springs but the landlord and none of her neighbors know where she went.”

“Friends”

“I haven’t been able to get in much contact with Draven, But Makayla is as worried as we are, she says she hasn’t seen her and will call if she does.” Taeyang said.

“Olivia Martinez offered to help us look,” CL said staring at her papers “She said she never trusted Edward either.”

“Katya hasn’t had luck contact her or any of the styles siblings since she left, Shes trying again now.” Jin said and inhaled a heavy breath “And Kitty says she hasn’t talked to any of the styles boys since her breakup with Harry and she used to call Anne once a week but since she moved she hasn’t been able to.”

“And we can trust that's accurate?” GD seethed studying Jin closely. 

“Yes, I had Daesung look up her phone records, none to any numbers I didn’t recognize.”

“What about Kay?” GD asked and everyone shifted uncomfortably. There was a long pause “Has no one thought about asking her? She speaks to her every fucking week!”

“We won’t be able to ask her for help.” Namjoon said matter-of-factly as he sat with Jin and Suga in the meeting room. GD flashed an angry look at him before ordering Seungri to bring in J-Hope. “I didn’t mean any offense by it,” he said adjusting his glasses. “But Kay has been virtually untraceable since she ran away with-”

“Arianna speaks to her every fucking week, she has to be somewhere! Did any of you ask Kitty or even Katya?!” 

“Katya and Kitty won’t say anything” Jin said and GD slammed his hand on the table angrily. 

“Then get it out of them!”

“I won’t” Jin said shakily, he was nervous. “I can’t, I won’t force her to do anything. It took a lot to build what we have, if I force her-”

“You rather Adi die?”

“Jiyong” CL shook her head, “that boy is obsessed with her but he won’t kill her. And Jin is right, both of them are assets to us, shes the best medical we’ve ever had and Katya is an amazing sharpshooter and if we force her then it would hurt us.” GD stared hard at Jin but knew CL was right but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. 

“Well then Hoseok has to know where she is, he followed her since she left with that guinea! and frankly I don’t know whether to be upset that he didn’t say shit now or-”

“What if she doesn’t know?” RM offered, “she could be wondering why arianna hasn’t called her, and she could be looking for her.”

“You can’t bring her back,” Suga spoke for the first time in the meeting. “She left for a reason.”

“She left because she didn’t want any of you.” GD said harshly glaring at namjoon and Suga, while giving a small side eye to TOP who was silent next to him. Jhope walked into the room sitting down in the empty chair by Jin. “Hoseok, you know her better then anyone here.. where is she?”

“Who?” Hobi smiled but given the looks on everyone’s faces, it quickly faded. 

“Kay that's who?! Where is she?”

“I-”

“Don’t you lie to me! you write letters to her, she wrote you back last week but there was no return address, she has to be close then.”

“You write her?” TOP asked who hadn’t had contact with me since I left.

Hobi looked guiltily at his crew then back at his boss, “I did, she um....she was visiting here to ummm see Adi, she where to meet her but i’m not sure where she is now. She didn’t tell me where she lived just where she -”

“LIAR! YOU HAVE TO HAVE AN IDEA! IS SHE TANNER, IS SHE PALER? WHAT WAS SHE WEARING?!”

“Where did you meet her? we can swipe the footage.” Daesung said pulling out his laptop.

“I already did.” Hobi said pulling out a file which GD snatched from his hand. 

“Why did you keep it secret?” GD asked calmly but beneath the surface everyone knew he was pissed. He stood up and walked toward Jhope. “Betraying your own kind? Like Jay?”

“No of course not.” Hoseok shook his head “no, I just- she wants to be left alone. It took a lot to contact her again and I-” He let out a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure exactly where she lives now but I do know shes staying somewhere near Lake Tahoe, that's where she told me to write her.” GD looked around the table, for clarification where thatwas. 

“Northern California, its about three hours away” JB said “Its not a huge place to search we can start it soon.”

“Good, get a team together and find her. Bring her back to me, shes going to help us.” Everyone around the table started to get up. Suga going over to Hoseok as a backup.

“And if she refuses?” 

“Send her a message that she doesn’t have a fucking choice.” Everyone began to leave the room but when Hobi got up GD shook his head. 

“Not you.”

[castlehead]

one feels the need to go sit at a stump in the forest and contemplate shit

Something far Within skews out interesting Voltage: more timid, yielding, Active perfections, indeed, That promptly shrivel up In the exposure—and—I Disregard the event whilst New confusions ring out old Confusions, confusions I thought I had cleared up already and well Well well each surprise that that Other responds to that other with- -Is a strikingly imaginative Difference, and, yet, ends Up being more predictable Than what had caused the Reaction—and so on—and, Then, I feel pretty barren—I Guess—more, it is my own Imagination that feels Barren, and limited, Because—afterwards—I Was not able to react to a Shocking deviation, in a Way equally shocking, And, yet, how that Other reacts to me Is blander still, and, Well, I suppose you Could say that the Troubles of the other—

I do not like to use The word Beauty. It is the only thing that implies What we already know concretely— What use is it? If such an island                        As that which, by the calculations Of our pretty GOD tears apart, All apart the supple stasis —Of my vision, and nightly bleeds The soft milk from my eye In saturated white, until the Bulb Is transparent, and the iris starved . . . I could get my car

And drive to the place Of requited peace, of Peace in knowing that peace Would come, in time, And in knowing this, I knew peace also.

I approach the Beast Who grunts, and spits Fire—and I set my sword Within him. Defeated, he staggers off In a puzzle of movement

ARGUMENT FOR ALL THAT^^^^: There is a place where pure beauty is where life is and where the peace the peace that one had sacrificed for the sake of the WORLD just for being alive, in that WORLD—is reciprocated—and, given back to that person: just by being alive: one celebrates the plenty of the EARTH just by being alive and the EARTH is grateful and in its turn allows the unnamable to be named—and—you find out, that—Christ—the answer dwells in the beauty of yur living . . . had always been there, in yur living.

There is another place just like it, between two oceans, it is in neither ocean, it is a small bit of rock, it is an island that is loud with the sound of flora, and fauna—of insects, and trees—and, yet, there is something daunting in the sound, something freaky, and, yet, the sunset redeems the sound, which hence bleeds into the freaky, fractured light of the sky, becoming a tranquil drone . . .

But it is not the same place and there Is no such peace there—at least—any Such peace as would be humanly recognizable Hahaha it is recognizable but at a distance and Myself and some vague other we find that We are expected to lend peace—by way of Keeping intact whatever peace might still Resemble and retain immensely in the fantasy of Inadequate metaphors—we find out That we are to lend peace the same Basic elements of something that is To be seen by the human eye and the Human eye only and at a distance only Hm perhaps I am too spiritually Farsighted: I am too spiritually farsighted: I discover this—that is—what I had written Nine words back, and by now what I had Just written has been written many many Many more words back from that Particular number and and and— So, yeah—so yeah. I discover this And find out that by the time I make The discovery—well, shit—I have already Traveled long and hard in my searching for It from the old, adolescent platitudes, fueled By a thrusting fire forward from what I thought To be an explosive injustice—and—what seemed More staggering at the time, that time of my youth— What seemed more staggering was this eerie suspicion Of being aware of a fucking joke, existing—like an ether— Around you, clinging to you, balking from an expression Of its name from its own lips to you each day so that even If you were to decide to turn back, it would not matter—as It is that in my case, I have arrived—have arrived, already, Before you, I have won, I have arrived at either the wrong Place or the right place which strewn platitudes like so Much confetti could not ever satisfy much less with A location that only now I realize cannot be come Upon and that peace, that peace it hangs in the Air around my want. It warms me—now—it Warms, it warms with the heat of a distant and Absurdist fact: this is the fact: it is the fact

That I am too close to the vision of that peace For it to be useful to me—I am as I said, too Spiritually farsighted—and I find out inevitably And as tho almost to confirm the needling of this My own infinite sadness that this peace is no sort of Peace to rightly feel without knowing it—as well—as Something marred: something that is marred—forever— By a long, habitual stirring in the mind for that mind to Address personal troubles, and, well, dude: they are my Own gaddamned troubles, dude, so, yeah, don’t bother To fucking help me . . . I said fuck off, you!!!! So, then— Now that that is out of the way—I address certain Troubles I guess and also I throw up my hands. I Address them . . . I address each mistake that, really, Was only a mistake because I have been too weak in My youth, my youth which floated on and on by ways       Of a private, lurking logic appareled In all the flourish of ceremony hahaha and well you Know I might as well take an account of most failures Out of the number that I have weaved thru . . . without Permanent injury. I have been unable to quell what Is still an inadequate seism—even now—I feel the Quake of passions and have been unable—as well— To mature, to get over my own selfishness enuff To refuse an easy opportunity to benefit myseff, And uhm you know I have been oblivious—as Well—too oblivious, regarding the effect of My decisions in general. In other words, The effect of his own giant choices, On others—others who are close Or closer to me, or a me—choices, The effect of giant choices speak And persuade him to block out What he would be doing to Those whom I care for in Making this an obliviousness

