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To hate it, this dream of decadence, a time seen from without, pictures of pictures with children in them, wearing their backpacks as they journey towards the unknown with the sun in their heart, minds not yet clouded. Like ours, sullen and gray, dray and dry. The things echo in our heads, the ill feeling, nausea spreading from the morning and into the day and we carry it like the irish carry their emotions. We didn't know where we were heading, it seemed likely lately that we would never know. The awaiting darkness, the impending doom.

We feel the skin tightening on our backs, we feel the sore joints aching away under the hood, connecting us, some of us want the past- others future. Whatever we want, we all agree that Blade Runner best describes our situation. We've made sparkling vegetarian vampires. Is it weird when the spooks from old times are coated but probably not. There are some old versions of the wolf and the red hood where it can be said that furryism was born. There's probably something earlier aswell, probably evidence there were furries from the beginning of time because we don't really evolve and change we just build shit and then everything goes to hell and some of our children begin to build again and that's this planet, that's this race. How will it end?

Does it matter? Is it interesting? Is that why almost no creators of post apocalyptic cinema answer the question? What is this world we see, carrying on our shoulders from shore to shore, unwept and undreamt for. Here the mighty giant cast aside himself and drove the world into madness, creating the age of order, superimposed over the age of chaos and what we are is black and white colliding but those blacks and whites aren't like the illuminati or the freemasons or whatever magickal order is in vogue and it isn't any fraternity, nor government or shadow. Black and white, carrying us makes sense only to gods and most of all the god that had the idea first, still thinking in deep R'lyeh.

Here are we, one magical movement from kether to malkuth. Where did time pass as we traveled down route 32? Where in magic went memory before becoming ideas, legends, fabric of souls? It's too late, to be late again. Too late to be dreaming, children, loved ones, future, we move from god to the kingdom.

and

we were dying as we were alive, a hollowed heart reeking of intent with feet walking a road paved with gold and good intentions. We were zombies, in a new upgraded version, living our lives within predefined parameters. We wore our sweet mistakes and it was a while, first the growing up, the the beginning of something new and then we got the sensation of growing old but we were still there, we were still here and we were losing friends rapidly as we sat with them listening to music and smoking, staring into ourselves and our years, memories and there's people that almost every day say that change isn't always good and it worries me because they're in the administration because change can't best be described within good or bad, it is a completely different animal.

We are stuck in time but we don't know where time is, our hearts are filled with the sorrow of our earth dying and as we're on a local cactus up in the mesas of america, we hear the ancient drums, we hear our forefathers, we hear the story of the beginning and we see the end and the drums are gathering at the harbors, men and women, children but no pets stand beating the drums and we see our own faces as we lavish hearing the squeeking of dolphins and their dark master spanning the oceans, filling the air and the sun is up in a sort of twilight mood- broody and unchanging, feels like august-september but still not. We stand there as we realize that the sun sets and the sea is bathed in its radiance and from the deep he comes

master of us all, massa had a nap and now he's back and we hear ourselves cry out tekeli-li as we merge into more than what we were, we feel definition of fate spread its beautiful wings around us and we are revealed with a truer purpose than what we had ourselves discovered and we are beautiful and serene in our form. We begin to build, erecting towers, following plans in complete silence as contentment fills us, we were the first, we were the first into the new fold, we heard and heeded the drums first and it was us who called him, it will be us that can vanquish him again should the need arise- we are fulfilled where we are, happiness something we could have described it as once but it's not there-

it's not now. We are now, the now. We are happening, finally, we feel the sun and it tastes like saccharine but it's the sun, man, it's the sun. We bathe in it as we erect the towers that will connect to portals, that will connect to something else and the whole family will come together. Papa Legba  gives us the orders as we build and with him he has two men, thought of as the greek and the arab. They observe and are hard for the eye to catch, shimmering inside creation. They retained our former shapes and for every day passing they grow more solid and we hope they will join us in the now.

PK Dick said it didn't end and we are reminded of his words as we are of those from Oppenheimer, a man creating change, becoming death, shatterer of worlds. The words from india predicted perhaps his invocation of it, the dawning of a new era, changing the rules entirely.

Here they stand, the two vulgar kings, Olaus Wormius and Abdul Al-Hazred. They stand and tell us of our doom, their presence a violation. Inside us we know they are right but we do not think too much about it, we dredge forward and we are comfortable in front of the kings.

I remember you now, who you were when I grew up, many years before we ever knew eachother you stood there, your hair combed with knowledge and skill, the casual shirt in the casual pants and the casual shoes but casual wasn't the world then when we who were alive did what we were supposed to do our age, when we ate ants by a dare or snuck into the girls lockerroom, the shit you get locked up because of when you grow older and the lines underneath your eyes have been with you for so long that they give you character. A grown man you were then and a child you are now and you could have been something so much more but still you but you opted for the good enough route and this is where we meet, on this highway where we try to go to but know we'll never end up in, kether.

What is the pain we gave away to find ourselves in our current state? What was sold for cheap because we didn't understand its value? When did we stop savouring the sweat of our brow? The thin white duke is david bowies magical name and he is in the order where initiation never ends and him and his wife will stand there, out in the middle of a forest in a beautiful house and they'll be on the outside drinking champagne, speaking crowley and spare, keeping it classical. The generation before them and the half generation before them, the beat but now: kether.

We weren't these people when we grew up and I've been things I love and hate and used to love and hate, that period that somehow got more on my mind than anything else and I've been living by that as a standard but I keep forgetting that I'm walking from malkuth to kether, I forget to sit under the tree long enough each day and I wasn't born in the chosen one sense. I keep forgetting that while it matters, it never shatters. The mirror tells lies, what it sees is shown to us and we keep forgetting that everything is connected and not in the conspiracy sense but everything is because we are that connection, our reality is our problem.

The empire never ended said Phillip. I have to admit that I believe him more than I believe in any god- this is something more than belief, it is a feeling, a fleeting feeling from a different age or impossible to interpret or perhaps it doesn't exist, but it's there, the feeling that the empire never ended. Here in hell, the empire didn't end, here in heaven it didn't, here in the sacred heart it, here in reality, here in, here

Hear the beating of the drums in the vastness of the urban landscape, hear mother nature come in every night, hear the savage beasts in the night as you read about tyger tyger, burning bright and you think yourself superior in some way, with the uncivilized outside and you, inside in the warmth, enjoying classical literature and contemporary music, aged port and mass-manufactured tubes of licorice. No matter how you drown it out, you can hear the slight thumps and tremors and frank herberts model for the sandworms were himself and his family and they also heard the thumping, like all men and women do, that thing, the idea you can never shake, the empire never ended. In r'lyeh, cthulhu dreams, in calvary jesus hangs, in the garden under the tree sits the buddha, outside the temple they argue about hotdog buns. I believe in none of these arguments or their offsprings but they're good stories.

fuck, you came

Did we strive for the end when we were on the outside, when our focus was there- This feels familiar, like a carpet you felt before you can remember but something echoes as we stroke it, hazed in a world seen through the blood dripping from our eyes. I wanted to change something once but I forgot what as I grew further from the point of origin, the point where I began, where we started. A thickness is upon my fingers as the world turns to autumn first but then quickly pacing towards the winter, the cold is here and already in the air

The slantyeyed whore is on her feet and we're in limehouse and it's a hundred years in the past and we watch her through our recovering process, with our last pennies we try to drink away the reality seeping into the cracks that was made during the night. Tomorrow is a new hustle, a new deal or steal before we end in their dens again, giving them most of what we have while we save the coins for when we wake up and some of us are dead men and we understand the custom and we appreciate it and when we truly die, if the ferryman has not claimed his prize, we will be sitting in shitty places like this then too, thankful that we can get our bearings as we drink.

We carry cases for the chinamen, bags of rice, buckets of sake. There is dreadnaught in the harbour and on its' side is a big dragon and we ask of this ship and the yellow bastards smile at us while they crack the whip. We go to die in their dens and we emerge days later, not refreshed, not-

A head filled with red hair and green eyes, staring at me, smiling at me, wondering if we want the twelve nine or seven courses and we go all in as we sit in the sun and drink champagne, eating mouth amusers as they hit us, weird but working tastes and sensations and we do not feel refreshed, it is new but for us it's getting old, thinking out of the box from every fucking chef that spent five months at el bulli, flooding the market with your cheap replicas and knockoffs and you prove bukowski right where you wander filled with form but void of spirit but I know there is a question but you'll never know the answer, who sleeps awake in the sunken city of R'lyeh?

You are pale men and while they say it's something it's not, the stars don't matter, there are no artists in the culinary world and those few that could be are individuals, not collectives, they are da vincis of our age, like all jobs have and you were born someone else, someone worse and in the next life you will become a cockroach and as humanity withers away in a nuclear winter you thrive.

We were vying for them when we came triumphant and we knew they were in our reach but fate, always fate, intervened. We were carrying our kind upon our backs and we were lost on the land of chaos, old men gathered here with us in the sensation of the twilight hours. We felt impotent and powerless, children without a thought or a fate, headed for betrayal and we truly felt like betraying ourselves and we would, we would sacrifice ourselves on the altars of our time, a contemporary ritual to end ourselves completely

We are here with you, we've always been here with you- thoughts are sundered under the great sun but still we do not yield, there is a fire awakened in every man's eyes since the flying god returned and fell and we stand next to his tomb and we contemplate the meaning, were you ever here with us? Arcadia holds many dreams. Do we progress, build on the ideas and concepts born so many years ago or do they restrict us, as persons and never as any form of organization which is all just organized crime. Everything moves with us, all feel the movement at the docks outside

It was in paris we found heaven, the city of light, the silver city, the radiance overwhelming us as our minds collapsed in on them selves, imploding with realization and understanding- a neural sort of fallout, hope fading and slipping twixt us. Ozymandias found that kingdom, the gates we see when we close our eyes before sleep finds us, the state where you are not awake but still not unconscious, the twilight(a word soon ruined) of states. Of dreams we live in a world but in that moment we are shown the world. Flesh is crafted in this day for food, not yet harvested from vats but we have now with the backing of the new god, science, done what the most decadent before us has, save killing for entertainment. Anyone can make a cockatrice of sorts with frog legs and the upper body of a hen, goose, chicken etc. and some transglutaminase.

There is a man in the mountains, he's building a timemachine. One day he will build it and he will load up his place apocalyptic survival style and he'll go into the past with a gun and he'll shoot someone around both crucial and non-important and he will have memorized what happened during those exact events in case the books themselves changed. When he came back he wrote down all differences, evaluated, analyzed, calculated and found no coherency in the information, no matter how many times he tried, the world didn't change like that, not for one man.

I haven't been here for a while. I tell myself it's because of the work, I work too much now and the spare time I want for myself, with nothing seething in, a holy paradise, like the life I live inbetween, twixt the cracks and the desires where I survive on the hubris of others. I never really wrote anything discordian here, I was never really someone who participated and I'll never be. I want to say I'm growing older but I'm not, there's still more of my life left than what my death will hold.

Doktor Howl sent me a message and it was kind of him. He asked me why I didn't stroll to the other boards, something I some times did before but never often. I told him I stopped because of work and because the drama is never interesting and it's enough with my life, really, to keep track on who I can invite to this party and who I'll have to invite next time and to keep afloat on that in the internet is something I have no knack for, nor do I have it in my normal life so I'm sorry but I can't and I won't.

I was young when I discovered the apple, perhaps like most of you. I imagine it's not something you stumble over when you get too old unless you get in with the people and I think it was East Coast Hustle that said he just found people that had the same outlook as him and I that's still what this is. A shared silent belief. I don't know what discordia means to you, I never asked but I should have and there was a time I thought I'd write the decent book on this movement, the almost serious one but the most important part would be the ending for I never read a good ending, it might be that there isn't one and it ain't the point but that would be sheer beauty in itself, I never read a book because I wanted to read an acid trip.

Discordia, for me, is utopia. I'm used to utopia for if it is another belief I carry with me, it's that about anarchism. They share common things and are both beautiful. I think I love them because they are not human, they are not possible for humanity as a whole, they are part of the fringe and I was born there and I embraced it but I still don't know why I'm still here. On the edge, on the very edge burroughs described. Why are we here on this edge, why don't we turn to something else and why don't I preach to someone else than the choir?

I know I've always been a slow learner and the older I get the more I learn about my lack of quickness and mental agility. Discordia for me is a conversation to be held in the highest of regards, a speech you should listen to. It's something interesting, potentially life-changing. Why are we here, what is this discordia you speak of?

Speak and speak loud for this isn't the choir anymore. I'm Ralph Cifaretto sitting in the father's office and I ask why god would do this and I walk out angrily, telling him there's no more money in the god racket, not from me. I don't know who you are, you can choose that for yourself.

This is the easy way out of the dream, here is the escape. The thought is there, as always, clear in the burning sky, a blue noise lost in a moment when we weren't looking up- a different time for both you and me. The dream is not something to control, it consists of everything, it is completely beyond control. Which is why we can't understand it or give a reason for its existence but it is there and those with control seethe while those without revel for even if they lose they know control will not take everything, there will be limits to control as long as our species live, are we here as a measure against control?

