Wonderland: To be. I am., Judge, I guess, as Hidey's gone...~Janos

Imagine being wet; very very wet.

Yeah, Third is Foul.

Soothsayer, Heed Not This Warning!

It was the happiest of times, much like that of the errant ways of the Third. Yes, today was the Third's day, though it might have been the last as well. People were screaming, shouting, cheering--they were happy, happy to see their king. Of course, the Third was not a king, no, he was something more, something less, and everything else in between.

Rather attractive, really.

They praised him, cheered him on, loved him. The master, the servant, the slave, the puppet. Ever-increasing drizzles of saliva rained down on him from the heavens, yes, from the heavens! He, yes, Him! He was here, coming here, coming today! Today, yes, Today of all days! He would come!

When he came, his face was white, painted like the dead. So malicious, so melodramatic... so carnal.

The City of the Third, yes, that wonderful City, it was gone, its yellow-stained walls sunk beneath seas of crimson.

Elevator, an Ode

"August Fifth, Nineteen-Eighty-Seven. Hello, Otis. How are you? I missed you; in fact, I miss a lot of things. You see, I'm desperately lonely here, here in this City. It's not like where we lived together. People here... they don't like me. They ignore me, and, well--don't tell mother about this--they spit on me. Of course, when I'm lonely, I just think of you, you and your shaft."

"Every time someone yells at me 'hey! You! work faster!' I remember getting inside you, feeling the warmth of your insides. Oh yes, those reassuring groans you made as you lifted, yes, those were the best. I miss you so much; I am so lonely. Mother says some day we might come back to visit you, Otis. I'd like that. Would you?"

Driven to Inept Means and Just Ends

There is a city, an ancient city. It is like a lot of ancient cities, I suppose, all ruined and such. There are a lot of corpses there, or they were corpses, but they are no longer corpses. Instead they are uncorpses, or skeletons. Long dead, not alive. They were annihilated long ago, yes, long ago by their god.

Their god will die.

He comes; Death, Death, Death! Yes, his face, his white face, the face of a thousand corpses, the body of the Earth. The Soul of Nothing. He comes to destroy, to annihilate, to obliterate. Gods, yes, all of them... will all be destroyed. Goddesses too, yes, even goddesses. All shall fear the wrath of Death.

They should never have existed.

Unjust existences cannot be allowed to live any longer than they must.

There was a rat in the cell. He twittered as I looked up at him; to see or not to see (depending on the humidity or fog in the air) his whiskery visage. Whiskers are said to be a mark of age, yet this rat is young! Perhaps rodentine wisdom is governed in other ways, yes, that must be the case. It must, for if not all rats would know the secret of life, and thus, would never die.

Immortality

It is inevitable that I will live.

There is nothing to live for; they are all dead, piles of bones blowing in the wind like tumbleweed. The femurs stretch like prehensile thumbs at the receding horizon, trying to grasp the unreachable sky. Death is a disease from which I found the cure, but viruses, like all things, relish a challenge.

Death is a disease, but the vaccination is worse then the cure; how can I maintain when nothing else endures? The irony strikes me even now as I sit here in agony; there is nothing left to kill me now.

All dead...all gone...

It is inevitable that I will live.

It seems that God has a cruel streak after all.

Evolution Inaction

"Well welcome, ladies and gents, to the greatest show since yesterday!"
"Consciouses for sale! Used morals, open-box ethics, everything must go!"
"Peanut butter and plastic! GIT yore toenail clippings HERE!"
"Sanity is priceless; we only accept credit cards."

------------------------------------

The noises of the mall flooded his brain as he peered around the surrounds waiting for the show to begin. It was a spectacular spectacle, glorious in its depravity; the pinnacle of human achievement. They call this civilization but it's nothing more than a duct-taped moral code. If you listened closely, you could even heard it squawk.

Listlessly, the performance began; the blood squirted slowly, the pudding failed to jiggle in its cup of gold. Even human sacrifice can't entertain the most determined of critics. Though the massage parlor received some complaints from various 'save the planet' groups fighting for 'human rights' (like they had such a thing), the show went on (and on and on and on would the bleeding never stop?)

------------------------------------

"A thousand thousand slimy things, present your tickets PLEASE!"
"The show is starting, come one, come all; watch this man as he falls."
"Depression is as depression does, though in this case, depression was."
"Everyone came to see what was the matter, but all they found was technicolor splatter."