To all that is a reality and a handicap, A handicap that is so severe as to raise Questions, amongst friends: something That could be accurately classified as an Affliction is realized, in me—and—I see The man, the former owner of a house— Some house, somewhere—the man is In the house. The man, he is in the Basement of the house, now: Right now: he is scanning over Each one of his own troubles and Each one of them is different from Mine and what is fascinating is that Each one deviates from what I would Expect to make sense in terms of my Own private appraisal of this man who, Indeed, had once lived, like a monster In his house, his own house—really—you Know it is not so much that I ruminate on All the different types of troubles that the One may have, and abruptly envision this WORLD as diverse: it is more that the way

In which things are diverse is and will Always seem a little surprising, to me, So, in turn, it will be offputting—to be

Honest—it is very much offputting: when It happens, it makes me uncomfortable, And, yet: well, yeah: it happens frequently

—And, well—it is fucking offputting, ok? That’s all I’m gonna say. Really, I cannot Stress this point enuff—that’s all I’m gonna

Say—because, well, yeah, I guess this feeling Of discomfort is what keeps me going, and it Is what keeps me moving forward and away

From suffering and the suffering it manages To emerge with bubbling majesty and The bubbles emerge from the lagoon

Anticipating elaboration on a joke out Of many of the immortal joker who Then might hear himself laughing

At his own humor, and he would hear In the rasp of the sound of his laugh A cadence resembling coughing Crows coughing and so yeah so

Yeah the damned murky water tempts From the deeps an obscured, and—as yet Unnamed chaos—a second coming of the

Mass beneath, from the surface of a bizarre Lagoon where water lingers and grows stagnant: And, then, one would expect to feel that stiffening Of small hairs on the neck, seemingly by obligation But in reality an instinctual response to feelings of

Fear: then: the mass beneath—a hideous, Radioactive monster—comes from out the Depths of bizarre lagoon, once more—after

You had destroyed it—similar to a phoenix, Really, in the nature of the cycle rather than In physical resemblance, resemblance in terms

Of both what a phoenix looks like and in how It reanimates hahaha because destruction only Feeds the monster, and fuller, again—these

Beastly troubles of mine—the troubles of the WORLD. The thing is that how I react to something Surprising—like all of what I just wrote, among other Things—usually ends up being a much less surprising And so then infinitely more appropriate reaction to the the The spontaneity. Like most things, or, like nothing at All, depending on whether or not you are able to find Truth in the concept of entropy, well, perhaps, Humanity as a species is contained—locked, Almost—in a jail of a will. This will is a will to Instate thru an adequate appropriation of tools, Personal tools to be used for one and another to Communicate their own, personal martyrdom Sensations inspired to be used. A will is Somewhere in the mind, and this will is The feeling of a concentrated rush of Desire for something new that makes More sense and in more ways than what Had made sense before what had just been And even what is, what is and all of it all of This will be and is happily promulgated Throughout—nonetheless—what the Other had just done is beyond Surprising: it is a consciously Occurring spontaneity that makes Itself out to be unconscious and also Naturally occurring. It happens for a moment, And finishes itself—completely—in a space of time, and, Well, the space of time, the space of time is between two points, And the points, the points if you must know are in a pair, however— This pair of locations—since any point that you should care to chart On a graph is a location—these two points they are so close Together that they might as well be fused: in this Rapidity is the surprise, really, since I am Barely able to discern what had just Happened to me you we him anyway and

Out of pain I broke my brother. I hath gone away, Off to feed on others more willing than him.

I told my brother that he wast that fault in the fray I hath longed to criticize. I hath longed to brim him

With faults. Demand he gatherest them that fell aside. Space moved. With it, the idea. until in frailty        I knew but that Ill heed, that gesture, a magician’s curse And fealty to concea, before the infection worsensl : : : : :

born - -> work to be aware of ourselves - - > discern that from recognizing awareness - - > find purity in what results from this distinction - - > fall in love with memories - - > find it is experience that builds us mentally, but memory which builds experience - - > discover obvious yet revealing thing about ourselves that is simply apart from us but as a leaf is apart from a tree, and which somewhere in the hermeneutical narrative we always knew - - > realize that at the root of this epiphany is a chemical released before death - - > horror - - > ? ? ? - - > profit / fall from grace and begin life once more as punishment.

“If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.”

—William Blake

Requited peace And beauty haunt this place.

if karma kicked me any harder in my face i would break shitton against the earth's crust into a million pieces

There is another one Just like it, between          The Pacific and the Atlantic —A little island of hoarse tranquility,

and i wouldn't give a shit abt any of it at all, dying

The crack of bugs and The sift of grass, echo Violently across the thicket across the colors Separating—firmament—with acquiescent lines                                 That blind

even tho that wld be really glorious to experience except i wouldn't have the capacity to feel anything i would b disintegrated, before id hav the chance to any way . . .

But it is not the same, No—not the same. The figures Figures of dark inflections —The voice of a thing in the dark— A bit of cowering in that voice,        Throaty, and amountless, so that In your dreams, for you are dreaming now, In the night of this, the voice Breathes, as if it had no choice. It —Immediately disappears into Chasms. At the first blink of the day, You remember nothing of the voice, And carry on.

ok, well, culture prepares clues, to some,                   introverted fears: these prepare    them for death, apart from                  the people dying, for,                               severing that linkage is              crucial: for, something                  in us points its way to undisguise the grainy photo despite knowing who before, of us or one who we met on a sad day wasted in spring-          -and corners the last time we tried to think: you kno, the one                    of a man in thick shades yu just noticed,                                                  before all is said and done,                                 the answer seeking yr desktop                    for a place where it can                          exist fetally before finally being uncovered       developing a condemning mistake or something                                    u hadn't noticed before, like it was going to all                along, and which gets rotten                             four hours into its life: time's impact lessens          on his brains, in thinking of a                      death his, slows,                         and he starts to trip up on memories that refuse to leave              and just lather senses like a brainwash,                         that don't actively             present themselves, but feel to life,                                    feel themselves to life. he lets his                       humanity go fuzzy with finding, especially                                  dazed for the revealing                  of it later as all lies, once                                 out of the soup: it was delicious: it was a bit over-prepared. but a hatchway

And, you see the beauty—again— On this little island of the X. And fathoms Cooperate with fathoms, if you-

into a universe for sure he, uh, he robbed from last night, bumping into a friend he never saw and finding out

                -Just saw the jangle of the cocoanuts,  And the carpet of the impassive sea . . .

it wasn't him it was in one of the worlds   .