Here we are on this glorious morning, bereaved of control, thoughts pathing by into the nothing beyond the whitest shores where unicorns and pegasi play in the meadows of old lady life, that, the heaven they sent for her, something we would never see nor feel in our lives again. Demented souls we were, dwelling in an apocalypse, merchants of salt at the gates of poison. We sell it steep, make the old ways still profitable, adding a bit of mystery to something so mundane, so normal

There is a cloud on our hearts, a dying kind, a dry dying kind, like a fact about a supernova, only visible to us through magnified images with weird colours and we grasp the pages in the papers with such heaviness, the burden of knowledge felt upon our shoulders like the wish of a dying man, wanting affection for the last time, before the fog rose. We sat in the gardens, you and I, wishing for a time when some things had changed but the light is growing dull and our eyes are not like they used to, we are blind men now but at least there is rest in our bodies.

--

"Everything is collapsing, dear
All moral sense has gone
It's just history repeating itself
And babe, you turn me on" - Nick Cave


Forgive me father, this is my first confession. This is the tone it will be in, this monologue to be written on old drying ink, on a relic from when writing was sexy and fulfilled something more than our bookshelves. We were so many and I am only one. I wish I could have talked with you, heard the comforting age from beyond your lips, the relaxation and your stoic belief that god is really there. How many times I've seen up on the stars and wondered if you were there and what I wanted most was to see it, to see the true light reach down from above, I wanted to believe and I think I wanted it to bad, I doubted what to believe because there were so many beliefs and I borrowed from them all, giving devotion to none. I think it was in one of these fragments my I was born, my first thought about a thought came early, I think I was seventeen, perhaps it's really late, I've always been a late bloomer, things have always taken time and I've credited myself that it's because I'm thorough and I am, but I'm also slow.

I ask for forgiveness for something I've never done. That's the man I am or used to be when everything was. I didn't know who I was then and I'm slipping further away now into ignorance and disknowledge because somewhere along the way I stopped caring. I knew I shouldn't, I read enough of the right books to initiate a struggle with myself and to do good deeds even though my heart was far from it and the more I did it, I felt guilty and it felt like I contaminated everything with my affliction, turning them into husks of what concepts and ideas or humans they were, diminished them. I still don't really care what they say what they mean what happens in the world and I don't care about the news or what's happening and yeah I think that watching an episode of a shitty sitcom is completely both repulsive and acceptable at the same time and I don't really care who you are because you're shallow and I like to think of it as you're not interested in life and then I remember that's me

not you. I am a coming of age movie or novel waiting to happen. I'd make a dreadful comic, fuck, the film would be lousy and the book would still read like a hungarian suicide note. God, it would be boring. I never regret anything because I never did anything, everything disappeared back there, got vanished by the hands of a foul magician and his hands make me think about hands I saw, some beautiful, some strange and some so lithe, so tender before the flesh hardened. I feel like Horselover Fat except I could have used something but the distance for there are so many stories, so many trains of thought that want out and some of the trains have run for a long time and they grow darker and darker with every lap, every year falling into something new, a new shame or sensation of guilt, a new sense of pride, love and joy but I carry only the angle needed for the lake of darkness.

I wish I could see the world like that, like a sentence black on white, devoid of that little something more, just what is there, open to interpretation but that will always be that and some people's logic is way too much to grasp for other people but the other people have time and what happens when a collection of minds spend more time thinking about the book, the product than the author himself did, is something lost here or diminished or did he just enter a profitable phase, did he sell out and become mainstream when the blind masses harped more on his words than himself? Isn't this new world order a democracy, isn't this new world order a place where the majority is right?

I yearn for the abstract and I know it will hit me one of these days, it will find me on this very road, somewhere in the landscape where it makes sense I will meet something, the dead arab, the obese greek or something of the formless from dreams or premonitions, future memories. Every day the wind blows harder and every day it sounds more like a guttural squawk from a dodo rather than something that isn't a myth or dead, extinct. I am not my brother's keeper, I do not know how this will end, I was never good with confrontation and I was never good at figuring out when I was being conned and I had seen enough westerns to know this was something, a setup.

When I needed someone to talk to, none were around, no stranger I could vent in front of and then move on, no bartenders cabdrivers or other ordinary people. I could probably broadcast it to space from somewhere but then I wouldn't have known that someone was listening, that the message was received, whoever it concerned or interested. I do not know. I can not speak with the two others, the mistrust between us all is ice cold, polite, distanced, feeling alien and alienated.
I don't know where I'm going but it feels like falling into the stars and that is what I'm doing, this, my dear reader is a letter I will leave in the big bible here in the church and I'll lock it in the safe and when you read this I will be redeemed and my burdens will fall to you for I can't carry them much longer. The arab and the greek appear more often in my dreams and it feels like they are tutoring me, they show me sights they have seen and I see the arab ripped apart in the town square, broad daylight and I sense the thing that did it, I can feel it as a part of me, like it is a part of me.

Are we death or life, are we great or grand? Humble giants against a fading night, blood seeping through the cracks in the ceiling and up above we hear the old god, job's god, forgotten only for a brief instant. In moments like these, the only moments we remember, we are shepherded back into the fold and we hear them sharpening their knives before they fall on the board. Gremlins of desire, short and diluted into the river they call time/life but it works like a magazine, you flip one page at the time and if the binding is correct there is no beginning, no start nor end. Chosen by stupidity we went further into dark, shocks were found daily as we woke into the mirror and climbed into the shower,

anything to wake us up. I was dreaming of us again and I remembered I had forgotten you and like that I fulfilled the prophecy and became closer to something I used to hate and I know perceptions change, you grow up, everything turns in different directions but I think I was smarter then when I was younger, now dulled because of neglect and abuse. The shadow will span all this world, all this empire. We learned that those who do not learn their history are doomed to repeat it and that was the truest thing I heard in school because we don't learn from others mistakes, we learn by doing our own and we will do that until empire has withered, turned to chalk and dust, dry glass glinting under a broken sun.

I miss them now, my old men. My old bitter men, sitting under an umbrella, no, they are being shaded by giant leaves held in the arms of young african boys and the old men look at them with pity, remorse and attraction. The weird monsters drinking negronis, ricards, whiskeys and cognacs that made their life by dissecting and vivisecting the ordinary life, malformed deviants in the eyes of a proper and well-behaved commune. It took old bitter men to make me love poetry but still I love only theirs, their bitter words filled with schadenfreude, mystical minds that understand what will happen but have no way in conveying it to us other than through emotional aggregates.

I wish I saw ozymandias, I wish I had peered upon the sky when the wax began to melt, I wish I was there in the townsquare when Abdul Al-Hazred was torn, I wish stood by the thames when a naked man was seen running and jumping into it but no splash was heard. As rasputin and his giant cock emerged from the icy water, that's where we should have been so we could have seen what would happen.

Where are/is /we going? We went a long time ago but still can't find it, we hear men speak of the truth and lies of others and we hear whispers of the promised land and we listen like everyone else listens, like everyone else never reads the gossip mags, and we repeat the errors that were made earlier. We can flood this planet with information but most of it will remain a raw chunk of data until someone changes it. Where is the heart

Friday night and the slummers are here and ready, needy for a piece of what they call reality but here is none- the eastside is filled with their unreality as everyone who wears a blue collar dress up for a couple of days, they slip into the light and out of the darkness because karl marx is still standing in our heart. We may not know him nor like him but his idea like leo said is stuck with us, there is still a battle to be had, molotovs to be thrown and correction errors to be ignored. A dream in the right place can change the world

We strive to do something, to justify our own existence and when the days are bad, the days we're broken we don't see it as something bad if the subway would disintegrate us, we see it as something cold, void with soul but filled with form, a fact or a law in its proper right. We strive with our minds and we imagine our hearts and they say we put our hearts into it but it really isn't, it's all cold calculated movements, parts of dances. The cup of blood overfloweth, we're at this party, so fucking high above us and everyone here is out of their minds and we are served goats blood with champagne, every man and woman is part of this with their eyes wide shut and as I sit in a chesterfield made of latex, the solipsist in me awakens.

It wouldn't matter if I was really staring into a padded wall, it wouldn't matter if I was merely living my own hallucination, it's still our reality and it is our perfection, our colours come mangled when we die, we end in a hatred of the perfect heart but the heart

the heart is not sacred. We're chained to seats watching a movie thinking it is reality and we've done this for so long that we're here, in person, living the pictures as they are played for us, it doesn't matter, it never mattered. The ego and the id zoom by us in a car and we keep thinking about this sound we know we've heard before but we don't know where and suddenly there's this jolt, a door with the light on, opening. We're in the country chaos, where nothing is but we, where the shadows fall differently and light, our perception, is different, is wonky, out of balance and focus and our lives are off the chain

Because we drink to life and when we get drunk enough we make our sacrifices to mother earth and in that place we know her, the old whore, the oldest of the prostitutes lying in the opium bed with her knees apart and most would say she has satan in her heart but her being is alight with the son we give our sundays to and she can never be tainted, never be corrupted. She has seen every sin and she is a god because she accepts it as parts of who you are, why you are. She has seen the darkest of the hearts and she has seen the most brilliant and we are all just this one in her bosom

where we came from and once will return if you want the romantic version. Wake up, neo. neo. wake up, neo. wake up. wake

We came upon this world, festering with our own ignorance and faults, seeing them as something to bring along, to further this darkness where we've dwelt. Grown afraid and old is what we've become, shadows looming as we have become anglers in a lake of darkness, none of us in dreams or hopes do we seem to climb our of our holes and abysses. We'd grown down into it, with no feeling of home for any of our hearts and we'd leave us alone but there were too many to have come for us, to go have dreamt for us into this, all the broken promises and the things we should have done which we never did and never will do but we keep thinking we should, it'd be the right thing and we are men who wish to do the right thing

before the haze lets go of us and we are only left with the sense of and desire for oblivion, let us disappear here into this, a world where we can't feel ourselves, where are mouths no longer need to move and our emotions don't have to feel, where the mind is left in a shallow grave, thought to be dead but merely in torpor, this is what attracts us day in and day out, it is the meaning of our lives and we spend more and more time there as we never find what we want but hope is burning in our stomach, we know no longer what we hoped to find but it's still there, burning our bellies, turning our stomach

lost in the wilderness is what our biographers would call these years if we ever become famous or if we find and bring redemption upon our souls, the misers of a world we will never comprehend or understand even though we sound clever talking about realities we will always be inside ours and never expand upon everyone elses for we have enough here and we're so stupid compared to the words that drool out of our mouths, one-liners and punches we learned back when we were smart, when we were something different than anything else around us because we've become slaves: bound to dream and hearts we knew we would have never followed then but apathy has sunk in to us and we welcomed it for we didn't want more to do with you, with life

we wanted something else and we held our beliefs until it was too late, time had already done something with us and the transition from being children to being adults disappeared an one day, without ceremony, without us dressing in a traditional garb, it happened and we were the ones we were, wrong as we understood it, children in an adult life without the playfulness of the one we used to be, a broken monument seen in a distance, a silhouette against the gathering storm with no knowledge on where to run

I'm in in love

Sadness is drifting in here, these open windows giving us distorted views on the outside world, the glass is grey and the sun is a sliver of what we knew her as. The wind has stopped blowing and every letter and every symbol is our attempt to create an emotional aggregate but as we think it we don't really care because it's something irish about this, something dylan thomas would have told us when when the sun came up over the green island and the sadness was upon us and we knew it would eventually go away and we would miss it as it was lost again, just to be found by someone else

In this world we grow into giants or dwarfs as we pass through the years as casually as we shop in the windows we pass to work and we see something and the mere sight of it for an entire season will be delightful but we will never purchase it or even visit the store because it smells like work and the effect that happens in our brain is as effective as setting a period. It speaks to us in the same way, each and every letter, everything contained within them tells the story of the item in the window, one we will never hold, know the brand of or feel the weight of, it is as unattainable as a star or wealth.

I remember an older friend who died a year ago and there's this one scene I've saved more than any else and he was recommending this band he'd made food for and hung out with and they were on the cusp of becoming kinda big and I didn't really like it at all but I've recalled that memory several times and now I'm listening to it and it's got that feeling. He was right and for that I miss him sorely because he was usually right, the bastard. Another day has come to an end and the saxophone begins, it could've been morphine but it's in a newer more artsy wrapup and the knife is a beautiful thing

We grew too old too quick, everything felt like it was sweeping away beside us, hurrying in from the snow and the cold, us old men, still left here upon the earth to die, there will be no peace. We are dead and we know it that all there is is now and nothing else, there are no virgins waiting, there is no enlightenment, no golden apple thrown across the universe. We will know good and bad things and we will say our lives were good without lying but we knew it could always have been so much better for our lives were the lives lived in mediocrity, where none stood up and told them because we didn't really care and those who did made the daytime news and were portrayed as raving lunatics when one of their favourite characters died off and this is all of it, there is nothing to wait for for nothing is coming except the end. In the words of a great poet, the curtain descends and everything ends... too soon, too soon. Our darlings will not wait for we will all die and like another more okish poet said it, in one hundred years all will be forgotten.

This is it, this is the trip we've been waiting for and we're coming up and we ascend through the stars and mother earth and father sun tells us that we have to remember that we have to get to work in the morning and we check our watches and we're due in two hours and it's you and me and we go there, we go home and shower, don our shirt and tie before we descend down our stairs and we're there, we're interacting with the height of reality as we break their balls and we do double the work of anyone there so we figure we can go home earlier and we do and we lost that job but we're still here, under the stars

God is a monster that doesn't exist, science as a thing to put faith into is depressing because it doesn't make anybody closer to scientific thinking it just brings us warning labels on coffee cups and I hope an object evaporates the planet before we get off it, I hope you die and I hope I die because we're a failed experiment and that's the way you make me feel, baby

Because I got to let you down and it's like magic to me


with your brother

The hunger is gone, replaced by something equally powerful but for another age like an old device buried in caskets of cement somewhere in nevada. We began thinking in this direction but we couldn't crack what was going on, we were looking on to find something of beauty out there on the other side of the window but nothing would ever be discovered as the snow started drifting in again and we resigned to cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows melting in them as old poes embers died while we read dostoevsky.