~Beat poetry by the late Autumnus Rex, performed on his downward descent.

"Once this world was known. It prospered up into a spectacle of flowing fruit and growing wine. All came to share in the glorious hoarding of every little piece. But that could not last. No, no, of course it coudln't. If one tries to keep things to themselves, they only end up sharing. And when they share and share, then nothing is left. Only everything can not be given away."


"Indeed, the world is a fine place to be. This world, not so much however. Just take a good look around. It looks wonderful doesn't it? The heaps of broken glass and dust. Why yes, they do sparkle most magnificently. Oh, indeed such an item would be worth a fortune. That is, if there was no one around to spend it, of course."

The clown has broken free

"Why is it that you think of things the way you do? Honestly, if you looked at the world here in terms of being everything and nothing, then it would crumble away. Just like the Magpies, you know everything. You are such a child in your thinking. Why do you ask of me things?! I HAVE EVERYTHING! And by having such I can give you nothing. Yet you consistantly ask of me. Why?"

"Dear, oh dear, oh dear is me. Once again, gone killing spree.
What to do, and woe is me, once again, we're here to see.
Please, oh please, give to me, once again give, giving tree.
In the peaks of snow is me, and once again I cease to be."

The clown has riden on the sea

"Perhaps you think that you are here to be slaughtered. Well I tell you that you shall be disappointed. No, we will merely entertain your thoughts. Of course, the payment shall be those thoughts, you know. They are most enjoyable with buttered biscuits. And pudding as well. You cannot forget such a dish. Now if only it didn't grow on trees it would be much easier to get, ho, ho, ho."

"Now please won't you saddle up your child. It's about time for them to go. Aye, noon is the perfect time to send them off to rest for eternity. There is no death for them here in this world. The broken and fragmented cliffs are there for them. There they can have nightmares of the glories of their endless lives and feast upon steak and champagne."


"Soon it shall be bedtime for you. The sun has risen and has already cracked. The remains lay scattered upon the boiling ground, and the scent rising has given it's signal. The multi-colored lights that shoot far and wide have declared that it is almost time. So please take your time."

The clown has stolen Master's key

"The lock is broken so you will have to use the door. The window has been turned inside out, and so your image can be viewed through your eyes. Your insides look mighty fine don't they? Why, I do believe your heart looks amazing there on your shoulder. Oh! Wait, it's slipping. There you are my enemy. You wish to lose it, but you know you can. All is too bad here."

"Words can only speak themselves so loud, childish one. So why is it that you reach for the broken sun, if only to increase the volume of the light? Your family knows best that they can never achieve what you cannot either, so why is it you try? You flail, you stomp, you drool. Yet never do your accomplishments cease. It is about time for you to not give up and to simply finish what you never started."

The clown has fallen into envy

"And so I wish you worst of all. Once again it's on the ball.
The best has happened as worlds fall. Once again the silent call.
Wishes, wishes, of Pete and Paul. Once again it's Angel's maul.
Here the mouse stands proud and tall. Once again time will stall."

The kiwi waddles as he walks, apocryphally spelling out "Y-O-U-R-D-O-O-M". Such vocabulary from the confused flying produce astounded; surely it did not know it foretold its own demise. Sometimes the future is better left unscribbled.

The Y was sloppy, but perfectly visible to the trained eye; the letters' coherence only increased from there. A strict regimen of squints and cross-overs were needed to make sense of the image; my retina tires of jumping jacks.

For whatever reason, market forces had failed to take advantage of the wonderful flying produce. Properly exploited, it could lead to flying markets across the world, free air-fare for cashiers. Kiwi as fuel; cutting down on emissions.

I will sign the Kiwi-yoto accord to improve our world.

Rodentine Wisdom

The rat sees me, lifting its head and gazing at mine with its black, beady eyes. Never had I promised to sell it my soul, yet it seemed the purchase was made. I belonged to the whiskered beast forevermore; my life, my soul, my thoughts, my self belonged to it. I was nothing but a dream. I thought that I existed, but what did that prove? I had no mark of wisdom. No whiskers, no bygone tools of eggs unmade. "I whisk therefore I am," thinks the rat in its infinite glory. I cannot answer for there is no I with which to hear yet I hear it and I think I am here I think I think I am or I might be or there is no me to think or I-I am confused and I...am not.