Well—you see, the troubles

Of that other will always have some new prolepsis in their backpocket: the latest surprise, just for you: so, then—the one—existing at present and strictly in relation to another, is waiting, and will most likely continue to wait until the one begins to hurriedly stock up on what courage he can—as tho in preparation for war—and, the one—well, what about him???? Well, uh, he is kind of pitiful to be honest, which, in a way, is comical, because his cause is so very grand. This nervous, shaking, thinner one—out of the two—of which, the one is one part and the other, the other part, are—both him and that other—views of him (who?) that are, indeed, legitimate perceptions of an opposite pole, that—tho they violently contrast—are both equally legitimate, because they are both representations of a private, nestled sensibility and both the other and the one see the sensibility as true because, indeed, sensibilities—most of the time—are true, and, yet, are true only because they are privatized, and relate strongly to that self that is behind whatever actions the one or perhaps the other might devote themselves to push into an explosion, that—unfortunately—manipulates whatever personal sensibility I might choose to have, for either. A WORLD of truth exists in the mind of that one, though, because that one is the embodiment of what the other is, while thinking himself to be himself—and—the other, he is who neither of them are. Moving on! I want to whip out provocation like a dangerous knife and quickly from the ass of jeans enjoin a greater abstraction to the knife and and and I will be dedicated instinctually to a difference in the magic between me and the troubles of that other, who, now, right now, observes his past: it is an incompletion: his past is incomplete and hellish and yet stoked to life by troubles troubles that he observes with a poised, contemplative brooding—and, I find: his brooding, well, it is somewhat like mine: it is of one who looks and looks and continues to look at an old, dusty collection of something quaint and easy on the eyes, something that once—perhaps—he had enjoyed collecting an amount of—when he was younger, and, yet—even then, he was already at a point in life that before he knew it had hauled him far out past that youth of his and and and also he enjoyed looking at them, he really enjoyed looking at the one thing that he had collected an amount of for periods of time when he was younger. This is a phenomenon, like most other hobbies—it is a phenomenon, because, it is always an aim in itself: zero work is involved in a hobby, I reckon—I mean, I guess it depends on the hobby—however, overall, personal interests are always voluntary. Moreover, they are spasms of an opinion regarding something known amongst certain circles, perhaps—as a good—indeed, as a good—as constructive—moreover, as healthy, mostly, he wants to plumb enjoyable feelings immediately, feelings like that are good I guess and among them are things like admiration and awe and overall a sense of value in ownership, such as an ownership one might have of baseball cards: stuff amassed in a phalanx of black attachés: sadly, they get left behind, when the owner—whoever he was, that beautiful fool—loses interest, and decides casually and without forethought to banish a few things to the basement: things that would at least have to appear to him as things with purposes no longer tolerated as purposes if the respective item could not under scrutiny be linked much less be linked off the cuff and in under two minutes to whatever use of which that item would purport to be a correct embodiment and even the things that were taking up a little too much space, he guessed, would have to go. So, in order for him the original owner to really consider taking anything anywhere . . . well, yeah, well, fuck, these, in reality—loose—and, yet, to the owner carefully and also prudently mediated rules successfully extricated from the unfull parts of a complex dialogue in his head would have to and did sort themselves out in his head in quite literally a splitsecond and it was a splitsecond argument and the argument was located in his mind and his mind in sensing a conflict of interest between the left and right hemispheres would begin to suddenly wonder how wise it is—you know—how wise it is, leaving shit all over the floor and all over the place, sometimes it is so bad that he swears he feels an epic weight weigh down on all his brief, and—after awhile—discarded passions. The discarded passions are on the floor, then—and—all of that, taken together with his own fears of inadequacy that never allay—not even somewhat—all of this, well, fuck it, he slowly feels all of this: crunching, crunching, crunching on his SOUL. Ha! Hm. He unconsciously transposes from this wrong place—perhaps—perhaps to somewhere where he cannot feel the crunch in his chest that in six months the doctors would identify as a heart murmur and he does not yet know that this will eventually lead to heart disease and yet he harnesses the pain, really: he transposes the feel of the crunch to inanimate things . . . all of this fucking shit . . . everywhere . . . in a mess, on the floor, in his own, damned house: his house is a confinement. The whole damned house is getting sucked into a black hole, he thinks—imagine it—it were as tho finally the owner and the angsty emptiness in him had become so massive in him as to make it seem like all of that stupid shit on the floor could implode everything—could split the beams of houses to splinters. Eventually, he allows the junk to pile up. He is always way too lazy, and will do it later. Even more junk accumulates . . . you were always kind of a packrat, you fucking slob!!!!! This is a purging of junk, this poem: one hemisphere of the brain is all for it, and, so, then, the other hemisphere is not at all for it. Willed by an unconscious need to break thru the clutter the man inevitably grabs two boxes for whatever he can find first . . . what is this? He asks this question with no real awe or admiration or whatever in his voice however there aren’t many men who don’t care, at least a little, about a past that once was their reality, and—in this case—this man who once owned the house, was, indeed, amused—after all, his SOUL is not a clod: he thinks: holy shit . . . heheheh . . . jeez, where did these come from???? He smiles, and, well, the smile is crooked: it is crooked, yes, because his attention is divided between various points of focus: stimuli: he is not focused on his jaw—enuff—to even it out, and, so, then, as a result, the stiff upper lip finally relaxes its stiffness (this man had taken so long to cultivate stiffness) and the muscles in his jaw go lax—enuff—to turn it all crooked, and, he views those old baseball cards—huh—forgot I still had these, really, he says, to himself, I suppose I’ll just stock them up in the basement for now and—I guess—sell them, at some point? Seems logical. So, yeah, the years pass . . . eventually the owner of all of the baseball cards in question goes off to live somewhere else, yeah, so, someone buys the house—some dude. On one of his first days there in the house this dude journeys for the first time downstairs to his new basement. He is still busy with moving, and is kind of stressed—tho—he puts discomfort in the back of his mind, for now—the man, the new owner of the house—we are speaking of him, this time—had been unpacking the remaining boxes and luggage, and, shit, there’s still boxes left to unpack upstairs, he kept thinking. For all intents and purposes, he had planned to unpack them—days ago—even tho he did not write down anywhere to do this and even tho he almost forgets the chore—completely—still, he ends up not forgetting to do that shit: he is not forgetful, and, well—we—that is, all of us, I think, possess good humor enuff to find solace in knowing that at least this man, this man at forty with no wife and no life, at least, we know him to keep—if not his appointments with others—then, at least, those appointments he makes with himself. So then the man so yeah he decides to get an early start—decides to wake up at seven—looks thru the window at his front yard, which—he notices—is saturated in the hard rains of a yesterday a yesterday that has already slipped his mind. His own concept of time seemed to be working against him: time seemed to him enclosed in a veil of mist: he thinks to himself: I feel like my brain is wearing sunglasses—wait, no, more like, I feel as tho my brain were constantly exposed to the elements . . . or something. An image flashed thru his head, then: a moment of rain, heard soft—then, hard—against his bedroom window, during the night. This image relaxed him a bit, it is, indeed, a relaxing image, for you—and, he realized that he had been clenching his ass—because, he wasn’t anymore—and things felt different around that area, he supposed. So, the man, he goes straight to the basement, straight to work, without having breakfast, ambitious fellow—he hasn’t had time to go out and get groceries yet, anyway, and, in point of fact, does not regularly eat breakfast—so, then, it was no matter—he was in no rush, was he now?????? No words, all action: just do the deed. So, he gets started: he ends up finding fifteen volumes of something like soggy baseball cards, and some stamps. Strange. Weeks after that, in quite a different state—and after examining more comprehensively the contents of what apparently the previous owner of this house had left for him to have—the man realizes, then, that, before the storm, and, unknowingly—and, for a straight three days—he had been sitting on a treasure trove: and, yet, ah, shit, he is too late, you see: cumulatively, the man, this man, who bought the house from its previous owner is now of the opinion—tho, most of his opinions, like mine—indeed—are things even now unable to divine a consistency for very long before creating something wrong about themselves . . . anyways: the man in his forties with no wife and no life is of the present opinion that all of what the owner had left behind, when taken together, would have snagged him upwards of $80,000 . . . had it not as was mentioned rained quite hard the night before—flooding the basement—and, effectively destroying the goods, which, again, he only discovered after somesuch destruction: the boxes when the man discovered them, were labeled—miscellaneous—hah! Pretty funny, how things work out, people are so frail . . . moving on, or, rather, back, way back to the beginning of all this—that is—the part in the story, when I talked about how I scanned my own troubles as like one who might scan the sopping dregs of a lost fortune with an elegant, poised brooding . . . wet cardboard, fixed in his hands: moving on: it is unlikely that I will simultaneously know and understand—while doing the scanning—that, in addressing them—them, being my troubles—by shamelessly bringing all the nastiness of my troubles to the forefront—and, in any way, at all—in addressing my problems consciously I would be revealing to myself how useless it would be to find a solution, since all this ends up being an internal pattern of give and take that approaches something, like this: that is, a sort of brutality, in dwelling on such things and yet being unable to change them: I can’t get over it: it is a kind of brutal, senseless masochism—heh—to be honest, I can never even be sure—after attaining a solution—that what I had solved would end up actually being beneficial, to me, in the longrun: it would be—instead—a sick, ailing peace, an ailing peace that folds, innocently, innocuously—like, for example, this paper napkin, this napkin daintily/innocently positioned on yur lap—folding over each emotion: it is like wind: it is elusive as a wind that is a tiding of change: prodigious feelings—they will change, yet again—and, tho the metaphor is done with, I’ll just add this: that is, I am adding, at present, a similar, unrealized peace to the peace that by this time I assume we already have garnered and taken advantage of, and, emotion—shit—it folds like an evil fucking paper napkin over every feeling, but barely. It is an evil quelling that I can only ably use to detach myself from life: personal troubles might arise, yes, and do arise, and, yet, I would only and too simply detach from them. Doing this—ultimately—would, indeed, detach all that I am from all of life, since, in this totality, in the stating of a series of random/peculiar/haunting/related ultimatums, in this and this only is an honest feeling of hardship: any totality is a hardship, really, which proves that any hardship I have gone thru is pretty much one out of many that provoke to string dirtiness thru the dripping darkness of his home—that is—my home, my solitary home, which, as I think of it—now—for the first time, manages to assuage the pain and the solitude—living alone in a whitewashed room. A red lightbulb is fixed at the center of the ceiling of the room and turns on without a switch to shed light on the red room that in being any sort of enclosure will intensify the pain of the solitude of being without a home for the room to be in, and, this intensity is a more dangerous product of the pain—that is—of hardship: that is, the fantastic oblivion of a dreamless sleep before waking up in the wrong place and the place is wrong because it is known only as a result, that is, the result of a peculiar/haunting/related ultimatum, spoken as a challenge and so then put to the test, a test that whoever spoke, in the first place, failed . . . I crash . . . and, I fall upwards from where I would find the sense in it—that is—in life, once gravity turns around—and we—everybody—flies off the planet, into the sun: that’s it: what peace I have received so far upon arriving at this wrong place with a companion—who I am only now mentioning again and who will seemingly disappear from focus until I mention him again, again, and, yet, I will only do this so that I can properly destroy him—anyways—what peace I have received at this wrong place, an island, a wrong and sinister island, is—I have come to realize—naught. Void. Phooey. It is nothing, but a pleasant—tho temporary—salve. Troubles exist, yu see, and, then, new