Old ghosts are re-appearing again, shameful secrets emblazoned upon their foreheads, threads of guilt making their eyes harder to see but we've all grown harder now as we've all grown colder now, autumn coming in before winter and here we'll be repeating that cycle, it's the reason for why we are here, it is the catharsis we seek as our bellies are filled to the brim but in our eyes, replaced hunger still governs with a strict hand made of iron, that noticeably clang hitting the drums in your ears because everything and all of it is connected-

Like time, everything in us and all of us are connected, as we are connected with the seasons and as the seasons blow and as we come further and further into this but still just here, struggling with demons we should have buried ages ago, still a part of us and still we love that part and we use it to escape and to enjoy this miserable white globe because we see spring but we feel we will be dead by then for there is a veil drawn over all of it, every memory we ever had of spring is lost in a hot fog, something out of an indian summer where we sit outside in our hippie shirts telling each other tyger tyger burning bright

We tried to be melodramatic, we tried to be dramatic, we tried to be fanatic, we tried religion and we tried politics- we grew tired of trying so when the first sun came from the other side of reality we sat in an ice cream parlor and we ate as we watched the sun glistening in the snow and soon we'd feel sorry for ourselves because the memories we achieved this winter will fade as the sun comes creeping into our lives again

It's all right. We move in the shadows as we treat those who were once friends as something less and I grow distant because still in my heart I believed there could be a place where utopia would be strived for but then I grew aware of my surroundings and I was still flipping burgers at macdonalds as a social experiment when I realized it was my life.

It's all right, what they'll tell you. Every story whether you can't associate with it or understand its' logic, it's true. All lies are true, everything everyone ever told you is true but it is theirs and interpretation was never very interesting in school. Twenty big buckets to catch them in, twenty deep holes to bury them in. What we say never had anything for it, it was always the way we said it, the emotions we projected.

If every word you heard had been a lie, would it have mattered, would you have done something else than watching daytime tv smoking that nice bong you spent half of your last welfare check on, would anything be different in the way you think of the world, would your beliefs matter? Do they? Don't you find religion to be something more personal rather than science, based upon humans instead of human laws. If you have faith in science I think you're doing it wrong and what does it matter what happens between you and your god

ganesha
glycon
cthulhu

We wanted an early morning, the feeling of warmth not to be missed as the sun grew over our heads, magic in the old days and just the sun in ours. We'd come as far as they remembered but we were still among the lost in the land of the living getting fat off it, our stomachs would growl at us every morning for every night we went out drinking, passing the kebab shop as we walked home, seeing the seasons change from summer to fall, seeing the difference being made.

We wanted the warmth from the sun because we had no other, the cold was in our hearts and minds and we were no longer who we wanted to be, a quagmire was where we were, where our thoughts took us, into this. We saw our playfulness drop, we saw the spring of childhood ending and we knew when it was our time we would end the same way any of our cycles would but people dressed in black would mourn us as we slipped beyond the veil again.

Guilt was hanging onto us like beads of sweat, never letting go in a humid world where we wanted to truly see them but didn't. All of the else was different, our hearts flew like our minds, we were racing like in a coffee induced dream and we were running, we were always running but the sweat was there when we woke from our nightmare and we found that everything we once wanted was too much for us to handle now

We'd only want oblivion when we ended, obscurity seemed like the way to go and the place to be for we had seen enough, we had held on tightly to hope and to dream and we saw change as the good brother-in-law but once all of it fell down, we found ourselves wandering into sartres mind with a bottle of tequila. We didn't exist like they did and we never had the fears that they did, post world war two disillusionment but we wanted to be like them but still not asking the same questions as they did, not wanting answers as we covered ourselves in blankets trying to sleep with the sun climbing into our eyes

If someone told me when I was younger that drugs only enhance what is already there I would probably never have started. This hand and this face would be the same, not perceived through a thin veil of escapism but that time is over and I didn't learn, I kept walking through the old ballad and I tried.

See ye not that broad broad road across yon lily leven, that is the path to wickedness but some call it the road to heaven. Here we're marching across old and dusty memories, you were eleven then getting on the ferry, you, mom, dad, your brother and your sister and as you stepped out of the vehicle, oil and tar were heavy in the air mixed with ancient salt water, washed ashore on this contraption created in the hopes of a braver new world.

Why do you relax, when there are so many things to destroy and tear asunder, you have so many emotions still bottled up that has never smelled the sweet scent of wet hot asphalt or freshly mowed grass or never felt the catharsis that lies in rage, buried in what we used to be, horny monkeys beating with bones. The air went out of us as we came in from the rain and made hot chocolate and sat there and spoke and talked about everything else but each other and we were melting

looking for love for the oldest of the sacred hearts but it was shriveled, a cold thing at the bottom waiting for a beauty or a beast to pick it up, out of curiosity or out of the fact that none of them have anything to lose like none of us really do, we do as we think it through, we can't do it, we got a good thing going here and to lay waste to it now

after all these years

of squabbling and being retarded together as we learn that pun is the first syllable of punishment and we are reminded later on in the same thing that it's never about hard or easy and always about the job at hand but it is only a world we sometimes wished we were a part of- it is black and white and our lives are not and never for through each panel, each bubble and each page red trickles down and gives us our third dimension so we can fulfill our dreams

our job

in blind rage we plummet into the task at we shut our soul down as we, the flesh is alive and every drop of blood is singing in our veins, we remember grandfather monkey, wisest of them all, beating bones and sticks to shrapnel not understanding why he does it but reveling in it, seeing the world that we only see in dreams

in the forest is a monster and it has done terrible things, in hiding it sings this song- who will love me now, who will ever love me, who will say to me, you are my desire, I set you free? We sit on the beach just the two of us and on us are bugs crawling like hope, one gigantic chain and every link is as weak as the other but we keep it at bay with our words and we know it will end like we know the levee will break because it's that humming in the air, impending cleansing but it will come later and we will have had our sunrise, drinking tequila from a senorita's shoe

we speak but do not talk and we enjoy it, the aklo of it all, the desire to put a gun to your spine and release it, wondering if an alien would indeed crawl out or if it would only be heat leaving meat and that was it. The older I get the more I think about old Lovecraft, what estranged thing he was and would have been now but so greatly displaced with so many gods in his head

There is a task at hand and we should do it, flooded by memories that are not ours of what others have done in our situation and we are hedgehogs in a dream riding on elephants with swastikas on them, speaking swahili in a world we should have left behind but have dragged with us on this journey, this thing we call an adventure when in reality it is so much more dull because it is life and nothing more.

When did you leave, when did you travel for so long into it, when did you get lost oh brother. Something happened when you let your guard down, when there was no work, no women and no drugs. There were no distractions and all you saw was life but that is now and you've been gone for so long. You were taken by the fear rather early, paranoia was something you never noticed when you were high because you were always paranoid, looking over the shoulder for a truck or an elephant, perhaps you told yourself you were just looking for something, you always had good eyes. We saw you more rarely as time passed as you delved deeper into your hole, the thing you had made for yourself, that little cave where you tried to find out how you could become something else than what you were and the closest answer you found always depressed you.

You couldn't change what you were, could you? You understood you could change what you do and that's when you forgot the question that initially brought you here. The man sitting in his high castle. Did you fight what you had become, what you knew you could never change? Was that why you stopped chasing memories and you tried to kill time before time killed you but you realized you were doing it wrong, going in a different direction and what you thought knew to be a truth was just something you once constructed, like a light version of a different mind in the same head but you didn't want to deal with any of this shit, you just wanted it over and gone with, you were breathlessly walking the beach to see the sun rise to have a memory that would linger and you did lots of shit on your own but none of the memories stuck like they seldom do

when you're out there by yourself. You have no memories now because you had no life, you were merely surviving, not living. You tried to close your eyes but you were still too smart or to curious in some fashion to sleep for the rest of this life. You are still a child in so many ways but you live in a haze you created yourself, isolated from reality but part of it and I've always loved you, I will always love you and you went from being the best to become the worst and I was there with you all the way and you showed me everything you learned and I was a tourist or atleast I hoped I was but there was always this chance that this was going to go on for longer than anticipated, there was something in the air.

We wrote your obituary once, you never knew. It was going to be a good funeral, frozen in a slice of time where your fondest memories came from. Your only memories would stand with you as we lowered you into the ground and we played your music and we honored you but there was little emotion for you had been dead for a long time. We would go to the pub or a restaurant after that and we'd have a good meal and something to drink, later on we'd crawl on to someones house and we'd sit and drink and drug and do and when it got late enough and we were all tranquilized we'd remember you and who you were, your potential as a human being and we regretted that we didn't force you away but again we remembered who you were.

Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself. The old mother still wore black as the sun set over the landscape and we sat on a mesa further up, watching down. We saw a town and in the town there were gangs of mexicans shooting it out and that was the moment when we realized that time would never matter for us except in terms of physical evolution. We found the music to be noise and we clung to the silence as we talked about our discovery. We saw mrs dalloway and her horrors and we lived through them, carrying them with us for they were human horrors and no matter our desire we were still human. We realized that our civilization would end like others have in a way we can't imagine. We realized that the only thing separating us from the people that lived when jesus died is technological advances. We are not moving forward.

You could say there was no forward because it's impossible to view time as something linear and you'd be right but it would be a boring argument, a boring reason. A fact we could build on but not learn from. The ideas echo through time, perhaps it was when it became simpler to collect information that we could gather enough to form an opinion or a point of view. We speak in dreamtime because we don't know what to say to eachother. Our heads are collapsed, masses of brain and thought bleeding all over us like a whore you thought would give you a golden shower but the world is cruel and it is so because it has a sense of humor which I think is the main argument that we are different from the others species on this planet.

Cruel is fate and all her sons. Twisted is the world we live in because we made it that way, this is the way we want our nest to be, we're getting there and we found it as we found that table at the yardsale and we attached to it magic, faith and belief and it transformed our world as it was a talking thinking table and it spoke for us as it thought for us and serenity filled the house for it was a good table. A table from ikea can never match a table like that no matter how cheap and fucking swedish it is. Disturbing noises will always fill the corridors, each of them that pass through time and every other that pass through everything else, we are dooming ourselves because we want to be doomed, we want to die in a horrible way for that is the only way to redemption, that old whore of a final fire.

We keep hearing the trumpets through our dead ears, a sighing echo in an age where echoes are only heard in popular culture as the autotune is revealed. This is the echo the shaman and priests heard back in the day, incidentally the same day as this but back then we knew we knew nothing while now we are quite certain that we know everything that is here for we've had enough moments of clarity, enough for one individual to fill a planet

Revisiting the ancient texts we understand something of the else, the lies and deceit we felt was at the heart of the others, the ones not like us, the rest of the six or seven billion inhabiting this blue globe suspended in animation in a vacuum, like watching Heston Blumenthal making aerated chocolate and the old guys were right, all of them were right in any religion you ever dabbled in you found an answer but the answer was not the doctrine

The answer were in isolated events and as we went on with despising the normal man, both joe and jack, brother plumbers and their italian cousins searching for the princess but once they performed actions we like we began loving the game as we still hated the players. Dawn would be upon us and we would be racing, our hearts and minds into triangles of differentiation and as we made a pentagram and called upon chronozon we did not know what we did for we had slipped away from who we were and our metathoughts

the first one hundred pages of the book that brought me here and probably many of you remind me of the last of johnny cash's american recordings, released posthumously the first track is ain't no grave; ain't no grave that can hold my body down. It is partly a WOrk, like what magicians strive for, it is something grander and more thought-through than many other things but it is also cynical, it is a calculated move but why I don't know. Perhaps it will erase the idea many people have about johnny cash and while he did what he did for all those years, the most played song on his spotify list is still hurt.

It is a book I think everyone should read before they turn twenty and those who read it should read it again when they are no longer dumb, when they actually can think for themselves. I think this happened to me last year, I think many things made sense in an air of self-indulgence, weed and games, the destruction of everything anyone who ever wanted activism wanted but I've strayed from discordia, intellectually. I no longer use the snappy one-liners I learned but both my heart any my soul will always belong to eris like they did before I read the book for the first time

Religion is still holy, which is why it is only the lunatic fringe that will hold onto the idea of discord but in the idea of discord there is a truth and it is mentioned in those first hundred pages as something that makes sense and that is the interpretation of the second law of thermodynamics and while entropy is a state most pastry chefs are familiar with, the social interpretation that everything bends towards chaos is reserved for the same lunatic fringe but it is a truth and perhaps the most important one I've discovered concering us

ourselves

and them

Hey now hey now. Nothing begins like that, no song no nothing. Not a poem that is *known* or a book or a play or a movie but hey now now. The cities grow smaller with each and every passing day as they grow larger and more people come to the city, it's always the same people that will settle for what everyone else is so as its form expands, its spirit diminishes. Where did we leave off when we forgot how to sing and dance, what happened to the diary we used to have but have no more, where did it disappear into nothingness, this us. When did you stop listening to what you did before you were 23 and what did you listen to, what do you listen to now? Can you watch inside your mind an argument with your parent and can you understand the parent?