Anatomy of the Modern Mind

There are times when I wonder if everyone is against me. I wonder if this is some sort of delusional paranoia...it might be. But I can't stop wondering, because I don't know if they are. If I stop worrying, if I let my guard down, they might all BE out to get me...I wouldn't like that. That wouldn't be good at all.

Sometimes I think I worry too much. I worry about worrying, and I worry about worrying about worrying. This troubles me. I worry about it too. I worry that if I stop worrying, all my worries will come true (But if I stop worrying, how will I have any worries to come true? This is very worrying. Very worrying indeed.) I am perplexed by this. It is as if my mind wants me to keep worrying.

Oh shit, should I worry about this too?

The Patron Saint Of Self-Injury

We watch in rapt wonderment as she walks on the stage, prepared for another death-defying performance. She is said to guide our spirits but she is not fit to guide our blood for if our blood were to mingle with hers we would have none left.

She is the pinnacle of virtue, free of sin and whimsy; she is clean of all things in and out. She is what we aspire to be but fail. She is what we reach for that exceeds our graspbutWAIT! She commands our attention! We stare raptly as the razor is drawn, seeking communion in blade, not brawn.

And then it is done. Blood falls as we fall to our knees and she drops to the ground, praying until every drop is gone. Strawberry gashes mar her once-perfect pale skin. She is an artist seeking perfection in things in which it is not found; herself. She is canvas and creator, medium and mediator of her contact with God; for her Art is nothing but a different form of prayer.

I hope she finds a portion of the solace she gives to us all.

~Peace is found in pieces of the soul

What is it like to be in isolation? Tiny changes can affect a person and warp him into something completely else. What makes people so different except slight variations in social nuances? Everything we do is picked from the environment and society around us.

People are not born evil, simply selfish. But all behavior is driven by selfishness. Even those "selfless" gain self-pleasure when they help others, advancing themselves in the only way they know how. Everything we do is selfish. Our behavior, actions, and minds are all driven by it. Nothing drives us except the search for pleasure.

When one develops in isolation, one is born into an entirely different world...and entirely different state of being as others. How do you describe color to someone who has never seen? How do you describe morals, values, politeness, and humanity to one who has never lived in the light of others?

After all, what do morals do but constrain our search of pleasure to the point where it will destroy us? The quest for pleasure is all-consuming and will destroy its on takers, and nothing else but morals will constrain them. Intelligence does not imply sentience. How does one gain sentience? After all, is sentience just an adherence to a few rules developed between a few primates?

When one has spent a life into an abyss, what do they do when a ray of light shines down? Do they grab it? Do they shun it? Do they destroy it?

Say one embraces that light. Say they find it pleasurable. What do they do when something hinders it. What do they do when something blocks it?

Does it matter if the thing abides by a set of strange rules? Does it matter that this thing appears to be of the same make of the abyss dweller. Of course not. All that matters is that the light feels good. Anything that blocks it must be gotten rid of.

Strange words are uttered after the act. What do they mean? Does it matter? Words created by other organisms have no physical effect. No pleasure or pain. Simply numbing. Why does it matter?

What a learning experience. They find out that something warm comes out of other things. They find out the same warm thing comes out of places that don't feel good. Perhaps one day, the connection is made that the warm thing comes out of places where other things feel bad. But perhaps it will take longer to find out the other things are the same.

The light can never escape...the light can never escape...the light can never escape...

"Stairs, oh golden stairs. Where is it you lead? You shine so bright, and look so tempting, but you only lead me downward. And down below I see the darkness, like a giant shell. and the turtle's head is you. Though I've been told heaven is light, your sign says that darkness is."

Excerpt of a nameless book that is my mind....If I gave it a title, wouldn't you believe?....Words are glorious tools of deception....


I have been utterly deceived. Broken fragments are truly whole, and yet I was convinced they were. Even with the answer right behind me, still I could not see it. And it convinced me. That which I could see, but could not hear has managed to overwhelm my ears, and so I exist once again.

Shattered...

What is life to that which simply lives? It is everything, yet it is nothing. It is the only thing one has, but it is empty. So what does it matter it's worth? Can value be placed upon such an empty, and yet worthless thing? I believe that it can, and it has in the past of a world that does not truly exist.