ones do: for example, there is this trouble I have about repeating myself: yu see, when I do truly decide to make something into an idea, I commit myself utterly to an effort towards finding something in something that I have already rummaged thru to look for, and found: something, indeed, that I had had in the giant bag—before coming to this wicked place—this wrong place. I now rummage, yet again: I rummage, like a delirious maniac, thru the big, giant bag: I pluck with ease some kinda scary new idea, I guess, and—deliriously—I stand squat in the center of my own balance, for the first time. With my feet apart and my head tilting upwards, I outstretch my left arm and wield meaning like a magnificent sword speckled on the handle with white diamonds and rubies of such a density of color—scarlet color—as to possess, if only one could so regard the transparent shine of the angles of the white diamonds, or the deep reds and deep greens of rubies that are too much a part of this image of a sword that I am not even describing fully, fuck, well, then . . . one might, considering this logic of rubies and diamonds and whatnot, well, one might just throw up their hands—if they are bold—and, you know, give up: give up what might have been possessed: one feels the need to go sit at a stump in the forest and contemplate shit: if the one wishes, he could then regard and continue to regard everything and all that is before him—with amazement—because for so long he had not contemplated a thing but in a language of figurative abstractions . . . so has it been laid out like a wrinkled, soiled sheet over the bed you wake up in. This garbage is for the reader, in words: the pleasurably odd landscape of a mind that is glutted with sensations of reality, which—now that I think about it—are more like outbursts of a clarity that is only clear because it deviates a lot and for the first time and in the most unexpected way from your/my/his own organic set of principles, organically sprung from the marasmus: there is barrenness here—in this wrong place—I feel it, as well, comrade: a perfectly barren thought exists, and that thought is the only tool I have to search for meaning, which, actually, is a thought that has not necessarily lost the ability to be clear—but, instead—no ability was ever there, at all. To be clear, however, I would suppose that this barren landscape is a relatively good example of pathos: it is easy to imagine that one would appreciate the tragedy of the struggle a struggle to mimic the feeling of clarity, in words, because, quite literally, that is the extent of yur abilities—that is—my abilities, and, well, shit, it’s kind of strange how there are so many sentences out there that unknowingly contain useless words, words that shouldn’t have made the cut: sometimes: well: at least, in terms of my own, personal quest for knowledge, I find it strange. But, what is this clarity, and what shall it become, with time????? You are afraid. You (I’m sticking with you, this time around) go somewhere deep and deep and way too deep within, because, well, uhm—any emotion, demonstrated—no, no, no: let us say, any emotive power is powerful because it is a mixture of differences, and so then toys around with the possibility that it is both the means and ends, and, this makes me think that, well, most hybrid things consume themselves while being able to produce—from nothing—a successfully communicated stubbornness: an aversion, indeed, to this disproportionate landscape of the mind . . . that tho I write it down will dwell still in the unity of something magical that gives us all in words what is blessed upon that other, in myself—myself—who cannot take into account his own awareness and, so, then, cannot digest an emotion of power—so that, I see the potential in tapping it, in tapping the emotion, and, yet—I cannot tap it—as it is not in me that the emotion of power sees the accord of itself but, rather—for some reason—it is able to deconstruct the unity I would have possessed. Nonetheless. I cannot tap it, and, it goes way down more than it should within, and gets stuck . . . left to starve and die beneath the pressure of the guts of that more surprising other, in me: ah, comrade: you initiate the demise of what has already been made clear, and—suddenly—the landscape of the mind becomes an impatient dissecting by me of that figurative corps of shadow, and emotion—in my bowels—this time. It is a dissecting of that which has unknowingly wasted a reality that is without proper scale or any perceivable arc. Awareness would then possess and so then know as full the power of a deepness resembling in scarlet and white and green a color that one might be compelled to phrase out and phrase eloquently—in words—as the blear of a disconnect as passionate as a shrouding of the conceit: a manifold passion of the self, and, the multiple tubes of that self that are confined beautifully and wrongly within some kinda weird idea are what one would define as some sorta magnificent sword: a weapon that I shall offer to the sky: the beautiful idea, made object: this idea is an idea, that, if I were to get beyond the problem of repeating myself would still never exist as a physical form—enuff—to be solemnly, tastefully eschewed—by me—to the dominant sky. It is an idea that I grab out from a great, big bag, and sacrifice. Beforehand, I keep it somewhere safe and yet hidden. Things such as this bag, this package—where I keep all of my ideas—should not be tucked away behind the bushes, and left there: they would grow, yes. However, whatever they grow into will always be a terrible, terrible obfuscation of the bloom from whatever seed of clarity that had been, before the seed was an idea. This implies safety, I guess—safety that is filled all the way to the top of the glass of an imaginative solipsism. I commit myself to an effort and the effort is in trying over and over again to fathom what I had written before, which means that the content is still preoccupied with some statement I had already made and which, most likely, needs fixing: the frequency with which my mind forces me to recollect each problem and/or each flaw of self or mind or of content or style—well—such frequency, rapidity, in itself, would present possible problems: I do not solve them: so, then—that is—now, they linger: they linger in the back of the mind and spoil. However: solitude, quietude, restfulness: most of what is there, that is, in this wrong place, is good, and is the good stuff: it is the right stuff, partly. I suppose I should be thankful for any experience of peace at all, and, well, I suppose I am happy with this nice brand of peace that I have ended up with. I just wish I didn’t have to live in this place—this wrong island—in order to feel somesuch peace: don't worry, KATIE: and, well, truly: I am not trying to be too much of a stupid wiener, yu know: for example: I will not hand to you like dollars an obtuse remark that for no seeming reason other than perhaps to annoy is stated in a voice that curls up and out the throat in a lilt like some kinda chipper tho disappointingly optimistic inflection. To clarify: I will not hand with my hand such a remark—as was just elaborated upon—to anyone, and, in such a way I will not hand like strange dollars remarks to yu, since, indeed, yu are one out of that theoretical anyone. Especially yu—out of anyone—would know and thoroughly know that optimistic remarks are strange dollars!!!! Especially yu would know, that—each and every second—I spout out and desperately a fresh one out of the many shapes of my optimism—anyways—in the hopes that whoever listens, might fight me: I do it in spite of myself: I do it, I try to be happy around other people, you see, and, because they know me . . . and, because they understand that I possess somewhere within a darker, danker malignancy . . . well, then, whatever happiness I try to spread to others ultimately typifies to those others an urgent need to get real, and, shit, I knew, I just knew that those two words would be on yur mind—get real—are, indeed, on yur mind, constantly. What is on my mind constantly is what I just said, because it doesn’t relate the original idea back to an image of hands as a form of communication—even tho this piece is so dense that yu probably have forgotten all about that, by now. Then again, I’ve been editing this shit for so long that I now consider each subject that I bring up as being malformed/scattered in relation to the whole, no matter what part of the piece I happen to be editing, at the time. This is due to the fact that the way I am editing this is, itself, scattered: in that, I edit different areas at different times, and this gives to the idea of an emotional formlessness that pursues variable meanings all the way out from the end of concrete ideas to the primordial beginning of abstractions and well yeah so you know and I know that you could take this awareness for what it is—if yu wanted—or dismiss everything here as irremediably worn out by my own sadistic compulsion to insert nonsense. In point of strange fact I find myself inserting nonsense, yes, but, usually, at that point when things are most seemingly perfect, to me: to clarify, again, but regarding something different: perfection is not in my work, it is rather a matter of what I force myself to be satisfied with. This lack of a connection between ideas is a flaw of content in this particular piece—however—sometimes a lack of connection can be good, if the two thoughts violently contrast: moving on: I am moving on however I am moving on without a link between what I have just said, about what I said: the statement on the verge of being written now starts with a profanity: shit, well, I'd say that I do not share with others what no one would want me to share with them, and I share what I gauge to be what other people enjoy receiving, and, yet, all positive thinking: thinking, regarding shit, this shit that is on the floor is merely the mask of a parable unearthed and found to be new, to be new and something organized, and, it is organized, these are organized thoughts, upbeat thinking that is sustained, and, yet, you do not like it, because all this crap, right here, all this crap on the fucking floor cannot be one image—together—it is not meant to be the image for what I believe to be my own strict and also unrelenting optimism. No image of anything or anyone could ride the wave of a single emotion, for very long, much less if that emotion were sustained solely on upbeat thinking, which, really, is the type of thinking that feeds the muse, whether yu wish to throw aside the romantic ideal of suffering for art, or not: wow, that would be mad fucking hard: that is, a story without a conflict: to focus on the utter reality of circumstances, rather than explain how those circumstances came to pass, and how that passing had and has so far affected ghostly people who, at present, inhabit the given circumstance, as tho for a time. This, indeed, is true, as it is that it would not be a circumstance if it was not fleeting: kind of like a period of something, but, more on that, later: really, it is composing a paradise out of words: the story of a paradise that is, yet, captivating: whoa, whoa: that would be mad fucking hard: could one remain upbeat, and, even at the worst of times look not to the GOD that the WORLD knows, but to the GOD that nestles inna corner, freezing its ass off, waiting to be discovered—and, eventually—taken someplace warm, to be cared for????? You see, this declared optimism, repeated in different words for the feeling—declarations, which I am outlining for you at present—such a large and vocal optimism, such a wealth in the scribe of feelings, of happiness, and all that traverses that shade between what I had never, in this piece, highlighted as an opposite pole to an alien, disproportionate happiness borders on an emancipated, popping indulgence that pops and snaps and crackles in the receiving ear—that is—when the ecstasy of being is shared with those who do not have it in them to feel, most of the time. Yes, it is shared by a given person: a person who is ecstatic and yet is in no way selfish in sharing whatever good news he feels obligated to share. This is only because—in most cases—that person who is indulgent in his ecstasy wants everyone else to feel that way . . . or perhaps optimism is the lifeblood of the personality of someone, anyone, and I know that when people have discarded those notions, those fanciful notions, those notions of hope and of eternity in hope . . . well, to acquire such an endlessness and to suddenly uncover the fact that what was endless was merely a feeling out of many on the strata, which, indeed, is an element in life that does not so much dictate the placement of emotional levels as it does level each arbitrary hue . . . well, to acquire such an endlessness is to level it out of arbitrariness enuff to keep the hue unaware at least of whatever impracticalities might emerge from the bold move. Think of it as something no longer a color: a hue, instead: a single endlessness of color. Heh. This hypothesis had to me at first partial merit—to me, at least, and, at first, mostly likely, this particular idea would not be considered by me as an option without peevish feelings, rising up: the feeling that I am being indulgent in my execution—that is—whenever I decide to indulge my happiness I would at least be able, then, to feel that way about it. If I attempted to put to practice my words, in life—in an attempt to be happy—I would at first feel peevish, and, perhaps, continue to feel that way, and, perhaps, nothing would come of it, and I would continue to feel fucking peevish as hell and I would consequently give up on accomplishing anything, at all—thinking, instead, to engage in a shapeless acting upon of a given, generic circumstance of arriving wrongly at the wrong island which, to my chagrin, would end up being an execution anyway: this would happen, possibly, and if it did would prove the existence of that idea of endlessness, regarding the layered mind of one who senses what he feels. However, we know that in life one will end up engaging—maybe, without even knowing it—in an unsuccessful execution