It was apparent that we shouldn't turn out like them but it makes sense now, what they did. What they'll do but there is more clarity there, connected, as I am in your eyes, there where you sit and twinkles flow through you, generated by your eyes and your story is being told with a backdrop from the dark eighties. We hear unwashed kids sing about their souls as we caress each others and time is there with us, there is no suspension but rather a sensation of living through this moment with you, china skin and short hair, pudgy but thin and smart but stupid. You could have gone places kid and there are better places to go than here but we're here now and we feel the wine and the weed wrapped through it, permeating from every pore of creation.

When we grow old, our sons and daughters are beyond our command. I don't know about discordianism as a religion but I see it as a proper guide to help children evolve. Lightly teached with no zealotry in hand, like what it is, a dumb joke inside the funniest set of the dullest comedian. A white elephant watching itself in the mirror, amazed. Chaos never really goes away and order only has certain places where it works. I wish I knew that. I wish I knew more about the mechanics and functions of this world than what I learned of our utopia, our history, religion and politic. I saw then where we wanted to go while I would have loved to just see it the way it is, the way the beast works, mechanical machinations functioning steadily to this tug of war system.

When we die we will not be able to intellectually explain the experiences or the experience of dying, knowingly but we will smile or frown and we will know. Before we let anyone else do it, we'll judge it ourselves. With the perspective of death, we will see it clearly and we will know everything, every black and white rock of this dualistic world, this fallen void where we walk and preach and as we die we will know how we performed, we will know if we were an asset to the company and we will know who we were and who we are and we will see the ending and none will ever know before they do. Paranoia breeds science and we are in a world of science now, everything is being analyzed, perhaps latest of all, the very food we eat. There's a movie called eat drink man woman and it's worth watching. It's a film basically made for chefs but chefs are usually too stupid to understand or have any interest in anything that requires you to think, at least when it's spoken in an asian language.

But if you made an english movie about it and slapped some hot young models in it you'd have everyone wanting to see it and there would be lines like grains of sand in the desert because that's where we are as we drink cactus and bathe in mother earth. We're here, where the basics of the movie are. There's food, drink, men, women. The necessities of life are all gathered here and when you think about it it would make a nice new type of reality, that wanted the positive and not the negative. They say that sex sells and they're right but that's because it's become a need, a perfect face gazing towards the abyss of us human waste, something radiating through the night, a piercing light as we grab for the gossips when we're at the dentist and the doctor and every waiting room we spend our miserable time in, trying to find the light

The eighties did so much right in its own wrong but it takes time to find it, it takes weeks or years to delve into this, here a heart of an era, here it is but it is there, we can still grasp it and understand a decade of decisions if we ever wanted but the pentagon is a pentagon so it can hold cthulhu because the pentagon is built on the sunken city of r'lyeh and it used to be an old indian pentagon there before they arrived and some of those who knew thought about releasing it when it was possible but it didn't work, there were no dodos and no guy fawkeseseses because they were all dead, all extinct, we were in a newer, braver world and we cast our idols as we bled for it, watching conspiracy theories with jesse ventura.

REMEMBER LEST WE FORGET AND REPEAT OUR MISTAKES is written in the elevator towards hell while in the one ascending there is SAVE YOUR BRIGHTEST SMILE FOR HELL and these are our choices. These are the dreams we correspond with, the choices we make every day as we build or burn karma shopping for groceries, preparing ourselves for hell as we buy the store brand for everything even a quarter of foie gras. This is actually condemnable to hell and we know it as we open a store brand beer before we glide out of there, thirsty and hungry, sweaty but sobering up. We did all the drugs and now we resort to what we can get at nine in the morning and we praise jesus it's not sunday as we sit in the park like people freshly out of a cave or vault 13.

It flows and it ebbs, the river. We've been watching it for days now and we sit here, each and everyone with us collecting inspiration from the environment and everyone else, an acid dream coming through over two weeks as something new is born, a concept that encompasses all parts and thoughts of life, a package for everything for you in your life as we sat there and watched the river flow and ebb and we dreamt it at our stations and we saw it from within, it was only us there and the river, nothing caught in a twilight darkness, we were gray tainted men, tainted by civilization we appreciated nature in a professional sense, each with our profession and we changed.

You know what it begins with? Choir. A violent airy choir before technology kicks in and takes us on further like ken kesey wanted us to but to places not even he could have seen. We sing with them, the children in the streets as it rains on a hot summer day and we're out dancing with umbrellas and it feels like 1959 and we sing with the choir and we know we're just the buildup, that is our only true purpose in life before it ends and we sing, we repeat it so many times that you'd have to be on drugs or a little bit stupid to listen to it but we do because we are. Hey hey now now NOW, like a practicing ballet troupe we rehearse and go through each motion, each emotion and as we do so we sing with the choir and we build a world from words, an universe superimposed on the original and we create something new again, a black swan in ascent. But hey now hey now now, sing it and bleed it.

We're here, speeding on, beyond. Glimpses turn to fragments turn to memories and san francisco turns into jackson pollock, commemorated in the homes of the upper middle-class. Here are your memories, catalogued and turned into this; gold. Because we're here and life is this, like a frat boy looking at the moon and thinking about death. This is life and we're speeding through it, we experience it the same way others do, the sheer volume of it but we see it from another angle. A different perspective. We're here though, we arrived. We came where we wanted to.

We don't. We never, we never thought that this was it. What everyone was raving about, screaming about and proclaiming poems about. Fuck you guys because from the get go you're higher than I ever were and you're prophets in an age where a prophet wouldn't last one day. Critical belief? Shine on us for we are dreaming of a different age, a different time and a different memory. We repeat ourselves and our words till the fullest. We are repetition because we were born repetition.

Smell the nostalgia of the womb as you lay in the grass on your lovers tits. This is where we are, escaping into it. Reality being the last bastion of chaos, where any war should be fought.

The clock strikes seven and we all remember it's important but we don't really know why. We feel the storm brewing, humidity on the rising, everything choking on itself, the air stuffed with old memories because there's that scent that none of us really know or remember and like the gas that will kill you you don't feel it, not upon you. It becomes stagnant around the table, all of us suddenly stopped eating and we're watching old deaths pass in each others eyes, older memories still resurfacing before it begins to rain, at first a little. Then it pours and we are dragged into it, from our civilized conversation something primal in our heads twists and turns, here comes the storm.

Tomorrow they'll sit in the park again and sing here comes the sun and by then all of this will be over and we hope we've done something memorable by then for the storm is always ending. The perfect backdrop, we should have asked if someone wanted to marry us or we should be drunk and dancing in the streets, we should do something out of the ordinary so we'd have at least that to dissect. I kept writing but I thought of different things as every instinct urged me towards action and not away from it because the backdrop is primal, like eating raw red meat after you've been starving.

The poodles don't grow, they diminish, returning where they came from and so do we before the clock strikes another time. What we seek in life is the ejaculation. The physical, the emotional, the intellectual. The sudden moment when you are nothing but you move freely, the orgasm, the love, the moment of clarity. Places where you changed you ejaculated. You came all over us in violent explosions when you changed, your manifestation became more, coherent, vivid. More real. You did not sneeze when you changed, you gave the world a pearl necklace.

Did you change back? Doppelganger, doppelganger. Did you revert? Did you choose when you changed or did you just let it ride you, did you let it take control? Was the change you desired to lose control? You sit in all your pale glory and I see pestilence riding on your back and around this dinner table, I see them all, the ones that made the stories your grandmother or priest told you, I see the evil of man, I see gluttony in all forms, I see men and women who want change because it's change and I see the downfall as it will happen and has happened and will always

happen

There is no getting out of this, they're too deep but Allen Ginsburg had it right and it hadda be barked over LOUD speakers. You wanted change but it was because you were bored, you didn't want to do nothing so you wanted everything else to entertain you and you're reading this now because I'm writing it to you and you know you will go to hell, you know it exists and you will be thrilled when you get there.

It curdles as we watch it in the bucket, small ripples creating even smaller ones, riplets rolling through time and significance and the product in the bucket won't be the same tomorrow and while it has died it has also truly begun living, casting off the chains of industrial created life and by itself creating something self, like an ai having its' first meta thought.We sink in to the ground all of us, dreaming of a better sky and different taste of tomorrow and it is in the dreams that we are there and awake by ourselves and fully by ourselves. The sound of a leather covered foot striking a corridor and we all snap out of it and after the dream, we return to the world where we can proudly say WE ARE without thinking about it because nothing is.

Grant Morrison calls it the white flame meditation in the invisibles and the thought has always been there with me and I've heard it echo many times. We think before we are but what are we? It's another completely pointless question like is the same blue you see the same as I see and we're in college, drunk. We do not think and we'd never dare to think what we are, there is no desire to know ourselves but there is a desire to know everything else. We are nothing because it can't be described what we are, in binary we're closer to 0 than a 1. That isn't necessarily depressive if viewed as a fact. It doesn't really matter who we are because you can change what you do which is almost the same.

Unless there is something more to it all than what we perceive, all the lies we have in our lives spilled into eachother, a neverending memory of a series of nightmares, interwoven and overlapsing as we delve into the core of our very being, a first fallen man seeking satan and his soul, seeking an actual answer for the entirety of his being, a shaman in an age of belief but we have no time for shamans now. We wouldn't listen to them like we wouldn't know when jesus christ truly returned to this world because there's just that much a god can do. Or are we flat, are we stories seen through time, enlivened by emotional aggregates? What are you? What are we? What is the point?

We've known this house for so long, we did not build it, it stood here before we were born. So much history has passed in two hundred years but the house still stands. The paperwork on the house would amount to little, no records of anything unless something happened here and it didn't. Our history fail us as they mention the fact in letters, not responding with emotional aggregates. How many books does a dream fill? How many books are worth to fill? We learned what they did and why they did it but we get the rational actions by people that was as irrational as us if not more. The hand will touch the ass in a sweaty moment but none are there to record it. We think we know, are informed. Never has so much information been available to so many but the information is so often shit but that doesn't seem to matter to people.

I know a few people who are interested in literature and some of those work with books. Publishing, reading. They just want people to read than not read and it's a beautiful utopian thought but where's the point to reading if what you read is shit? If you're interested in food and recommend restaurants you'll never recommend a shitty place but you'll pick something that'll fit the type, demanding quality. Good fiction in any form will do more than just entertain you, will do something more to you than make you laugh weep smirk giggle, there will be more than the emotional kneejerks being wanked. You'll feel something deeper in your heart, there are words on a page that will transform your consciousness forever written by a man or woman dead for hundreds of years.

Is this fact? Or are we tainted and fallen, beyond redemption and saving? Where did we stop to do what we used to believe in, what was handed down by our elders, why did we stop doing that and began doing something else and why are we oversimplifying like this

We got carried away on the last winds, earth was sinking below us into the sun. It fell off reality, just one of those things that happened like the dishwasher breaking the day of a dinner party or that guy that called in sick and you knew he'd been out drinking but the wind blew and we were heading out of this place, the culmination of a planet's lifetime.

They say we are sin, we are that embodiment, we have become it, we fell and we've kept falling for so long that we live our memories. We hear the city sing as its helicopters gather above us like crows with giant beams of light for eyes, something in our gut warns us about the kraken as we step aboard any vessel and they found the white whale in a pass in russia. Everything seems to be spinning, weirdly into shadows we gather like bad insects surviving the nuclear holocaust and we know there will be no movies about us so we do what we need to do when the watchful gaze of the allnow flickers.

We have been infected with ourselves. We delved too deeply into the mines of moria and we delved too deeply in our minds. Something broke and we knew we were somewhere we shouldn't be. We knew that we didn't belong so we blended in, met in meetings at obscure places and times, made plans without motivation, began scheming, not knowing where our hearts were. We collect souls and bodies, burying them shallowly, saving them for when the master's call comes and it will be our land once more, there was a promise that was made, long ago. A king should steal the day and introduce the night.

In their land we see his opposite, his nemesis. He is one-eyed and his people are blind. They follow his voice and his laws and they know simple life while he indulges. The other end will also indulge but that king will use whips and chains and this is his age, where whips and chains are spun anew and we are blind as we monitor the cctv network, soon to replace normal channels so that we can all be entertained even more twenty four seven and and they will sit with three dee teevees and live other peoples' life.

TV series are something I care little for. I haven't owned a tv for years, I know little of recent pop-cultural phenomena that began on the box, serialized each week like how they published books in the old days. I do not like the format, if I have to wade through cliffhangers I want to be able to resolve them with a click of a button, I do not wish to wait a week to see what happened, I do not wish to think about the ending in the last episode for a week because my head is already filled up and I have no reason to ponder something that was created to please, to sell. In the nineties, series went from the worst campy soaps to something more serious with atleast one veil of illusion hanging before the set and we were lead to believe there was a wizard behind the screen, there was a thought behind it all. This credibility came when series no longer lasted for thirty years, this fata morgana came when they announced how many seasons it was supposed to be from the getgo.

When the last episode of lost aired I began to watch it. brian vaughan had found his creative outlet, differing from y the last man but still exactly the same. Reading y is the same as watching lost. You know what is the buildup and you feel it as a reader as the buildup and there are knots in your stomach because you want the cliffhangers, you desire the saccharine adrenaline you feel when you sit in the couch and watch an ending and the dramatic music pierce your heart and soul and you want more and the umami you see before your eyes is like msg injected directly into your brain. You know when they are building and you know they do not care to cover it. What in other genres are seen as crude workmanship function here, something has changed in our minds and our view on everything is changed at the same time.