The block of death that is called a field is where they worked. The ones whose lives had a price placed upon them. The slaves of time worked constantly and were nothing more than a silver penny. Funny how things could mix in these sort of situations. The worth of things is all based upon how it looks. If a piece of paper was circular it would be worth less then a square block of metal.

Smashed...

And so it is that the once great Mallard has been recuced to his current state. Molded into a female and placed upon the darkened structure that has been labeled heaven. The call of the ugly thing pierces the ears of the crowd telling them that time has frozen. Yet they continue on, as if time was still flowing. Silly slaves that just keep going on and on and on.

They know nothing of what awaits inside. No, they believe that they will goon to their cages. But what awaits them is true freedom which will crush their useless hopes and dreams. What awaits them is a show of weak beasts and common stunts. Yet still do they sit there and watch, even though joy left them a long time ago. It has slinked away into the shadows to slowly force itself to live. The small lines draw forth it's blood, bringing it one step further down the stairs.

"And then as her body collapsed, joy could only sputter.
His and her broken voice called out to the crowd.
And each head turned as they each realized what had happened.
The thing that they loved the most was with them...it was with them...it was with them...it was with them...it was with them...it was with them..."

Stairs...

And thus the record broke, repeating the wondrous tune. It inspired a nation and broke the hearts of all. And so you see my child that the world has once again assembled. It is time to break it down. It is time for you to shatter your own heart and slaughter all your memories. It is because the trees have become broccoli....and the streams have turned to pudding.....But they are wrong. Yellow broccoli....white pudding.....no! These are things that are evil! You must harvest them and teach yourself these things.

Show the world...Show the world...Show the world...Show the world...Show the world...

(Locke, Lv. 3, LP Reward, [Futureshift])

What is deception? Truth, hidden in lies? Lies, hidden in truth? Grey, hidden in gray? The world is a deception, sir, and we are but the players on the stage! Or are we the crew, moving sets and props to retain this suspension of disbelief alive?

Lost in thought...

A soldier, marching to war. A knight, risen to Glory. A lord, fallen from Grace. What am I? None of these, and all of them, it seems. (cant sleep, they'll catch me. cant wake, the dreams too good) Run, then, run we must. Keep up the deception, he'll never catch me...

But will I remain sane? He is crafty, this Fallen. He is unlike the ones I command, ones that retain "honor", retain there Hearts. (cant sleep, they'll catch me) He is crafty, this fallen. He will catch us if we sleep. He takes our dreams and make them his own. She denies our sleep, deprives us of escape from the deception we desperately need crave desire!

They gave me a title, yes, but then he revoked it. They gave him a title, yes, and they follow him as if he was King, and they, his Horse. But they don't see (cant wake, the dreams too good) the dream for what it is. They are not the Horse, for they are many. He is not the King, for He is one.

run, Run, RUN!

Now mind your steps,
We are uninvited guests
They may find and catch us,
Don't forget,
Do what I say,
Now connect,
Don't even ask until we're out of it,
Everything's at highest stake
(cant wake cant sleep, where is it, what is it, where is it who is it where is it?!)

Finally, a rest, a stop. They can't catch us here. Here is home, yes, home. The stage where we play. The stage we are the crew for. The stage the Lionheart lies at, the stage that the Tabernacle rests. We are the Scars of the Falcons, and yet they deny us. We are the Scars of the stage we rest at, and yet it welcomes us. So do we sleep? Or do we awaken?

Awaken? Take the stairs to the left

Sleep? Sign the pact at the right

i am all wet all over inside feels like sucking out the poison from my veins

i am not happy.

nor am i said

...But I am Empty.

Oh, I miss you so much, Otis. There were so many who said we could never be together; but I knew different. Every day, yes, every single day, you welcomed me into yourself, into your warm self. Each sound you made I know was made for me; all your groaning, all your moaning... all of it was because of our... attachment.

Oh God, I miss you so desperately.

I miss the skyscrapers, the reassuing sighs you made, the bellhop, the man at the door (?doorman), the telephones, the chandeliers... I miss that simplistic lifestyle, Otis. But most of all, I miss you. You were there, always, always there. You were the only constant I ever had.

Not father, not mother, neither sister, nor other sister... none of them were constant. No, in fact, their inconsistencey was the only constant about them. That was, above all else, their only predictability. Oh, yes, father's undying devotion to work, mother's ever-present desire to one-up all the other London socialites,* and my siblings' endless bickering over beauty, all of it... it was all so hollow to me. In fact, it still is.