of this rule. This works, indeed, but sporadically, and, most of the time, properly—without results—besides in the spirit of the experience of trying, which, to me, is a newer execution of life—since it is that we are talking about life and how it is executed—a newer, fresher execution, an execution that I dispel thru words: the words, here they are: they elaborate upon the leftovers of an optimism that must be there and in a succinct way, a way that must be succinct since the situation is fraught enuff, already: the situation, if yu haven’t already figured it out, has to do with arriving at the wrong place, and, yet, being content with where yu are: I reflected on this, after writing it down, and, suddenly, a difference of opinion—between myself, and all the rotten WORLD—became apparent to me. I guess it had something to do with what I perceived when I perceived all of this shit, on the floor: I knew then finally and with regret how happiness seemed and seems still to be an indulgent thing, and therein lies the difference—as it was that I did not learn anything—even as I struggled to prove to myself that I did learn something, or have, since the beginning of this ARGUMENT. At least, when one is in that wrong place, they can see it as wrong—or do they???? So, then, this piece is wrong, because, well, shit, I haven’t learned anything from it, at least, not yet, however, optimism, when expressed in the place where the one had been before leaving to come here, leaving, yes, only to fucking arrive completely afterwards at a place confined within a strange island barely described with details, at all—however—regarding optimism, raw feeling is there, is there and is enuff of itself to be there—so that the feeling can be pictured in heads, even if the island remains a possibility: an image to be reached, no, an image to be striven towards: an enigmatic, throbbing happiness that occurs and occurs all for the sake that something good might be found in situations—otherwise—why would you be happy to begin with?????? Whoever bothers to be optimistic about something that is wrong is really just conniving lostness itself beyond any ability to be found, or—rather—it is apprehended: what is wrong is apprehended, yes, like a criminal of the mind. Hah! Yu could relate anything to the mind and have it resonate, which is fascinating: in this case, I am that Pollyanna of the mind: I am the harbinger of all good news ever to be communicated by one to another, and, while one lifts the feelings of that other up by expressing whatever happiness is communicated between them by that one, that one who follows forward from the response of the other to an answer hopefully continuing a pattern initiated previously—well—while one lifts the feelings of that other up, that other, well, fuck it, he has gone off somewhere deep into this metaphor—he who had come along for the ride and is now regretting it. However, he says nothing, and crossing his arms hunches against a surface a surface to be defined at a later period, fuck it—a period—rather than a time, or a moment, since, indeed, somesuch period implies more than a moment. Moreover, a period implies that those collected moments, however much more an amount of themselves they may be—stand out, somehow, from the others, whether in the fashion by which time shifts thru the—so far—endless thrall of seconds shuffling like chump change between the giant hands of homeless GODS for liquor—the good stuff—this time, LARRY, let’s get the good stuff, gaddamn, isn’t it HALLOWEEN or something, LARRY???? Anyway, the period in question could be what I just said, which I now forget, and will not bother to repeat. It could be that. Or, indeed—and this is more important a function of a period—that is, what stands out could be what is contained within the very seconds I shall lift from that other: I shall rear that stress over onto my bony back and so then feel in me and madly an impressionable kind of doubt that is quite impressionable because it is so easily seduced by the equivocal reasons for a thing to happen, and, this thing inspires pessimism that—paradoxically—is selfish, because it makes others feel bad, even tho yu are the one who is suffering. Pessimism is an affliction of the SOUL I guess—you see???? So, uh, yeah, hope is there, as it is always there—telling people this information is not necessarily helpful. First of all, everything is always there, in front of you: the WORLD, however, is somewhere vague and liminal, snared in a pull towards the anticipated feeling: never the feeling felt at the time, instead, my own futurity becomes known to me, and, well, I disregard the other who had accompanied me to this wrong island—this possible island—I remove him from all of this because he is not me and I do not like him very much: anyways: I scope out my future while trying not to be seen by it, as if my future were something conscious . . . which makes sense, as it is that I will be conscious during my future, since my future is an abstraction yet to become a reality of conscious frames: tallies, tallies of the ultimate period that sum up together into a consciousness that now builds further out of nothing, since, well, shit, everything is already huddled together against the cold of a VOID that in reality is a continuance, and all of it is together in a lump sum, and, I look in secrecy at the lump sum of my future: I am like a PEEPINGTOM who regards thru the window across the way his own, silly self, this time, but himself as someone who looks different from him. He feels—nonetheless—a furious mutuality between himself and his future, and carefully studies his future, only to find that in studying it his future becomes what he is experiencing at present. So, then, because he is the audience to his own life, an extra layer is introduced, which means pretty much that nothing has changed: he is merely embodying his awareness. As I expand on this metaphor I realize that I am unsure as to whether my future is really who I am looking at: perhaps it is the man who is looking: ah, shit, this doesn’t really work, does it: he sees himself like an audience would the actor: someone, someone in an apartment across the way who yet feels his vitality as much as he feels the vitality of that someone—who—as he extends his vision to encapsulate what is beyond his window—much as what is behind it—regards with bizarre feelings this human who slowly undresses, unfocused, wrapped all casual in the heat of the mundane: the beautifully mindless, daily functioning: good, human work. He, that is, me—not sure why I keep switching pronouns—observes my futurity, lasciviously. Like a dog!!!! Indeed, what will happen in my life seems to me as like some heaving though peremptory importance professed by an oracle with white eyes. Dismay, pessimism, and doubt hide out until the aftermath—because—tho, one may know his future and yet they do not know how they will feel about it, and, by the time the shock of a brief happening invades, that feeling is made apparent in yur consciousness. A need is emerging. I switch tenses often in the first draft, ah, so what???? It speaks to my own concept of time, I guess, fractured language is all I know, so, then, a need must emerge, a need, the need to be happy with lukewarm representations of a philosophy without strong examples. So, then, people either get pissed and ask you what you are talking about, or absently smile, or awkwardly smile—or smile, insincerely, and all of these are just ways to feign interest. There are even people who will wig out completely after you mutter something—anything positive. Just so you know—and, this is going way back in the piece—I believe that any sort of response one could make, in terms of whatever had been said before, must come completely after rather than immediately after, since, really, time is an object that we are unable to see, and, no object is able to be immediate—unless, yur being creative with it—which is a different and ultimately longer story: I will tell the story: the story is about meaning—and—the meaning is then chafed, completely, after I bring it up, since no lamentation is there for what I am unable to uncover. Why is no lamentation there???? By all accounts any change is lamentable, since something must always be lost in the transition. So, the meaning escapes—as I am unable to explain myself—ah, shit, well, at least I’m calling myself out on it—tho, it is kind of cheap to make up for flaws in logic, simply by saying they are there, and pointing them out. What does that do, and, what purpose does it serve???? If you, reader, can answer this question, then you have figured out why awareness, at a larger scale—at a human scale—is important. This discovery, eventually, will lead back to a reason for why things change, and, then, everything is a consummate circle of relations, and, indeed, this will make you happy, at first—positive reinforcement, and whatnot—but, you know what, I’m gonna cut this idea short, because I want to get back to that type of person who goes nuts when yu—that is, me—tries/try to be positive/optimistic. You see, whoever goes nuts will often stop going nuts at an imbalanced time. When this happens, it seems like the whole thing was an act that that person was not devoted enuff to to wrap up. People are insincere, I guess, but, mostly, just really indifferent, indifferent and preoccupied, and, that final straw on the camel's back ends up breaking its spine—and—the situation of the camel is lamentable because the camel is a metaphor and this metaphor did not even want to be a part of all of this. In fact, it isn’t even that powerful a symbol because it is a cliché that I guess I was trying to reinvent and so then make seem new while at the same time formulating formulations that are merely implications—oh, all this weight that I myself must now bear in suddenly being without an other!—because, of course, the camel is aware of itself, and yet it is fixed, is static, is twodimensional: merely, awareness is there for the sake that I might stoke the fire of my own, and—at present—diminishing optimism, regarding awareness and regarding how important it actually is to such a mind as mine. I will now take the aforesaid doubt in diminishing embers and stoke the embers mercilessly into a brave, intractable flame that flickers. Flickering Flame. I have just done this, ah, too bad, yu missed it—it was crazy!!!! The flame I stoked was crazy and also very big!!!!! Huh? Wait, what the fuck am I saying? I’ll just continue, like I always do, sadly: Moreover, it is crucial for yu to recognize that whatever physical being I bring up will inevitably become conscious of its existence, upon induction into the charade: this grandiloquent satire on the good sense—logic—Christ, you know, I wonder: what has logic ever done for me?????? I mean, get real: at some point—I think—yur sense of generosity towards and patience with logic is cut in half, just like the blue wire, except, you weren't sposed to cut the blue wire . . . so the bomb explodes!!!! Boom. I could map out the entirety of yur development as a human, or as merely a natural being, and compare and contrast both of these with how I myself function, and, uhm, shit . . . all of that stuff there . . . no, wait, is it here????? Anyway, it is stuff that I hadn't rightly gotten to, yet—probably—I would realize and with a grimace a grimace that bears degraded, yellowing teeth to the immaculate WORLD—where everybody is degrading, and everybody knows that they are degrading—I would grimace hard, and suppose this: that, as a sort of denial/rejection of defense mechanisms a person might force her/himself to notice a degradation or two in themselves, as a way to rectify—or—rather, to clarify the idea of degradation as a seeming transience that in reality is concrete—it just passes thru the self too quickly to be noticed. However, the idea, the idea more than anything else remains, as it is the only thing that remains despite the clouded pride of this clouded, prideful optimism. The idea remains as like some figurative stone—thundering down throats and into stomachs—there it sits, releasing from a terrifically dangerous core a rough contagion: transmitting from that core sour and slightly indecent feelings, to you: a discomfiting sort of plague that once had been quite fresh and quite effective in destroying all sense of self—and, thus—all sense of optimism. Optimism, as a topic, is probably starting to get old, I guess, I’ll keep trying to explain it, but, fuck, the fucking explanation is plagued with doubt, and suffers—and—the stone, the figurative stone, well, the stone is a doubt out of them—out of what???? Anyways: it is a stone that has yet to be digested, and—hopefully—expelled, thru the proper anatomical orifice. Hah! It is only by the good work of an inflating and deflating bosom that you are able to live—so, then—yu stop breathing, and become obnoxious. That life, that is, the life of an unnamable specter . . . I am using the specter as an example, you see—and, at present—the unnamable specters featureless and howling for the good works, they have yet to be finished—which is why it is foolish to bully other people a lot—and harshly. When it starts to hurt, they know, for sure, that, for a little while, for just a little while, someone else—and it could be anyone, even though most likely anyone will always have a reason to be pissed off at what is unnamable in their life, since that name is something with no need to be pulled up to the HEAVENS by underwear by the bully with tattoos of things you would expect to be tattooed on the biceps of one who consistently shaves his head, as a matter of course—for just a little while that idiot would be king. I am sure he made this choice a long time ago, in order to perpetuate a style of toughness: toughness: the impenetrable hardness of brick, and, the mind of the specter—the conceit of the bully—that mind, well, it is a brick. It is a brick because it is solid and hard and, ultimately, useless, unless there is an amount of them—stacked and meshed between hardened cement into the form of a building, this building with all of this shit in it: yes: all of this is actually shitty crap that is on the floor of each