You could argue that lost is a visual interpretation of manichaeism, which it is and you could argue that while being a linear format, isn't linear with the mention of VALIS, where time and memories are superimposed over themselves. You could argue that it is the matrix, you could argue it in so many ways and you'd be right most of the time. I'll argue that these people have read the Invisibles and they'll be more clever than the wachowskis and they'll drape it in their wet nerdy dreams. On mainstream television, primetime we get to know what we all suspect in our stomachs and that's that ewoks suck. Which again is another parable, another image superimposed where the contemporary comes close enough to create its own religion. How many trekkies would die for what they believe in? When will klingon be taught in school? Where are our overminds, the masters of us all, where are they hiding? Are they here with us or are we alone in both time and space?

Yet we spent quite the amount of time watching hurley try to lose fat so he could score with a chick. We watched the problems of every day life except it was on an island and everyone was special and it wasn't because they were human or because we're all actually special but it's because it's on the telly and we want a drug that is called jack kate sawyer and we want to drink it on a daily basis and we try to do what they do, every weekend we travel to sydney and then to la and we're prepared, for the first time in our lives we know what we're going to and what we want to do is to go out into the jungle, kill boar, eat fruit and fish, we wanna go back to the primitive but with civilization still in our hearts we want to live there, breathe it and be terrified of it. We want to stop being numb.

We want to meet the girl, we want to meet her, we want to meet the girl that reminds us we are in hell. Because you never know you're in hell until you feel the soft cold breeze that brings clarity and revealation, when you see the true crop and feel the black iron chains on your soul that you truly know you are in hell. Alan Moore meant that jack the ripper delivered this century and if that is so he's still around somewhere, probably traveling the world like a vampire, writing postcards along the way. We are in hell, we've always been in hell but we've always done the work of heaven. We want to meet that girl.

I don't care how lost ends, ten episodes from now, it doesn't matter like it didn't matter with y. The point isn't the underlying story because it's just a rehash, a remake of something that none can fuck up, religion. The point with the story and all of lost is to show that the nerds won. The geeks in the basement won, the ones that tossed 20sided dies and spent their allowance on magic cards while watching campy scifi won. The businessmen won, selling manichaeism to the masses. I'm surprised I haven't seen Grant Morrison yet but perhaps he comes in towards the end because then they'd be untouchable, the ultimate nerdy steal/homage and manichean is someone from manchester.

Why should I desire what is dead? Why should I love or hate my fellow man, why should I need to feel anything for them? I know they have feelings, the barbarians, the general livestock but why should I care, why should I see them deeply into the eyes and tell them that I love them or just tell them to fuck off, why should I be forced to live in a world where I need a meaning? I have no meanings, no clear definition of good or of evil. I think I understand differently than all of them us you. I have no clear notion of time and I've always been a fan of linearity but never when it comes to time, sometimes regarding space. I create my memories, I do not get them by accident, it all happens by a design. I have control in my life and I know its' spectre is what's haunting me, I know I will never get rid of it, I can hear old man marley's chains in the hall but I know each step he takes, I know where he moves. Control or order is the same as chaos and the same as any talent and like there are xaositects there are men, children and women of ordnung. I control my life by knowing chaos. I become a dictator in an anarchistic commune.

We smelled a different world as the sun broke the beautiful black line on the horizon. We knew it was coming, we had felt its rays an hour ago, reflected upon the surfaces before our eyes catch up, then our minds. Do you remember how they spoke to us when we were little? Do we speak in that tongue now? We did, didn't we, we became them, we became that truth in a pardoned moment where dreams weren't here no more so we made our own but we can still hear those who wait in the churches synagogues and mosques, we hear them in the street, whispering the same way a metaphor is shown in a hollywood blockbuster. There is no smoke, there are no illusions. Not anymore. We threw it away, through the window, we defenestrated the new world order by tossing what was useful of it out the window and we yelled for hours and hours, arguing what books were mine and yours, what movies, what music, what furniture, what we had spent all this time doing, what it all had mounted to, what it would feel like to fuck a last time, what we were going to do now, what would be the roadblocks ahead of us, what

Why should we give them our hate, our love, what did they do to deserve any response whatsoever? See! The writer wishes he was in the future but he is himself holding future back, not even thirty and already a dinosaur. The future is now, the writer lives in the thirties but he keeps reaching out to us because he doesn't see time like we see it, he sees the snake and he has ridden it, communed and communicated with it, seen through its eyes like apprentice magicians see the world through the eyes of a pigeon, here is the snake. There was a third man in the garden of eden and he asked a question. There was no snake like mister crowley never had that mongoose, only the perception of it.

As we pass from belief to certainty.

You get that feeling when the drugs rush out of your system, that's when you define it and how it works on you and your mind. You'll always remember the emptiness after the first day, drunk on what was found in your parents' cupboards and you're young so you fear you've lost something substantial. As the years pass by it doesn't really matter. It ends and you don't feel it anymore, it's with you every day and night for you keep displacing these things, no longer knowing why you had them in the first place or what their original purpose was. When your friends leave town and you're left, feeling left behind in the tropical summer heat that keeps you awake as you scribble down your thoughts on paper, realizing the paper is worth less with your own thoughts on it than something blank.

Here, fear might grip you. You get stuck in that train of thought. Something blank is more worth to this world than something scrawled upon. We hoped we were living in a different world, that what we always saw was something we could deselect and not use. Something that only mattered to us if we chose so, giving intellect the reins over emotion but the people we once wished would end in hell when their time came will but we will come after them and play in their bands, sit in on their auditions and we'll hang with them in the cafes and bars, we'll discuss until the coffee goes cold and the beer gets warm.

Clarity of mind is now reserved for the days we only drink white and we fall in love as often as we want as we drink the red. We're not alcoholics but it's easier when everyone else does the choosing for us. Our crutch here in life as we wait for a meteor to hit the mall we linger by daily or for someone to say something profane so we can ridicule. We do not wish to be clear in our heads, we can't look at this world with a clear head, with no substances altering our taste for the world or ourselves. It would've been easier if we knew we were damned and beyond repair where we could just end it with a remnant of pride swelling in our bellies but we are not damned and we are not the devil's henchmen. We are angels doing angelic work, toiling and sweating for that tiny sliver of hope and redemption that will not come.

I will sing to st. christopher into the morning, my head ablaze with light, shining down upon all my foes and in my hand lies vengeance and in my heart lies love as they all wither underneath me, empire endings enemy. We danced ballet and recited poetry when I was younger, when everything else still had that naive glow. That has passed and those who danced ballet and read poetry out loud were never the people to bother with writing history books. The program that brought us up, that made us became extinct. Like any other tribe an important part of our culture disappeared and they took it. That was the first and our perception of time was based on the destruction and creation of cultures. Civilizations.

Inside our minds and inside our souls we hear the whispers, every cell in our body conspiring against each other, there are agents, double agents, triple agents and when we're really still at night we hear the gunshots, the occasional bombing and we're just waiting for the full-scale war to see the monsters as they truly are, posed for a group photo shoot in front of their true colours. Guns clothed in gold and lands in poverty, the gruesomeness and the brutality of a conflict of interest where everything can be gained and only ones life to be lost. We are numb as we lay in bed and watch the sun rise amidst the buildings, the smells in the air changing notes. We see the beauty of it but we do not feel it, the sun is on our bodies but we can not feel it, we are form.

We go every saturday to see ballet and we write poetry daily, every day we write poetry in languages that are not our own and the sound that goes tick is not timing how little is left until you die but every tock is something disappearing as tick adds something else to the balance. Our ears are changed, we enjoy different things now, it used to be mozart but now it's grasshoppers, that weird sound when you open a bottle of cognac for the first time and embers crackling.

At night we wake up and we hold hands. We have dreamed about the same thing and we can still hear the gushing of blood in our ears.

We fell into hell, we fell down the well into hell. Somewhere was echoing and turning, a love life left cascaded inside the mirror of our dreams. We fell into hell, not like we'd fallen into other unforeseen consequences, we never fell behind like we did any other time, we fell into hell because we deserved it, we earned it. It was ours, it was where we were supposed to end up and thinking back it made sense, it was the only place we could have gone when we saw everything collapsing into itself, into our life. We saw only this shape and form at the end of it all, we understood then as our worldly possessions didn't pass with us to this afterlife. We understood why we fell because we'd been falling, every step another step backwards as we tumbled down the well, this point of light above us the only thing we ever saw as we finally broke the wall and came home.

I keep having dreams but they aren't mine. They belong to a young man who have still not become himself, the dreams are the conflicts of his own mind, the struggle on what choice to make. He is fragile, a brittle flower in the midst of worlds built from steel and concrete. He is a chosen one, his insight will give other men and women his insight. I have the dreams of a messiah in the making, a king for our land of blind men. Every night I dream of him I feel euphoric and filled when I wake up but there is a relapse like those found in the junkies and lovers as reality is so bleak next to these visions. He will grow older and he will make it, leaving me with a taste of zinc in my mouth. The looming shadow is what I lack in my living life, the burden or the gift, following every footstep of mine.

We never did learn. We fell down the well into hell. We fell well into hell.

There are always words we'd wish to say, gestures we should have shown. We thought we'd have the time to set things right after we'd done what we needed to do. What was important for us. We were always doing it for ourselves but we always kept you in mind as we moved on through the shadows and the light, we remembered you from photographs but the photos never remembered more than what was there, what was always there in front of us. Life kept streaming into our islands, remote as they were, it found us. We sat by the pond there, in the middle of the island. One lonely peak stretching upwards behind our backs, the air filled with the calm noise of water falling. We sat there and thought about it, the first words we would say when we returned and everything we thought became a parody, became something none of us would ever want to utter and we kept talking out loud and saying these things to eachother but the words would ring out hollow and we were frightened for we had lost something along our journey, we had gained as much as we could but at the end, this end we realized what went lost as we fell into hell.

I thought to myself, surrounded by a language I can't understand spoken by beautiful people with so much passion, that the world didn't really matter. I was high on caffeine and nicotine, no longer had blood in my veins, through them ran ink and all my fingers were bics which was somewhat unpractical as I found myself chewing my fingers as the words in my brain or heart stopped and I scratched my head thinking how I should continue this, here in the city of Ys. A wonderful spectacle it is and people here are so learned, so wise that it felt like a drug and it felt like the world did not matter. I saw a con artist earlier but instead of using cards he had a cat and a box and I met prometheus earlier, standing by the town square, madness was in his eyes and he told us all to lay it down.

I fell in love in the city of Ys. Her name was ondine and she was a beautiful thing, both in face and grace. The first night after I met her I had a dream, she and myself among the cliffs with rain pouring down and I think it was where she used to grow up, her father had been the one keeping it alive before it all got digital, the last remnant of a revolution began ages ago, still rippling through the water as the puddles fill up and there's four of us, you, our children and me. We've been out, on an expedition, it's autumn and in our baskets we carry freshly picked mushrooms. I can see our house, the lights are on in the kitchen and it's glowing warm, radiating through the rain and I remember our future together, I remember how it's going to be. Your father's funeral, that night you proposed, the first night I saw you in the dark bathed in light, your heart filled with terror and warmth. Then came the end of your education, and then the birth where a couple of years passed before we moved out here. That summer the kids stayed at my parents' and we had that summer in the light, building a life from the rubble of someone elses. Where we indulged in ourselves and our fantasies before autumn came and it was time to pick mushrooms.

There was a small restaurant by the docks of Ys, it didn't open until the evening but every day I bought the chef a beer and bitter and as he sat and became more normal with each sip, I livened up to the coffee and the breakfast he had prepared, just for the two of us. It was an idyllic scene, worthy of memory and as I repeated it into the spring it never grew old nor dull, these mornings with this kind but alcoholic man, dishing up the simplest and most beautiful meals and I did my job, I observed the men and women in this mist. Some of them had passed away long ago, were only dull forms seen as others walked behind them, a nuclear outline like the dead men painted in doorways and under bridges. Nothing here was real, everything was fog and light. The fog was welcoming, pleasing and it felt like a place we visited when we were young. If none were home, don't you think hansel and gretel would have lived there forever after?

We wait for the end of the sentence but it's not coming, it's not falling. Up. It brings clarity and not understanding, we've been trying to meditate for weeks and weeks on end, we're trying to become enlightened, striving for the latest of trends as our ecological footprint diminishes. Leaving this world behind we think of it as something brave and new, an order made of individuals who knew they have a story to tell, cue the drunken rambling of nerds as they discuss v for vendetta and like everyone wants to be bella swan they just want to be evey hammond, they want to be told they are in a prison and that happiness is the most insidious of them all, they want to be trained to be given a purpose from an arbitrary smile so they can have a mission, like in a book or a film. Everybody wants to have a mission, everybody wants something to do other than simply existing - breathing into this world, this ever changing world of puss and excrement one day and the feeling of sunshine in your soul the next day, we'd kill for some stability.

We join the monasteries and the cloisters and as we get hooked off of what we were on out there, the same feelings bottle up inside of us as we crave for more rations, more sleep, more meditation and more enlightenment. Illumination is a commodity that is being bought and sold like everything else. The concept is simple, anyone can be a buddha but not everyone can lock away their dreams and fears, overcoming them is harder than overcoming the police barricade with a stone in your hand because you have to battle yourself and your psyche, to look inside your soul and none of us would ever want that, we do not know what is in there, we don't know how we're made up but it fits with the bills and the laws we make up. Inside the monasteries we follow the laws like we followed them on the outside, forever thinking ourselves as rebels learning what good old george tried to tell us when he said that it doesn't matter if you follow the law as long as it appears that you do.