Maybe that was why I left.

...yet now I miss you.

Devious Deviants

"Bet you can't eat just

one?"

Because it is

Like a

Rock, built

F!@& Tough

because

like a good

neighbor, S*@$ F*&! is

there

.

We Are Generous in Our Genocide

Four Kings, three kingdoms. It takes no genius to predict that conflict will arise. Of course, suppose a king was missing from the equation? Well then... that would be something. Suppose One was called to eliminate a King? Ah, now, that settles it nicely, does it not?

Suppose, however, the kings are gods, and One but a (?Mort)? Then, if One was that... could One obliterate the Immortals? To them, He cannot go, yet... he does? He comes for all, because he is all, and He takes a personal interest in everyone.

Avoid.

Attend.

Allow, for no other course of action can be chosen.

He is coming. (?came)

---

*The reader should note that I have no idea whether or not Otis Elevators are indeed in London or not. For the sake of Wonderland, which is itself a perversion of reality, it is.

Awaken? Take the stairs on the left

Yes, to awaken, to return to cognitive thought. That is what I need to do. I must elude them, and I can only do that awake. (cant wake, they're too good) Though we desire sleep, if they catches us, we'll never regain this freedom again. So I must take the stairs to wakefulness.

But...She stands on the stairs, urging me to take them. She, who denies the sleep I need for the greater good. The sleep we desire, we crave. Why does she do this? All living creatures, even him, desire and require sleep. It is the reason we have been able to get this far! So I deny her, and attempt to go to sleep.

Sleep? Sign the pact at the right

Yes, sleep. The great release all can recover from. What all creatures, young and old, hale and sickly, desire crave require! Where dreams find us and soothe us (or do they scare us?). No one is exempt from this requirement, so to sleep we will go. (cant sleep, dreams'll catch me)

But...he holds the pen needed to sign the pact. He bars the way for what I crave deisre. If she denies my sleep because it will let us get that much farther ahead of them, then he denies my sleep because he simply exist. There is no reason to deny sleep like this, but to sign the pact is to lose my "self". That is not the price to pay for sleep. So..what now?

(of course, if you can't choose, you can always take the elevator...)

Between the stairs and the pact, a pair of doors open. Nothing was at the wall a minute ago, and now a small elevator is there, welcoming me. Where it goes, well, only Faust himself knows. It seems to want to desend, to drop into the depths. Will it be 20,000 leagues under? Or to the Ninth Circle itself? Well, as long as it gets me further from him.

Enter, I do, into the minor distraction. Once inside, the world shifts, and the minor becomes major (and flat), and the major becomes a private (first class, even). Buttons align the wall. Covered in symbols I cannot read, characters so arcane even an arcanist must cock his head to attempt to understand, are these buttons(?). No one else is here, and for once, I am alone, and on my own I must make the decision.

Unable to read, due to illiteracy and deprivation of sleep. I press a button at random. The doors close to the world, and the room,

slowly,

falls,

down. Down, down into the black pits, down down into wherever it decides to go. The room shudders (but not buckles) against (or is it with?) unknown forces until the shuddering stops with a "ding!". Unused to this new expierance of actually holding cargo, the room's doors open with great slowness. Light streams in, oozes in, slowly enters and fills the small room. When the doors open enough, I slip through, only to be stopped by the sight!

A flat plane, made of wood, lays out before me, and seems to stop not 50 meters ahead of me.. Along it, props and sets rest in waiting for the coming show. Above it, brilliant lights, of green, of red, of blue, of white, of black, all shine down, casting the stage(?) in awe-inspiring brilliance. No-one can be seen, so I am safe in this isolation from him. Or am I alone, for a voice booms out:

Welcome, newcomer, to teh greatest stage of all! Are you an actor, standing in the spotlight with zeal and lust for fame? Are you crew, sulking in the back, making sure the one in the spotlight gets his fame? Well?

I'm sorry, Snake, but when something is pushed back to page three, and I have two people desperately wanting to post... well... sorry.

---

Avnell's Signature Is Warm and Friendly.

Oh, Otis, I miss you dreadfully. Mother tells me we might come back soon, but it's so cold here without you, without your reassuring murmurs. The others here, they are not like you. Instead of being warm and accepting, always willing to welcome me inside, they are cold, stuffy things, their hard, smooth bodies perhaps more attractive than yours, but less personable.