room in a building that is a large, ungainly affair—inspiring fear, in the way it looms over whoever observes it. The building is a bully: it is a bully because it is upsetting: I watch it loom like something permanent and dastardly and suffer out the vision until coming to the conclusion, that—yeah—yu can still be optimistic—I can still be optimistic—even as I observe life and all evils contained and shaking with power, in it, that is—within life—I am within life without knowing the opposite of that: this is not necessarily DEATH: I have no need to defend myself, because I see no self to defend. In this way I am able to remain without a foil—or, rather—an opposite, and, so, then, as a gawky, aimless fool. I am a fool who is chained by his own passions and nailed like a thing on the side of a house—bacon, perhaps: nailed to the side of a house, and, it is as vacant a thing as a totality: without contradictions to what in reality is an exhibited selfishness that I daily feel in distributing my optimism to countless innocents in the attempt to cure that emotional jaundice. It is as much in others as it is in me powerfully. I myself feel it, powerfully. It is the yellowing of a mind in autumn. The physical vessel in which a mind sits becomes something else, because it does not devote the diminishing space it has left to antagonism, and, so, then, is evermore real—and, well, shit—my mind is not a ghost!!!! The ghost is no bully: it learned early on how to be situated inside of yur locker, comfortably—after some howling and featureless and bareheaded specter shoved yu in there like something less than human—as tho the victimizer, by the poetics of a grand, ironic delusion imaged itself somewhere in the ghostly corridors of it’s own, halfhearted reasoning as a power a power more than yurs could be—anyways—the line of reasoning here is that someone, anyone, is always able to feel even more like complete shit than they already do. Everyday, I wait, and watch for you to smile: I say these things to yu as tho they would be the final things I said before death cuts me off with a remark. It is a remark on a feeblest existence out of those others who bully and think it all there: that is, they do not see the yellowing in the same way I do, and, so, the yellowing is not there, for them: it is they who yellow the WORLD and grow strong, sustained by the food of a belief that is felt in them, and, yet, because they are ghosts, they are detached from the feeling, which, in turn, yellows, having no proper area in which to incubate and, finally, crack open, like a shell, and, I say things, I say things and continue to say them, and, usually, the subject is what all this shit on the floor is doing there. I watch you—you fiend—in the mirror, alone, watching for it, and, it never comes but in drops of meaning on the maculate page. Finally, finally the time comes when you can't take it anymore or whatever, and I look in the mirror at yu, that is, me, and behold merely a yellowing of time that shades like a disease across a stupid face and I peer at that face and I know it as mine and yet the value in remaining as but a face to behold is obscurely squared in one single, predominant expression of optimism in knowing that the face will always be there—in front of you—will always be there and will always turn: as like a leaf, as like a spontaneous metaphor for a reality that is eternally degrading—and, thus—as with all eternal things, will exist like a generality among specifics, that is, as like an awareness aware that it is not fully aware but in knowing this very fact of truncation, truncation, that, to me, is deliberate—and—to others, it is a yellowing of the passions enuff to underwhelm the meaning in that fucking face I peer at thru eyesockets and my eyesockets are dank bulbs that recede as tho frightened by what they see and they have yet to see, and absorb—thru reflection and/or refraction—both in an ocular and spiritual sense—all that frightens them. They are sockets that recede into a malformed skull: there are two small indentations on either side of my skull, at the temples. It were as tho I had gotten stuck on my way out the nice and pearly orifice and so then had to be extricated by way of forceps clamped against both sides of my head—and—that's where we left off I think. No, no, never you mind, that wasn't where I had located the previous and foggy idea before pursuing tangents, tangents that I will go back to and read over again in an attempt to connect it all back to itself in the most interesting/outlandish way possible, which is basically what I do, in order to portray a WORLD of disparities as a WORLD of intense connections that for the most part are not recognized, because they are too intensely wrought from the spontaneous, which is a factor in life that in itself is intense and, so, then, is hard to dissect, because feelings get in the way. So, instead, yu choose to be blindly optimistic, and ride on the form of a motion until more is needed to detail a conflict of the self, between what meaning out of life that that self is able to garner; that, and, more importantly, what it wishes it could garner, since whatever it could wish to have—to that self—ends up making more sense as something beneficial that could happen, at least in the yellowing context of the life of that self, looking in a mirror. Oh yeah!!!! I forgot, you grimaced upon realizing that humanity has more of an obsession with grim happenings(?), and, indeed, are sadly less involved in attaining their own sense of peace, requited peace that you feel—enuff—for the grimace to feel kind of false as soon as you shape it across the curt, pink rail of ur upper lip and the slightly fuller, darker rail of yur lower lip, which, tho it is flat as a rail is quite versatile—and—it can convey many different things, which are things that one would probably want to communicate to other people, at some point. You have given all that you can and, still, yu are received halfheartedly, by the very people you have aided in the past, and sometimes have aided, multiple times—when yu are received by those people with all the buzz and fanfare of unappetizing handouts—yu realize/accept that these are things that exist, these handouts, these are unappetizing handouts that must exist, exist to stroke the ego properly—without any major losses. This seems charitable, and, yet, you hoard all of what you treasure, in secrecy—and, like some large, disfigured rodent you scurry from the malignant crevice into public view, unabashed. It is like more nuts after you've already had three handfuls, and, you say to the guy—well—it was generous, it was lovely, but, to be honest, I really, really, really, really don't want nuts anymore. All of it is right in front of me, lain down like a picnic of useful dregs to use for various jobs around the house. It is all right there—yup—it is all in front of this goddamn, misshapen face: the arched brow, this lugging pace of a NEANDERTHAL—this emotional intelligence of a NEANDERTHAL—all of this, right in front of my face, haunted subtly at angles by bizarre tho confusing deformities. I still manage to look normally at all of this, in front of me, looking at me looking at it, indeed, and, well, all this shit that I got needs to rest there, in that spot, for a moment, it wants to rest that part of its relevance that is most relevant—but—it argues each part as equally relevant, which is true, but, I do not want all of this here for very long, because I want it somewhere else, so that I can look at all of it and paint meaningful pictures of what I see when I look. However, for now, it lies motionless and neutral as DEATH on the Spartan floor of my apartment. What all of this in front of me is is lain down like a picnic in the park—when I turned the key, and opened the door—it was there—all of this, right there, equidistant from all the rooms, so as to allow for easy access. All of this arranged pleasantly, in order, as though by somebody nice, nice. By somebody who is enraptured by the idea of that chaos out there, still yet to arrange back into a specific yet infinitely altering pattern of things, things, organized so very well that they blend in with everything else, outside of what is organized: it could be anything, no matter how garish or bulky or impractical. This happens when I try to blend all of this that is before me in with everything else and this ruins that limited sense of an order able to be wangled out. This is all right, of course, however, solitude, quietude, restfulness, are merely means to seduce one to approach, further, some harrowing prospect about one's own, tender flaws, or, in the lesser case, there are the flaws of others to speak of—flaws to defend and/or make fun of—therefore starting the process of a child into a wreck of selfhatred and percussive migraines that—more often than not— split my head clear in half, and in those cases I show my friends and family this brain of mine—split in half—and they scream with applause at the display of this remarkable ability, this ability to fissure what I once had as one thing: I am eight and three quarter years old and my brain is spilling out thru a rift and it is a deadly hole—in itself—in my poor, little head. Mommy!!!! I once yelled this very loudly: repeated this, but louder, and louder, and, she came—once—in the middle of the night. And, so, she began to sing in a frail voice various obscure lullabies and some of them were happy and some of them were kind of grim, but I liked that. She left—and—just my luck—my nightlight—the lightbulb went out in my nightlight. But, I did not want to wake up mommy again—so—I just sat there, in complete darkness, perspiring: by the end of the night I ended up being more afraid of what would come than what ended up coming, which, in general, is something that does not satisfy—in fact—I do indeed think that I lost my fear of the dark not because I grew out of it but simply because no physical harm—let alone, DEATH—nor any permutation of the aforesaid has ever come to pass—while in the dark—nothing bad has ever been the result of what ultimately is a youthful fear more powerful than mature fear because it is the first experience of fear and this fear is simply manifested in the dome and the dome only and only early on in a special way: anyway, back to my split skull: I brought my split skull to showandtell. ROLO brought a toy dinosaur and GRETCHEN brought her rock collection and I could tell that everyone was bored and and and when TEACHER called on me I went up to the front of the classroom, making sure to convey a tentative tho eager attitude that did not too much reveal how proud I was of my split skull: seemingly bewildered, almost, as I made my way past each desk—each face looking on, with disgust—some with big, old glasses that make you look all creepy and judgmental. I stood, proudly, and showed them my head, because, it was split in half—obviously—I thought It'd be a superrad idea to show people how brains work—and stuff—and, everyone was confused, and, this confusion made everyone silent, and, the silence lasted for about two seconds, and, then, everyone laughed and pointed with small, chubby fingers at me—as tho I were not human, but—instead—pure, uncut, unadulterated amusement. I existed only for other people then and have ever since existed for other people without once questioning motives that I am sure I do not have or even wish to have, if only because I am set in my ways. I do not mind this. I do not ridicule or support—well—sometimes, I ridicule. I hate people because most of them are idiots who, when speaking passionately—or, of sad things—emote just a little too much, at least, once that person realizes that they are receiving attention—and—what ends up happening is something that is as long and drawn out as an infinite nothing: the infinite nothing is directed at me: it is that other of myself that I have alluded to who speaking overly passionately wishes to show me his own infinity of mind, and feeling. I cannot understand this, as it is that I have a limited emotional stratum: extreme depression and extreme happiness—basically—and, I say that knowing that most people tend to think of bad things as happenings that should not, really, happen to them—it doesn't make sense, to them—simply because they do not wish to instate in a mind more narrow and deceiving a fresher credence to expand that mind, more narrow in being made to deceive a vessel that such credence had made strong and lush. However, things that are impossible to feel must be dealt with, at some point, as well, by the one out there who could have been excited to life were it not for a spirit of mere, mere, irregular chance, shifting the focus towards a meaning of bronze—this meaning that is not of reality—instead, and read carefully now, even tho there is no reason to—or—perhaps there is, perhaps I am about to divulge personal information, since—I guess—all this is, is a CRISIS LYRIC—the crisis being all that fucking shit on the floor, in a brick building of autumn and of misery—perhaps—I am about to divulge personal information. I already have—actually—whether you, reader, have noticed, or not: to explain any more about such things would be to repeat myself—as it is—my life, and the events that result and have resulted from its heedless direction are not big enuff to give me new ideas, anymores, perhaps, I will explain to you that I think about what meaning means: any meaning, which bleeds out a lot and into the fractured light of the multicolored sky, for the sake that you may hear a drone, a sounding character of movement that will acquiesce to this our sculpted environment—this, our titular metaphor, to come—this, our impending island of a self of wrong peace. Now, see if that drone is, if you can hear it, tranquil. Now, take that meaning and cut it down a few pegs: the meaning you have chosen believes itself and wrongly as such hot fucking shit!!!! It wields power in its hands, and, it uses it like something that you would usually use to crack open some skull—that is—the skull of a man without a past, or a future, an indentation on both sides of all . . . I am without a name or any discernible complexion, and this is why I look