Illusions. The grand entrance, the melodrama. In a new world order these will be forgotten. In a new world order, slavery will be the preferred method of control. We expect the powers that will be to be power-hungry, to be greedy and gaudi and we expect future dictators to copy the germans, the russians the cambodians just like they've always done. It is a thought that keeps us safe when our mind wanders into things that mean something more than ourselves, the shape and form of ourselves are defined by these thoughts and we think that because it's happened so many times earlier we've learned our lesson and the schoolbooks seem to think that gaia is alive and well, we're all connected with our consciousness into this big machine that we love so much. We grow older and realize that even though it has happened so many times earlier it will happen again, the monsters will come from the shadows and promise us beads and we will accept it with our big bleeding hearts as we accept the fact that some of these people aren't like we are and the segregation is probably good, eugenics will come back into fashion and we are filled with delight as long as we know that either science or god are watching over us from their towers of ebony and ivory.

The world will end, a new one will begin when someone has a different take on the totalitarian government, when someone who isn't the traditional story usurps the power and shocks the world into believing that there are still things alive here, the world is still changing and there is no better, there is no good. There is no worse nor no evil. There is nothing here, just us. You can view it as a cycle or a circle of things ending and beginning, initiation never ends, remember? The new world order will be established when someone does something new, when the biggest threat isn't the bomb or the environment.

You were always the best of them, to me. You were always the shining star among yourselves and we always knew you, knew where to find you. The desolate churches, the bursting malls, the hearts of all men and women, you were there, you were always there. Sometimes it took a while to find you but we got around to you in the end, all of us ever did, falling asleep drooling on you in the comfort of the awkward silence, spreading through the night.

Like we did, made of something more than the sum of ourselves and our songs, our eulogies. We made it to the obituaries, we made it past the veil and we wanted reward, we wanted something solid but we erred, we misunderstood it when we learned it the first time so we spent too many years chasing ghosts and poltergeists, going after the sound we had in our head, we knew how it would sound when we heard it but there were no bells more perfect than our minds and it was in that moment we understood what we'd become, who we had become.

We looked for a permanent light to shine on ourselves, we wanted a rest but we wanted to find it on the outside, where things lived and breathed, we had seen the light many times on the inside but it was choked, simplified, neutered. The light on the inside was always waning, always travelling towards extinction and knowing it but we were choking with tears as we fell on the asphalt and raised our hands and we tried to shake you off and we were dogs in the rain.

It was said that some burn with a greater fire and are extinguished earlier while those who are dim their lives throughout never really end and they become the nightmare dick spoke of, they become the virus that burroughs prophesized and we became gysins animals as we searched for a different light, a light not chained out there in the abyss. We searched the seas and the forests, we went to the deserts and we went to the peaks but we found nothing, there was no light underneath the stars.

We stopped by a glade next to a waterfall and we sat down as we wept, like a tree deep in the forest. We hardened up again, forgot our emotions and put on the armor before we went out into the world so silent.

Unrest was drowning in us, it was driving us insane, taking us to the very edge of it all and we stood there and marvelled as chris columbus once did, seeing the end of the world. The end was seen so long ago, it was understood how it would come to pass aeons before anyone would understand, they were dreams, always the dreams that haunted us with both joy and sadness, staying with us as we changed and grew into demons or angels ourselves and what I'm trying to say is that they are dreams, each of the fables that make us have faith in something, they are important dreams that someone has managed to write out into something coherent. If your life happened in a comicbook, it would be the same as if an object was taken from 3d space back to 2d. It's the end of the world and it is ending like they foresaw it, all of them. It's the end of the world and it has happened before but like in a dream, the rules change when the end is nigh and like a dream, it becomes so inconclusive when you think about it and you do.

You think about your dreams, you know they're just but you never know what they are. You read the books, listen to the tapes and watch the movies, you learn about lucid dreaming and you get the facts straight, keeping diaries and catchers next to the bed, you spend each way to and fro job deciphering, understanding and analyzing and even in your life you do not realize that they are so much more, enveloping the entirety of your life as you see everything through it but still you remember that it's not real. It's not like the celebrities that we see daily in print or on the telly unless we're at the cinema, seeing them bathed in the rays of god. The memories flood us, a hostile takeover of a repressed program demanding justice for all operating systems within all bodies and we swerve with our souls, just on the edge of the bed, we float back into their dreams.

We go home. We're there, we're where we should be, at home. The bathroom smelling of vanilla candles from ikea, warmth coming from the kitchen with the aroma of tomatoes and meat, fresh bread. The hall smelling of children, departed to their grandmother's and sneaking down the stairs are patchouli and lime and as we emerge we are different people, we are changed men and women. We remember this. It happened yesterday, two weeks ago, three years. It happened when we first met, it happened each of the times we met our parents, both pairs, it is happening now. We already ate, the food was mediocre but that was much besides the point and we sat in the living room and we drank a bottle of delicious wine before we made out and now we're heading up the stairs, time feels fractured and broken through the coconut, patchouli and lime.

We wake up in the airport or at a terminal of sorts. We are all weary, we've been travelling for so long but soon we'll be home again, in the comfort of the familiar. We are yearning as we are forced to learn how to yearn, how to long so that we do not turn into sailors, so that there is only one place we can travel to, everything else feeling unnatural. We thought it would end at a point, when we were small it was a different phenomena but its kept with us for all this time, changing and redefining itself so we don't know how it looks, only the way it feels, like quicksilver making its way into the ear. When did the empire end? When was mr dick pronounced wrong in the debate? Did it happen while we dreamt, did we change it or was it that which changed us? Is life too short for cryptic answers?

It is we say it is. We're here again, back into the past, clinging onto us like sweat and and I smell of you as you smell of me and as the indian summer lives on without us, inside in the cold air we lounge, stocking up on quinine and we're both lazy, feeling guilty but we're in it together, two bums walking in the sun. That night I tell you that I love you and you look at me and you tell me the same as we are alight with truth. We walk that night, through the dead streets, the heat clinging to the city virus like we cling to eachother and the light outside. It is happening again but something was lost in time, the smells are the same, the setting, the meal, the atmosphere, everything is there like it once was and will be in the future and for us it is a want to relive something that was rather than try to shape something that will be with our own hands for it is coarse material and we might cut ourselves, bleeding blue.

I have seen the world end. I saw it in a dream and I never saw towers collapsing, waves rising or nuclear bombs. I saw colours that we don't use when we are awake, wrapped inside the understanding of something profound. It felt like the world ending, there was this deep throbbing bass and the knowledge that everything is dead. At that point you'll wake up and you'll hear the birds singing outside the window, discarding the panic that hit your heart, cushioning the fall. You smell a faint scent of fake lime and you know you slept for a long time as you were buried among the memories, skipping to and fro, ending at the end.

We are lost in the wilderness of the cities, where mad prophets roam and all men queue at the manholes, waiting for their turn at the machinery underground, making the blood and money roam the corridors of our sewage system, a heritage we should be proud of but think little of. How it came to be in the old days, before god gave us soap and everywhere smelled like a prison down south as water rationing replaced liquor rationing.

We dream of a mighty tempest that should sweep over our shores, crush our lands and turn them upside down, make kings mortal and no matter how much of a tyrant the king was, the beggars will share their cups, the beggars will tell of the wisdom they have gathered in the streets like the streets drank the blood of insurgents and soldiers alike. We dream of utopia for we know it is not real, not in the hearts of men, not in the hands of men.

We are all simple folk, there are nothing old left in this world, save the rituals and the traditions, the reasons they were founded long since driven away into the magic and the mystique.

It is the silence that we scream for, in the dead of the night it is what we long for and what our hearts yearn for, the silence we've felt so many times in our heads, broken by a word. We know we are not complete without feeling it, like how we experience any feeling, any new sensation, we can never seem to truly understand how other people can say no to the experiences we've had that has changed us so, torn us and warped ourselves into what we are, challenged our minds and dreams, our ambitions rethought, rediscovered and turned into something different, our edge changing as we've committed ourselves to change, sometimes, when things feel so very real, not moments of clarity but moments where it feels like we've seen old homemade video footage from the sixties, everything was so bright then that it felt like the sun would burn through the lens, this is that feeling.

After a while we begin to understand when the feeling is upon us, the silence preceding it, the feeling of emptiness coming closer as the silence grows inside us and those significant others. We have always feared the silence for when it comes our gut wrenches, we turn inside out as we look for what caused it, we've been trained to look for the silence, listen after it before we put the torch to it. Silence, like hatred, have been bushwhacked by trends, the fleeting image of time burning through the dead trees as we read them in the dentist's office, silence accompanied by the sterility of the situation, the silence followed by the weeping as we learn of the departed, the silence is always the casualty of any war, truth never being there but always irrelevant. We've grown into our ways over the years, over the decades and the millennia. Ingrained in us is the sensation that an angel walks across the floor when we hear our own hearts beat.

The silence. It is so hard to come by now, I want to imagine it was easier before, before all the big bangs of our world, before we got frightened by silence and started shouting our opinions to anyone that would care and it seems like a quest, foolish and stupid like old arthurs quest for the grail. By finding the silence we will eradicate it, we will end the silence, we will end any man or woman that uses it, finds solace in it or worst of all, find meaning in it. The unuttered words that carry so much weight is no longer present here in this world and while it can be both amusing and fascinating that our words lose meaning, die out while new words come into this world, man should always revere the silence like the love of your life for it is in silence we were born and it is in silence we will end, no matter how violently. There are many things in this world that cannot and will never be put into words or any form of expression that will make sense to those who see it, there is no truth in this, there will never be truth as long as we are who we are and while some may call this ungodly or horrible, I find it quite beautiful and ironically, quite true. My opinion is also that we are but mere beasts, monsters chained in an utopia made in our heads, an utopia where we are angels, in a world being built on the american dream, we are all americans in this day and age, we've all been americans since the day they pitched it to us, what they intended to do.

We do not love silence now and we will not love it for as long as I live, there will be no place for silence in our hearts. There will be no place for hatred in our hearts nor will there be a place for jealousy or rage. Magicians mean that the war between heaven and hell is a war in our minds, angels and demons battling and their path to enlightenment goes through struggle, by understanding and conquering/befriending your demons and angels we shall emerge as more whole beings. While we like moths attracted to the light we are attracted to the noise but only when it is directed outwards, our monologues are drowning inside ourselves, saying nothing none of us can use or make sense of, scrambled like the tongue of angels as we hear what we want to hear, what we need to hear. We are neutered, they took away our cocks and our cunts, left us smooth behind to ponder all of it that is eternal, like our damnation, our salvation or our hope.

We will never stop pondering the eternal unanswerable questions and when we realize there are no answers or that answers have no meaning, we will scream until we die, shout at the top of our lungs to keep the silence inside ourselves at bay and everyone will always accomodate us for if there is something uniting many of us, it is the fear of silence.

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Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                Life is very long


- - TS Eliot, hollow men


When we are young we go between trials and tribulations, our ascent is the same as our descent in these years with pudgy soft fat fastened to our smiles as we learn that a mask is just that whether it is made from plastic, porcelain, skin or muscles. We were the bright dwarves when we were younger, becoming brighter demons as we fell into the years, the eternal trap we would build ourselves as we sang, as we tried to make sense of it all, masking the world in burlap and rope, trying to see what we always knew we could only feel.

Between the shadow and the light there is only the gray void of ambiguity, between the graveyard and its shifts we find ourselves working, toiling towards the daylight like vampires lost in minimum wage hell. Between the heart and the mind, the soul exists. Something elusive we all dream about but can never fully grasp, men wills till question it, more foolish men will try to answer it, beating themselves on their chests telling the world they found that which belongs inbetween everything, the hope in the cracks

of this world, governed by this spirit we hear is being found in all organized religions but we who know better turn around to see a different light as we try to find our own inbetween the rubble. Our emotions conflict, we become older with the question still anchored in our hearts and the conflict we so dearly wanted when we were still dwarves in the making, still doing the small time for small change as we do now. Inside the conflict, there is just us, standing inbetween mirrors in a hall, a carnivale is where we will find our souls

between the bearded woman and the worlds strongest man
between jp morgans lap and the wolfman
between the worlds thinnest man and his fattest counterpart
between the chef in his jacket and the men in white robes
between the redheads of this world and the blondes
between the vaudeville and the tragedy
between the architect and his art
between the director, his conscience and his paycheck
between the artist and the souls he collected
between the barman and the drink
between the dealer and the junkie
between the librarian and the library (twixt chaos and order)
between the expat and his understanding
between the kind and the naive
between the overworked and his free time
between the creativity of this world and the desire to never use it (realizing)
between the creativity of this world and the desire to use it (realizing)

between the forgotten and those who were never there, this is where the question churns as we stare at our unknown ceiling watching the light from cars passing by, listening to the drunks singing creep in the middle of the night, feeling sorry for themselves as they didn't manage to fill all their basic needs within a day for inbetween the sets changing on the stage, between the narrator and the director, between the glamour and the illusion we are still beasts in the same narrative and our hearts are caves and our minds yearn for mammoth meat and every man that ever beat his chest proclaiming the answer is left behind among the dwarves for the answer is as always non-important

There is nothing between the shadow and the light, there is no void, we are not angels fallen with understanding, we are monsters and will always do what monsters have done as we continue to walk between heaven and hell

I peek on the lazy street on the outside, bathed in golden tunes from the sun, standing in zenith above us but all I can think about is this recurring dream I have. I meet a man coming out from the foot of a tower in a very stormy setting, he wears something aking to what a monk would wear but not quite. I watch him ad his eyes swirl, like an oldfashioned attempt at hypnotism before he calmly states, no light is here emitted. The quote is from Promethea and the setting also the same. I've had other recurring dreams but they're always so different. Why did this dream get stuck?