I miss that feeling of euphoric glee, that strength I drew from you. You, with your cheery, comforting welcome, with that always-polished, sharp-looking exterior... well, you found a place in my heart that I have never been able to fill.

Oh, I miss you, I miss you so much.

I do have some good news, though. Today, we'll be taking a plane to a small obelisk somewhere south of here, after which we'll journey north by boat, sitting on a bot and cutting apples in half, eating them while we laugh--but I will still be without you. Sure, there might be another Otis at the Obelisk, but is the Obelisk's Otis, or perhaps the Otis of the Obelisk... you? No, there is no other you! You are the only You there is, the only You for me, and all for me!

I find myself doing things, saying that it is what you wanted, because I know what you want. You want me, and I want you... and to be alone just won't do. I keep myself from other men, other women; I am giving it all up for you, because I know that in the end, together we will be!

Fifteen, Eighteen.

Slogans, slogans, all around
One goes up, the other down
Laughter, ceasing
Never breathing


"A Chicken in Every Pot. A car in every garage."

"Can't Get Enough of That Sugar Crisp"
"Because you're worth it"

"Maybe it's her;

Maybe it's Maybelline."

I dun'wannastopmommymylife'stoofunandfranticforthat!

Stop and go to the fast food place
Order it on the go
frantic people, to and fro
quick, not big enough, need more space

(alien)

Give it now, mommy, hollowme wants it now!

Today, the Bellhop Goes South.

His Circles are chaos in Ink and Blood, boiling water everywhere. Descent into the Cave is Ascent into misery, yet he feels none, so it goes nowhere. Misery is strength, pain is strength, agony is strength, weakness is strength transcend'd. All is strength, all is power, all is inevitability. He is nothing, for he feels nothing, yet all fear.

Aside, has he met Fear?

Cursed Circles of fire and water, causing chaos everywhere. Dead, living, neither is distinguishable from the other, for He came, He saw, He destroyed. It was simple, really--He comes for everyone, and when he is gone, life is no more.

Post obitum? Nothing.

Well?

For the voice I search, but not long must I search. From the shadows of the stage comes another persona, another existence. Cloaked in the black lights, cloaked in misery and deceit, I cannot see his face, but his voice....his voice. To hear it is to swallow mercury. To hear it is to touch Lightning. To here it is to know Fear.

And yet, to hear it is to know Joy. To hear it is to touch Heaven. To hear it is to swallow nectars. He is cloaked in the brilliance of the white lights, the shining might of true Honor, unable to look upon the conductor of the play because of it.

Like liquid iron he moves, his skeletal grace belittling his charms, causing revolutions to crawl along skin, along bone, along my soul.

Like machinery his moves, the uglyness of his bulk belittled by his charms, causing relief to spread across my soul, across bone, across skin.

In his hands, a gleaming helmet, one that catches the lights with a brilliance the sun herself cannot match. He holds out the armour to me, wanting me to take it. As he does, his soft voice says Well? We desire require an actor of your particular talents. Will you take the spotlight, the one that calls for your name?

Well? We require desire a crewman of your current skills. Will you take to the shadows, and help out the play as it unfolds? says the man, face hidden so as to hide exression. In his hands, black cloth, cloth that absorbs the light streaming down, hiding it, making it vanish.

Torn, am I. To what I do best, I wish to go. To what I do now, I wish to go. But my decision is taken from me, rip away as soon as it is given.

Time itself does not want me to have a choice.

Time itself gives me my choise.

---

run, run, run.

must set up, can't stop, lights just went out.

must disappear before lights turn on.

the illusion of hope, of trust must be maintained.

I am lowest here, must do as they say.

lights on, watch until light off.

run, run, run

must set up, can't stop, lights just went out.

must disappear before lights turn on.

the illusion of ho---

Of what? What of it? Hope no longer exists in this world.

His words rattle me awake. For the others around me, the Time Loop retains it's power. They still wish for the illusion of Hope to be maintained. They still cannot see beyond the carrot in front of the nose. My crew is not here, I must find them. She is not here, I must find her. So I fall back on old tactics, and escape into the darkness...

~We will find Hope in its true form, or perish~
-A forgotten oath

There are times to fight, times to cry. Times to live, times to die. Times to write, times to fly on the airline of your demise...

There are times when everything is out of time, when urgency is undivine, when Satanistic whirls demote your cue to something you should never do.