in the mirror so often at a person who is not me—and—he is a bully that feeds on the specific marks of my personality, until they are—wholly—without features: he wears a suit and a tie the day before his DEATH—and—it is known, to some, that a man who has his skull bashed in—and—who now lies perished and so then finally as the part of all the other inadequate shit that is on the floor could experience while he was alive brief yet utterly agonizing bouts of remorse, remorse for things that he had not yet done. So, then, a man as this would become uncomfortable when approached by those friends of his to whom he had done wrong, in his head, however, like shit and/or crap on the floor, stupid crap and/or shit that I wag my hands at, and backhandedly comment about to others in order to make those others aware of such wastefulness—well—such wrongness as the man thought he had committed was not but wrongness in his head, his head ached with a clutter of theoretical instances of inflicted pain upon people, by him—that is, this man, that is, me: an increasing generality who eventually will turn into something less than human, that is, if I am to become an idea—which is what I desire—and, yet, the idea is focused on for too long, since, well, the man does not like to be put under a fucking microscope—much less, put himself under one—understandable, yeah, understandable, anyways, if he is to become an idea, well, then—it must be a good idea—so that his elastic sense of morality strengthens into something more real than he is because it is a flaw, because morality should be a rigid, sour devotion to scruples that one has thought extensively about and has organized, properly. The thing is, the man, this man of sorts, he does end up doing—in real life—all those horrible things that he had imagined doing to others: imagined in his head, that is, and that first, as it is that one does not imagine with their elbow, or leg, or shoulder—heh—but, yeah, yu know all that already. I say it for myself, because I myself am not sure, and am in awe at the sweet assurance others possess in speaking of where, exactly, the human imagination is located . . . in the midst of doing awful things, he thinks, it is not him—no, not him—not him, who is doing all of this—to him—in point of fact, the act still has yet to be carried out, in full, he thinks: well: it is another who does them, these awful things: it is a bully of autumn existing in a reality severely wanting—without fullness—and, yet, apparently (and this should be noted as what I originally wanted to say) once he assumed that he would do them—he does them—and that while in the midst of an agony, feeding upon the good food of his mistaken sin, sin that is accomplished, anyway—and—without pleasure, the pleasure he would have felt, well, shit, it went somewhere deep within the yieldy center of this allegory . . . as it is that all this is a giant way to say something else that will only be made clear when the mallet makes contact with his head—the head of this horrible man—busting blood and power from the wound. Someone else, someone who is not the man, indeed, one who is just good—enuff—to wrangle, to wrangle and so quell to ashes all the hellish, powerful things—just for reality—well, he is a reality, much as the reality of the powerful things of life that sometimes pick up a proverbial sort of transmission signal from what seems to be the right place, and the right place is right because it is come upon—finally—tho we don't know where the place is, or even why. This place, this island between two oceans and in neither one—this place where, as I have heard, colors pretend to get all sucked in and display the imperative light of the sun in a squirming coil that coils out and drags out all the elements of the scene, presented above—just for yu—and, it is given a poetic, frilly finesse that skews that reality handed to yu—like dollars—and all the elements drag out over the sky by the will of an almost animal magnetism: the sound of flora and fauna, and of the wind, and, the light of the imperative, gigantic sun: you watch it like I watch myself, in the mirror, waiting: the sun, nestling in the eerie blazes, produces light out of an aggregate of hydrogen—blessed magma—spreading light for lifetimes across the brave, blue planet—or, it does this for as long as is deemed necessary by those hellish and powerful monstrosities of doubt that linger like tar in my chest and also they are like an unsolvable riddle, or—also—it is like a pill that has been stuck in yur throat for five hours, without budging—indeed—it does not budge from that awkward, evil angle ever even tho you have been dealing with this particular problem for five hours, and—after having a gagging fit—yu had felt like yu were gonna die—you feel this now as well as just then—a few words ago. I am seemingly content with the sun, content with its preemptive/belated functions of traveling light, and, most of all—content—regarding how rapidly those functions practice and improve together, until the light is all wires and flame, and, the day becomes a saturation of overwhelming feelings, inspired by the weather—and—the weather, it is an entity or, rather, a fact of life that remains unconscious of its affect on, well, what it affects: we speak in whispers of the weather however anyway despite what it does and do not have feelings of optimism regarding it: a downy exposure softens the scenes I have not mentioned with a film. The film goes out over all things that eyes need to see without words—without wanting words for it—and, what we see is limited to what the light of stars can achieve in illuminating, because, once we do know where a thing is—and, what the color of it is—well, then, we will inevitably have to assign yet another meaning to that thing, a meaning that is good enuff. It is not the same as what power there was before we had arrived at the supreme chance—requited—and, yet, without the ends—the ends that we needed—and, which, indeed, always satisfy—when they persist. They soon become what is needed to satisfy, while all else dissolves into a collective of subordinates—mediocre subordinates—and, suddenly, the metaphor finds itself popping up from the fucking bushes—again—to warn me of a possible threat. An armed retinue of violent objectives comes close . . . at this point in life, I believe there to be no way for me to thrust thru layers without leaving a mark on each form of my visible reality a gash a gash that splinters into smaller, more manageable wounds. I am the thief of fire. I groan at and am frustrated with the sinecures of this WOLRD—bound clerics of the SOUL—who, together, support intense and mostly wrong forms of a degeneration—that is, a degeneration of the self—by relating their SOUL to common externalities in the attempt to view them as abnormal. I guess—you know—that, well, there are things right enuff to make a monopoly out of—and, so—the sinecures, the subordinates, the low men, they instigate degenerate, wrong crimes against the self and all that the self represents: self: that is, as a word considered, now, by me, as being the word for a type of being most familiar to this my random blinking, breathing vessel, in which the self is contained like a mind. It is most influenced by optimism—obviously—because it revolves predominantly around the nucleus of one’s EGO and the EGO in turn is mostly concerned with actions that benefit the psyche and in being carried out will simultaneously charge emotion into an experience, that—as a result—continues on, as a previous action fulfilled: this fulfillment will with time summon up in that vessel ambitious feelings. These feelings—in turn—will stir up ideas that streamline on a form of endless motion, consumptive because they require intensity and intensity is one of the more consuming aspects of a life—and—life is a word with equal connotative/denotative power and and and this power stands for—as much as it stands to reject—everything and all that the word rebels against, weakly, and without results. Usurper. One day I'll grasp the sole conceit of an immortal being: any sort of responsive intelligence will do, any sort that yet does not live without also losing it, eventually: losing life, that is, or, perhaps, perhaps, its mind. I know that my mind is telling me that it wants goo. It wants a kind of supernatural goo to be carefully peeled off of this pair of sneakers: peeled off, like the sojourn, delicate piece of trash that it is, and, once—awhile back—it was not trash, and was fresh, and was fresh gum in some motherfucker's frayed pocket. The motherfucker in question sneers confusedly against an oblivion that nonetheless was clearly wrought and was the only clear thing in the mind of some motherfucker with an orange beard and he is also a sneering idiot. The sneering idiot chewed the goo into a mush before knowing that it would be beneficial to me. His ability to accomplish this is based in the fact that he had been focusing, beforehand, on how best to manipulate his own bowels. This focus on this, it clarified the oblivion he also and every day focuses and focused on since it is that focus is also a kind of absence a kind of oblivion that clarifies. The shift of his bowels: I will not tell you what shifting indicates, because, I think you already know—however—you are a being of gentle coyness, disciplined—early on—to know and simultaneously forget a given reflex, which makes it seem elusive—which is how it should be. This motherfucker, well, yeah, he decides to expel shit and the shit comes out in a consecutively occurring series of brown spheres of nearly immaculate, beautiful shit—without texture—expelled and that right soon from out the sensitive butthole of a motherfucker, some motherfucker: basically, a delicate opening within that he exposes, upon squatting to oblige the deeps of his toilet—which, is a throne of porcelain—and, it is edged at the bottom with the stains of some leaking yellowness—and—his beautiful, fat ass, the ass of a motherfucker, well, hidden somewhere within— protected, almost: a happy, winking rosebud: a small dark wrinkled mouth of a hole that puckers with each flex. The anus is somewhat like a secret within us: hmm: the anus: an anatomical necessity: an organic center, ringed with a pinkness enveloped of course by immense pale blemished globes that comprise the lordly cheeks of his fat fucking ass, the ass of a motherfucker, some motherfucker. This is a distraction of subjects. There is a tall man who breathes heavily in the waiting room, waiting—indeed—for the doctor to emerge with a diagnosis, and, so, then, he approaches the tall man, walks toward him, right now, utilizing a manner of his that he feels is communicative of friendliness and a mutual trust in one anothers’ ability to function as—at the very least—predictable associates: droll and calming in speech and gesture without a sort of insincerity that one might sense in the other that seems indicative of something withheld, something like an inflated penitence both may have towards their own, contrived array of accomplishments, contrived, that is, out of fortitude, and, of course, luck, but a luck that goes missing in the worst spots, only to abruptly lift me up—as it is that I am always talking about myself—like some sort of bright grace that thru yur own spineless capitulation ends up being the last straw: a final descent into anguish—by this time—a thing matured and evermore senseless in choosing somebody to victimize. Apply this to yourself: there is conceit in it: that is, in believing your own self as a force to be reckoned with. Laughable. In any case, folks lose track—or something—I am not even following what I am writing anymore, and, yet, it fits—also—it is inane and grandiose—and, yet—feels profoundly to me like it was ordained, commissioned, something needful that others besides the creator recognized, as such—and, yet—I fuck it up, because I say I fuck it up too much: the ARGUMENT brims over the top with shouting and yet barely fills up dry throats with the air of a voice that is the voice of an idiot saint broken down to mumbles by laughably trite, forced idiosyncrasies that—literally—obliterate whatever meaning I had originally tried, considerably, to express. So it is that I have gone on a tangent—more importantly—I have created a labyrinth, I have asked the question, and I myself will wonder about it and finally understand that all the words within this one long paragraph could follow thru, tenfold—if I let them—I could image this rhetorical paradise properly within frames, these condensed frames scattering thru an intermediate intelligence. I could imagine that, still—taken together—this is enuff of something that you or anyone would want to snug all cozy against a tree with and in the shade of the tree you feel safe. You hunker down against the textured base of the tree, thinking about inspiration. I consider my inspiration but mostly I consider my perspiration and upon considering that I move on to lassitude and begin to weigh these two things for awhile before stopping, because—well—you fall asleep: you nap like someone who wants to sleep for an extended period of time. You long for a nap before any sort of reconcilement of all this with something external that would end up being a detraction, if included: this: this is a small stage of blackness that has happened and slips still further into dreaming—now—you begin to know this idea and do not accept this idea of safety—and peace—given to the wrong place, and that in itself is a place where time is just too long and too precarious, which, indeed, is a problem. It becomes more of a problem with more ground that is covered. We search. We search in all ways and travel out there as well as back in here and still I see no island, no liminal bit of rock and brush between two oceans—and—it is in neither ocean—and—in the night, while you are sleeping, a voice whispers to you, the voice of a thing in the dark: it invades, it invades your dreams begrudgingly, as if it had no choice—as if it must haunt you. As soon as you are awake, the voice is meshed back into oblivion. You forget the voice completely in opening your eyes to silence. You wake up, and carry on with the day.