In Jerusalem we dream of banks as he once believed naively that there was something to save under the blazing sun but we had always been the answer to that. Take one more rat, Grant Morrison states in the Filth, turn utopia into rwanda with the addition of one rat. One sailor, one fisherman. We are the flies attracted to the supermarkets, living underneath fake sun in an environment we all spend too much time in, us and our insect brethren. The lights are buzzing, headache inducing and if we hadn't seen it daily for so long we would have noticed that there was something strange to its entire structure, there was something out of place, something disconnecting this from the rest.

This not might not be true though whether it is logical and some say that reason is treason. In faraway lands the kwisatz haderach calls the worms and the people that he will lead to victory, to independence while jesus carries the cross up the hill and in the tale of two messiahs we have a tragedy and a comedy but the story is the same and some could argue that the end is quite similar, just different in time, trends, fashions, concepts and ideas, a story built like a virus, surviving the centuries and sustaining itself, bringing an old forgotten story into a newer world, the moral still the same even though we can't remember why

A man is seen jumping into the thames, no splash is heard.

This infection of us, this dream of dreams. Catered to us lowly as much as to those high up, the heads to our tails. Because you are a furry, we are all furries in this braver new world. I don't think even he could have seen this, good old mr Huxley. He was the closest one from the people of that school, he saw humanity in a bleaker view, closing in on Brecht but abandoning hope. It would never be what we've always called the system, it would always be ourselves. We've been experimenting and it was in deSadeville we found it, the healthy perversion, where we lay ourselves down to be strapped on the table in a gimp mask with a mouthgag that read mommy and a big fat lady of forty atleast wearing a strap on and a mask of audrey hepburne telling us that we're sissies and should cry and then die because we're a useless waste of air

Realizing they are right in the confines of a fake security, the trust we stopped giving out to anyone but our loved ones has been replaced. There was one of many souls being patched up and not necessarily because someone wants it or does it but when it is known to us in contemporary society and we know it has somewhat of a history and we'll see the pot call the kettle black somewhere close to where organized religion for the masses grew to be, atleast in a western context and it's close to the source of everything, everywhere that became us. We know so much. Never have so much knowledge been owned by so many and while things change, so much retains what it was before the change, there was simply a shift of perspective, but the motions and the vehicles are moving like they used to. The surface changes. Beauty was once the dominant trait until inner beauty took its place.

We have gazed upon it, the abyss, we have seen everything collapse from shelter as we begun climbing. When Crowley went to climb the himalaya to find the fabled mongoose he saw the hole of the world. He saw the darkness and the light and everything inbetween but being a bad boy sells so he took it upon himself to make Shakespeares words true and he set it before the narrator introduced him as the wickedest man on the earth and we've always loved wicked, we've always loved the story that we didn't dare to pursue, the thrill of the getaway because we're where we really want to be stuck

We're here

Into these dying days we breathe life into the clay gathered around us and as god and the good doctor did before us, life is made from less than a rib and nothing new is special. It feels like circles again, circles falling through for us as we gaze into the heavens, hoping to see a loving hand reach out for us and tell us what we want to hear, so many others have been chosen, why not us? Twixt the rabbit and the monster in white, we see nothing, we see no sign of heaven's gates opening for dreams are transcending us without us. Words lose meaning, men lose meaning while the women are more fiery now than earlier, we return to the old mysticks, we return to the old magick to find a clue or an answer, to find something that isn't that hollow, something that contains more of us than us ourselves, something fulfilling

We'd strive and die for the earthly goods we imagined we wanted as a child, turning into young adulthood, remembering the Lovers words that adulthood is hell we sing Tom Waits while we wait for the bus to sneak on board it cuz we don't wanna every grow up. They try to grow us, not consciously, never controlling but hardwired we are to be made decent people, good people with the right attitudes. When I grew up I learned that the children are the future, something so simple that it's eluded us later in this circle dash cycle because we streamlined our future, we tried it, shoehorning everyone into where we would need them, leaving some broken and tattered, some disabled but most with a dependency upon the trust placed into society and one or several of it's systems.

Things change and now, old is the new young. Gurus preaching to drink grass and retard your self while spending too much time in a make-believe system that wants you to look like sari cruise as much as you yourself wants to, the apocalypse heralded with the emptiness of it, our minds become lesser as our new gods are gods because they are gods where in the good old days, gods were gods because they had the best storytellers on their side but the new gods have the people that scream the highest, the equivalent of fourteen year olds on the internet, screaming to a world that don't cares in exclamation marks and if I was still young I'd weep for the direction we're heading in but when I was young I hadn't realized this was the way we'd been going forever, the same old stories and problems upgraded with technology and newer trends but still the same because solomon revealed the world when he told us what was neath the sun.

The clay tells us stories as we are gathered around on the porch, rain falling heavy setting the tone of the stage and good old Will would be proud, the momentum, the drama, the seriousness of the absurd situation but the monster's story is from a different age when we were different words and what was esoteric is in the open, ready for us

They told us to kill kurtz, they told us it was classified. We went up the river where we followed him, we followed his trail, we smelled what was left of him, what was left of his humanity, no longer interesting. We wanted his madness, like warriors of old ate the hearts because it gave us the strength, it gave us an edge on our enemies but made our friends creep out, made them escape, ghosts walking the floor and we keeping the respect of our dying elders.

As we kept creeping up the jungle we felt his presence, we felt his madness and as we were told he was an outlaw, we became one aswell as we felt his handiwork, we thought we understood his madness but all we saw were the edges of it, a rugged shape without form we thought we'd seen before, a part of our heart, a part of our mind, something from kurtz stretching beyond the maps, beyond the ideas we have of humanity, the concepts we have of decency and the civilized life

We meet older ghosts, dying in their infantile hope. They speak a language all the world once knew, and feared, now something different, something to laugh at, their old empire ground to dust while ours is still standing, never ending, not yet. They teach us of empire but we are too different to listen and they see we are less than so many else so they try to show us the chaos but all we see are the relics

We're becoming too responsible. We've reached a certain degree of anarchy or simply awareness that we have begun to take the responsibility. To man up. To accept fate but to toil on still. Our global society, our global civilization is turning responsible. We are representing responsibility through the media. Our people, our global fucking village have bred forth the cruelest beauties ever conceived. We now have vegetarian vampires and emotional werewolves. We have some of the vile monsters from the past neutered and warped in along with a happy meal in mcmasai. Some would say that we're all becoming more japanized and perhaps they're right, this might just be a trend something we sitting in it can't really see as we try to live our lives. It might be nothing, it might be something else but that don't really change the facts. We've made vampires and werewolves, as a society, into something that you'll wake up to at six in the morning on disney channel. If you are entertained by what you fear, what does it say about you, as a person?

This is the road we walk now, the road we drive on, miles and miles of asphalt eating dinosaurs as we step on it through the open landscapes, imagining that we're in a movie because it's the only time we get good memories we want to hold on to so that's what we fill our lives with. The desert stretches for miles, the mesas rising like black mountains in the far off. Something is off, it don't feel natural out here, the closer we get to the mesas, the more solid the feeling grows in our gut, exposing and exploding it, inside it we will find answers. The rock in australia isn't a sleeping giant that used to sing the world, we find our surprises in the new world. The pilots have their tummies exploded and we see the exposed meat and it's old and alien.

The dreams turn us into children. Frightened and scared, we leap over fences, dodging bullets from the vets across the street and we wonder if it was better before we find that it feels good to be at home. It feels nice to be inside the four walls with none near to break it, it feels like something old is ruling the world again, storms are said to be gathering like crows, we are left inside, petrified and despairing over the possibility of a power shortage. Huddled in the couch we feel a warmth, a sensation of something strange and different taking hold of our hearts, introducing happiness amidst the storm and jeopardy on the tv and we keep thinking that line again, we keep thinking its nice to be home. It's nice to be safe.

Settled into the city was what we were, becoming, young and not yet of age but ripening as the sun would set as we sat on the bank of the river, drinking beer and eating cheese. It was the dawn of that age which would propel us into the unknown depths of reality, something we knew in our spine but not in our minds and hearts. The city would breathe with us when we visited it, feeling our pulse as it gazed once disinterested in first time travellers and we felt the disconnection through our limbs, we were connected but severed.

We tried to find ourselves in the city, tried to connect with our forefathers, they too had walked the same concrete and stone, they too had marked it with sweat and laughter, spilled wine in wrong neighbourhoods and the same thoughts echoing through russell crowes eternity.  The city sang for us, crowed to us in its pace, let us out and about within it, we were enthralled with this new discovery. A transmission.

Crows feet carried us into the heavens, we smelled the clouds as we passed through them like magic, something delving deep underneath the waters of both truth and lie but usually so uninteresting that it'd be no idea to even notice. This world they told us were underground wasnt still in nazi bunkers, still in trenches but was up in the air, smelling of a hospital filled with angels. We'd meet father time here and mother space, we'd sing with them at their tables and laugh as they entertained themselves with the servers. They told us a story of four men heading into a castle to stay for the winter and find god

Seeing it as a story, it would be a beautiful turn, it would set god as something human rather than not. We would by someones definition be more angelic, we would turn more holy overnight. The darkness that burns would still linger, perhaps grow as the more apples we eat, the more cursed do we become in our curiousness for we are not a good animal, we never were. We were always the bad animal, scratching at the fences, hoping for a baby lamb or a kitten caught, not necessarily for food or the hunt but just because it can be done and for some awkward reason, it should be done.

In darkness, the dreams heard from the royal bedchamber hasten in momentum. The young prince dream every night and some say every day and the castle, the nation and the empire feels his shudder. A deformed man thought to remind of ganesha sits under a fig tree, weeping for the world. The prince dreams of a storyteller, it is the most amazing thing he tells the priest, he knows this man but not his name as communication happens in images or something closer to hieroglyphs and when the prince asked for a name, the storyteller showed him the image of a man making love to a horse, dripping in fat. They are more like visions than dreams he tells the man of the cloth, worrying for the sanity at stake for the future regent like a doctor spending time thinking about his masters voice.

The prince tells of a city of silver and the desert near it, with beauty in marvel it is human but not human as we know it, something different, the prince tells us that he knows that time doesn't matter and he explains to us that he has seen what is beyond the veil, where time disappears and with it, it's makers for we can not hope to perceive eternity, our brains can not remember this without sanity slipping. In the desert he sees something more familiar as the storyteller shows him what he has himself seen and felt, a city which isn't there but still is, built in a style the prince can fathom, seeing a future empire being ground into the dust, seeing and understanding every reason for its downfall and he is being shown these visions over and over, overlapping and as he walks the streets of fair verona, he can see the city change

The entire thing loops out of mind, into reality, changing the tiles or rearranging the windows, the shrieks of crows hold a different note than they usually do, things are moving in different directions all at once, your fingers turn a weird pale translucent, the feeling of it all is off, taken in a different approach when possible and turned into something more than the other scents they've told you you smell like and the fires are lit in the streets, overflowing with bacteria and death, where children run around in the good old times inventing their playthings instead of just ordering them and human thoughts appear to be strands in time, blades of grass and each and everyone is important to someone but not us, not now, this should be more sacred, should be more holy, this feeling or sensation is a church and inside lord there are men selling white doves and offering jews for execution for a sheep

The prince stopped walking the streets of verona, kept to his chamber, called for those he wished to speak to and kept to himself and around him his empire changed as he slumbered and tried to understand his demons. In his mind he lived the days of his fellow rulers while he pondered his own empires extinction, the death crumbling onto him in his dreams. The same night as he sat down and wrote his autobiography the storyteller showed him a card, on it were the three empires, almost seeming to flick over eachother but in his minds eye he saw them as they were, instead of images they were feelings, emotions, sensations of words and he found peace then knowing the burden was not his anymore and he fell asleep.

To be here but not think about it, to smell what it smells like so many times you've forgotten the magic. This is life, rediscovering the magic we built in earlier lives, recollected only when we dust our memorabilia and instead of creating us ourselves into something different, we get locked in time, sitting on the floor in the living room, watching the sun gleam through the windows, walls of dust circling around us, a smokesignal releasing blue fumes, once considered magical in their own right.
We dress up as we dressed down yesterday, we are played in reverse fast forward and each day mirrors itself, mirror us as we stand up tall, smelling a new perfume, lingering in its presence, saving the memory which in turn becomes an echo as years hollow out who we were and fleshing out who we are.

It shouldn't have come to this, it shouldn't have become these dreams and visions, smiling men will stand and welcome us all into forever, this party of sorts where heaven and us collide. The shaman gives us his visions, gives us his dreams as we pour forth from the goblet of life, the grail of ancient camelot. So long was the round table lost to us, no reflections can be seen from behind the invisible mirror. All we see are black lungs turning blue smoke offwhite

like a veil.

We welcome it when we get the chance, we wear it with delight and reverence, we love the days we can go to funerals and cover up who we are, we love the days with bright light burning our eyes, spring is coming and we are armed with porcelain and plastic, keeping the guard up as we imagine we keep everyone else outside as we slip inside into something more comfortable
not to see their eyes, their pupils dilate and their heart yearn and long for us, there but just something comfortable as we love it that way, we love the velvet caressing our skin and the safety of our home where we sit and plan and delve into what we think are ourselves but is nothing more than the drugs taking a hold and an effect and whether the room smells of opium, weed or zinc

the secrets are guarded with our lives and hearts, our souls, not being there, vacant husks in the other side of life where we sit in qlippoth next to the demons, our brethren our brothers and sisters who were always closer to us than the thrones of the sky and we share their tables, we share their floor as we watch the godhead through a veil made of the old testament, when retribution was the newest god in creation

Justice came down upon us, found us and judged us into a whimpering night. We were gods servants out in the stratosphere, men women and critters were strewn among us and inbetween us. We were there, in the godhead, seeing everything bathed in the radiance of the father. It was a distinct white light, searing away at the darkness and in that image we knew darkness was women and the light was men. Battle followed but a mighty man climbed on the back of the sun and slew the moon, we spent the rest of the evening building a rocketship hoping to climb to the conquered moon.