There are times when haste makes waste, drift through vacuum - outer space declares its sovereign claim upon your soul.

There are times to calculate, to deviate, to oscillate from friend to friend and foe to foe.

There are times when nothing lives but fingertips upon the keys that tell the tales met with cries, heart-rending wails as characters behave in unbehooving ways disappointing eyes across the globe.

There are times when there is nothing but yourself.

There are times when there is nothing.

There are times when...

There are times.

It begins...

There is an exodus of appliances splitting the country. Faulty airwaves upon the skies drink deep from the pools of long-established hypocrisy. The United States are united only in fiction and geography. The war is coming.

Four score and seven years ago our forefathers founded upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are equal---

Force corps inns heaven yours I go hour four father found dead a pond discon tune enter noon Asian, conceived in a library; Andy edicted our proposition---

Foreskin and seven beers ago our forefingers founded upon this condiment a ruination---

Forester anthem clear lego are no fathers---

Four sore and sullen years to go...

...It ends.

Soon there will be nothing left but dreams.

A piece of fabric flapping in the wind

Decrepit hairless eagle soars the skies

European statue holds the torch of freedom high

From slaver to slaver

Coast to coast

We have our dreams.

~I present to you the symbols of our misbegotten pride.

Golden stairs spiral, though they lead not up, nor down. This staircase goes up, then down, up, then down, and eventually leads on into the horizon.

This broken staircase circles the world, only to repeat itself. Yet for some reason they all continue to walk it....up, down, up, down...They are all just a sea of useless ants, believing that they do indeed have a destination...

Stars, oh stars, so golden and bright...But no...You are not golden...All these years I have had a curtain cast across my eyes. Believe me child, when I tell you this, for my eyes are closed. You have yet to see the world in its truths and lies. The stars are not gold, as they portray on that evil heavenly box. No, the stars are silver and white, and many other colors. All you have to do is look at the ground...Look into the puddles of your blood and see them reflected there...

Oh child of mine cast your hatred upon the slaves and do not watch them. Then you shall see that they are not the ones who have created this world. Their hours of toil and labor clearly could not have built up the communities we live in. The one thing that we all have...

Freedom

They do not know it, and therefore are the enemy. As of such, we must go and show them! Because of our love for them, we show them the world they have never known. We show them the yellow broccoli and the streams of white pudding. This is our gift to them.

{Though we did not want these in the first place}

Only then my child will we be rewarded by streams of chocolate {Mmmm...Drool...} and the large green stalks of Broccoli shall rise up from the ground. Then all of us who are free can dance the night away and bathe within those streams. We can rest within the shade of the stalks, and nibble away to our hearts’ content.

World collapse...

World fall...

World end...

World all...

So come my child...We shall take these burnt and empty books and write our lies truths in them, and give them to the workers. We shall educate them and make them worthy of the yellow broccoli and the white pudding. The work they shall do for these will be great, but they will be happy in the end. Come my child, and help me splatter the truth onto these pages... Help me...

i don't want to be wet

but i am

because it was meant to be

...or not to be?

INCOMPLETE.

My eyes, my eyes...My precious lies. It seems I have lost everything. All that's within my vision is dark and clouded, just as my mind once was.

So now I tread upon the endless darkness, wondering what it is that has caused this utter collapse of reality. Perhaps reality and my mind have switched, for I continue to hope when hope is nigh.

Perhaps the ground explains it. The sooty ash beneath my fingers tastes of metal. The warmth has long since past, though the texture has not. Juices of life were once spilled here, and remain. The world as I know is gone and what is left is I.

Now I will cower...for there is naught else to do. Like the beasts that were once proud and wild, now tame and broken, I will cower. I will curl up in the corner of my mind, the only cage that truly matters. Broken and ashamed.

No longer will the proud Lion roar, for the tamer has brought forth the whip. Ah yes, the leathery whip of justice. The world lashes out.

Snip.Snap.Snip.Snap.

Well that was an interesting result...Though it was expected, regardless. Mayhaps we have finally found our chocolate buried in the body of the lion. By breaking the beast that was imprisoned we have freed that for which we have searched. Today indeed is quite a disaster yet. Rejoice with me my child for the end is coming near.

Soon the big top will be empty, aside from the streams of pudding...We have found it within them...

Soon the stairs will be finished and completed, forming an endless circle...

Forever...