[saraisinhell]

Intense pain from driving, not getting nearly enough sleep, nightmares i can't get out of my head,

Can barely move without making noise. Im only 23. This is bullshit.

But yeah go ahead and deal with that alone. Im sure itll just exacerbate everything.

How long will this flare last? Hopefully ends before i have to do physical labor for work. Cuz if that doesnt send me into a flare on its gaddamn own.

Ranting is helping.

This nightmare was fucking crazy. Being chased by some supernatural things. Safe place by this magic fire. Im smelling and feeling my flesh burn as Im crouching as close as i can to this fire. Crying and screaming in pure terror.

Next we find the 'safe house' but guess what ITS NOT SAFE!!!!!

its as well full of the supernatural. Fucking people size dolls. Im running. Terrified. Turn a corner. DOLL! I scream and (OF GADDAMN COURSE) i fucking fall. then it turns its head to stare directly into my eyes. Im screaming. Finally back to my feet. Running. Turn a corner. SAME MOTHERFUCKING SHIT. different doll same, fall and have that doll that should NOT be moving. Very quickly turns its creepy porcelain head towards me. Burning my eyes. Gaadaannnm this fucking shit sucks.

Im starting to get a fucking migraine. Fucking kill me to end this.

Now im awake and every time i close my eyes there it is staring into my soul burning my retinas. I can still feel heat on my entire right side where i was burning in the dream.

I want to scratch my eyes out but that wouldnt help. The image is burned into my head. Omg i just want it to stop.

FUUUCUCKCKKK I CANT DO THIS.

I hurt so fucking much i cant get up and do something to get my mind off it.

fffffuuuuuucccckkkkkkkkkkkkkk