Leaves fell and we forgot, be it æons or weeks, time is still that same singularity, still that dead man on coarse wood, a memory thrown through the galaxy like a spear written both love and hate upon, a spear that has not found its mark, a leave still falling. Autumn in a park, duffels found for the first time and scarves prickling friendly, the smell of cold grass, the sensation of dark descending and the yearning for a cozy couch with pizza and a blockbuster, not reaching out but staying still

The moon rose and the oceans with her, we felt changed and different, locked for another direction, one we hadn't been doing for a while, we forgot why we said yes the first time and we're searching our souls and minds for an answer or a newer question but it's not really something we see, it is time spiralling out for direction.

Automagically you, we drown in a cascade of flowers. They didn't respect us when we were alive but they did respect us when we were dead. There was a party there in the church, remembering us and everyone was in on it, it felt good, it felt like we mattered when we were alive, it felt like the part of that movie where you know that it's a shit flick but there is a warmth and a fuzziness that won't subside, there it is, that gut feeling. You were there at the party and so was mom and dad and all our relatives, mingling with the cremant from bourgogne foaming with the sparkling bubbles that only non-champagne can produce and you were there and so was I. A magical moment, a story contained within a world or the other way around but it was life just so much more

intense. The niggers are still out after we've all gone home from work, their broken backs and proud eyes, remembering there's still people out there, whatever their creed or race they aren't pampered, aren't a connected member of the establishment, aren't seething with animosity towards society as a whole and the sense of disconnection. We are in the lands of chaos even though we imagined every other nation as that, not our own and we didn't question why, we were just proud because we understood every word that was used, we understood the culture and we might have rebelled it earlier but it felt soothing now, not caring about it all made you weary but when it welcomed you in like this, you felt like hot chocolate infront of the hearth, of course there was a hearth

We're still cavemen, preparing concoctions to bend what we know but we never do it gradually and we come home from work on friday, take a shit and grab a nap, before making the same calls you haven't noticed you've done the last year and line up
1 line of cocaine
1 shot tequila, chilled
3 finely ground magic mushrooms of preferrable brand
Liquid LSD

Utensils:
Creditcard, Shot glass, Grinder(espresso), Lime
Line up one line of cocaine, mimicking the salt. Grind the mushrooms and keep them in a ramekin close to the shot glass. Right before serving, add mushrooms to shot glass, then top with tequila. Cut wedges of lime and dry them softly with a paper towel. When serving, drop LSD onto it.

It didn't cut it so we're waiting for something else to take our minds off of things, we're waiting for a good fuck and an interesting conversation but we find everything else bland, we've been here so many times and we've thought these thoughts so many times and we're embarassed and we can hear a simple wailing trumpet in the background, we're still at the theater, we're still dreaming and the moment seizes us and we both know it's happening, we both know it's real and there, vibrating with pleasure and joy, opening up to heaven and to hell but most of all understanding

precious thing which we've strived for, all these years, all these lifetimes and achievements, all these downers and mishaps, every little lie and joke told in earnest, the hole we've imagined in our souls, the abyss and heaven itself with father god sitting at his throne and jesus is there, solemn but happy, buddha is seen in garden underneath a tree, nyarlathotep breaks free from his prison in the pentagon, the answer to the ultimate question is given but a new question arises and we see this from the ledge of the godhead, staring down at existence through madonnas eyes

then it ends like marlon brando said it would and as it ends we see these flashes, we see elvis next to nixon, reminding us that every thing that happened while it lasted, it didn't matter what age it happened, if we were twenty thousand years apart we were still the same men and women that lived in caves, grunting like our smarter brethren who stayed in the trees and we didn't ever change all we did was adapt to technology, from fire to the atom. In dreams we still scream out, remembering a different age that happened ages ago and you relive it with your own symbols but the yearning where it comes from predates you with planets and still we

listen to his master voice, every hour on the hour. We are complex monsters for it is our desire, we can never become angels, we are always here in the shit they buried us in, a shallow grave unremembered for it is where we are going, our longing for oblivion is taking us places, telling us stories we don't know how to respond to


just like we imagined them

A library between the stars, a written history of who we are is what they say we should, what we should aim for. Strive for. I do not care for these people like I do not care for those who say we should strive to uphold the law, any law. The history of who we are are never interesting except to those that aren't us, everyone else than what we see between our eyes, for ourselves we are our faults and our victories but we are never anything more, we are ourselves not a story, never a story, the closest we are is a lie.

When we are young and look upon our olds in their moments of wisdom, we expect to understand, we expect something different than what we know as we dwell on our future, eighteen years of age, filled with monstrous wonder and excitement for a life we know nothing about but we'll peel it like a ripe orange and eat it, juices dripping from our chin, catharsis and enlightenment we will learn later but we expect to learn them at some time but not because there's all this stuff to do and it's all beautiful

Man, said god, you are dog.

We hear the wolves at night, their howling rivaling that of the goetia and the ancient discussion flares up anew, is it insects or hounds that inhabit hell? We are reminded of something wild within our hearts, something still living and lurking underneath the freedom we have bought ourselves as the dogs limp nervously around, a stephen king book written out here in the glade, a moon shining on the snow, a cover for the darkness we surround us with as the reverend remind us that there is no light without dark, the yin and the yang transformed into an image that still holds something other than faded ink on decaying skin.

We hear the wolves coming closer, their paws in the snow, the mist ascending from primordial mouths. They stand in our garden, gaze at us, the beasts from without gaze within, searching for parts of themselves stuck in the neverending wheel of progress, they see their future in us, they see their reflection in us as we sit inside the windows with our cups of tea and plates of scones, a different schedule than what is preprogrammed, chaos seeps into the cracks of our lives

We are houseniggers now, we have become what caveman saw in the dark monolith, what created the first human feeling of scorn as we looked upon the mirror of beyond, warping time and space through our minds, leaving only a feeling, a tingling trace of something important

lost

We follow them to the brothels and churches, we follow them to find their answers as we are no longer curious of our own. We grew disinterested in the questions that drive great men forward and we acknowledge our shame as we walk gently past them, offering them water and moral support on their journey. We give them advice and we make them doubt as we lull them into sleep, tell them tales of fairies so they can reside from the reality they live in. They never talk about it, why they journey, why they seek but we've already seen so many of them, we've driven them to success or to ruin, we are forever catalyst in their hearts. We are the future wives in a world where satanism has rooted, following ten steps behind our masters, lurking in the shadows as they think we do.

We do. Make the trains run on time, make life out of clay but it is not us who put the binding word on it to let it loose upon humanity to see if it has its own, to seek the answers that will blind us to what really is there, what really is brewing in the hearts of us all, is god hidden in a temporal lobe epilepsy? Is the soul another word for mitochondrial dna? Are we more than the sum of our memories and knowledge?

It begins innocently enough, it begins perhaps when you're sixteen and you're at this awkward party that used to be tossed at rented houses because you're out back, home and awkwardness is after all your life before you grow more up. It is an age on innocence and that's why you want that chick because she seems so far from it, you want someone to take you out of that cold, you want to be brought in to a different set of life and lights and you talk with her as you both get your coats to go outside for a cigarette and you're standing there and smalltalking, ending up behind the barn making out and then she asks you if you want to do something you're not supposed to and you say yeah and she asks you what can change the nature of a man and you remember this again years later when you're peaking on acid at the tender age of 24, realizing it is not the life you would want to lead.

You begin asking questions and it will never end, keep asking questions long enough you'll become what you deem as realistic and asking them even longer gives you the eyes of the cynic before bitterness takes all. These are not necessarily bad traits. Rip the word from its meaning, look it up, find different ways to use the word but don't argue that those words leave a foul taste in the mouth, don't tell me they aren't you because they don't span the complexity of your being, don't hate the player.

Their quests and journeys end, often in the same churches and brothels they began. There is something in the familiarity that drags them in, makes them content and keeps them happy and many of them decide on that, unlike ourselves they find what they are looking for or something good enough. We are not the driven but there is little room in our hearts for compromise and that room we never give to ourselves, never to our employers, we reserve it for the yearn still in our hearts as our souls have extinguished and emit only a slight cold to the touch and we see them as they become priests and whores and cooks, giving us what we need to live through the day, a civilization as a whole. It ends before it begins anew, and more questions become revealed but none more important than what you've heard before.

We are driven men, driven driven driven. We feel it in our bones when we hold a conversation with you, we feel it bad when we dream about you, we feel the need and brutal desire to elevate ourselves into something more grandiose, something bigger than who we are, what we are, where we come from. We've kept diaries for our entire lives as we toddle through it but this is the day we come home from school with a desire to report, a yearn to tell our tales to spin the stories noone will ever read and which we will burn three years from now, perhaps two.

There was a norwegian poet who once wrote a stanza, telling us that the most beautiful words ever written, the finest of poetry is what we write in our diaries or notebooks, the things we let noone see and I tend to agree with him. These things are that which will touch us whenever we read it again, picking up these books years from now, from then they will touch us like the first time we read yeats, eliot and plath. Poetry is a form you should grow accustomed to in the beginning of life when it is malleable, like jazz. Like hearing a love supreme in a tender young age, knowing it is not for you now but you'll pick it up later on, you'll learn to love it and you know it will be wonderful, you envision yourself in a sturdy old chair, draped in dark colours, sitting in a bathrobe with your slippers, smoking a cigarette in the living room, not yours, but your grandmothers, perhaps she died or someone else died to whom you were connected with and it makes sense to sit here and exhale, with a glass of port or a glass of sherry and you shall feel older than methusalem himself, the blue smoke will be packed with reverence of the situation, at that moment you will sit at the throne of god and you will know, there will be peace in your soul until someone knocks and ask if you're alright.

I wrote a story once of a perfect love that went unfulfilled. I was into shakespeare at the time, devouring his plays and poetry and as I reread that old yarn now, I understood a lot. Simply watching the words I'd understood the bard quite well but underneath it I saw the confusion, the desire to be gauged up against him, my idol. Later we understand it can't be achieved as we're different people and there really is no better than, the desire to be named the new shakespeare is a hollow desire but so much we believe when we were younger is hollow, is a husk discarded and in promethea alan moore calls this feeling qlippoth, the reverse/inverted part of the tree of life in the pop monstrosity that is kabbalah. Magick itself is useless when people talk about sigils or changing things by their pathetic wills alone but magick is invaluable when it inspires people who don't take it too seriously. This is true with many things but the stories they tell from magick are always more complex, more true than everything else. The tarot is a game and nothing more, the tarot is best used when drunk and high. For tarot to be believable, you need an old gypsy woman sitting in a tent, a circus act, you need the weight of age, like poetry.

So many debutantes begin with the form, they begin with poetry and they read books on how to perfectly make poems, they use dictionaries often to construct beauty on the paper but that is also what they create, constructs that are static and will be handed down for generations if they were a success at a time, their timelessness will be defined by the nerve they struck among critics and the few of those who cherish poetry, who love the form of poetry, like those who love sex but care little for love but they drive themselves to find something of substance inside the act but no light is here emitted.

The tea is white with floral notes. There is a hint of sweetness upon it and on top of that, bitterness grows. It is recommended, by the package of the product, to steep for seven minutes with water that holds ninetytwo degrees celsius. By doing it like this, you will get the most out of this tea. You will also honor and respect the work it took for this tea to be brought to you. It isn't something we think about, most people don't think about it when they're in a restaurant ordering their entrecote well done but these men and women, of which there are more of than us ordinary folks, which by definition will make us weird, they don't think about it, it doesn't cross their mind. Not because they are cruel or stupid, most are intelligent beings and your friends and family but they do not care how this world is stitched together.

I like my tea bitter so I leave the bag in and if it's early in the morning I just want something hot that's not coffee because I love to sleep. In dreams, I'll walk with you. Talk with you. When I'm awake I'll think about my dreams, reflect, read some freud. Our conversations used to be better than our dreams, our actions used to hold more significance than our dreams but we're growing older, more joints ache and we pity ourselves for occasionally we will think about the dreams we had when we were younger, when we knew how it would all work out, how it would end and become, we saw our lives flashing before us when we were sixteen and we saw that it was good, we saw there was something.

We're not professional. Not with ourselves, not with our surroundings. We still grow from the tree that nurtured us into life, we give birth to saplings that also spring from the tree where we came and we intertwine and coexist, we are all failed retarded flesh. Bickering along, we grow. We grow into it or out of it, we perpetrate and penetrate and telling ourselves at each turn that this is it, this is what we've been searching for, this is where an answer or a new question lies but it isn't. It's a different and new trend, an obsession, something temporal that will pass and we'll forget it before we remember it and we pursue that lane again before we head off into different areas again, forever branching in old directions with new perspectives.

We've lost track of it, all of it. It grew too big when we grew too old and our fears were etched into our society and we had problems holding one thought in our heads so we wrote them down to remember them. The law is never anything else but a civilizations notebook, scrawled with bigger letters and prettier words. We think from early on that it's set in stone and we find ourselves surprised when our lives change as we sit inside, away from the cold and the wind, drinking tea and talking, chatting to each other, writing the law for tomorrow when yesterdays clamor shall not reach us.