He was Cain, Ulysses, the Flying Dutchman; he was Lot in Sodom, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Sweeney in the nightingales among trees. He was the miracle ingredient Z-147. He was— "Crazy!" Clevinger interrupted, shrieking. "That’s what you are! Crazy!" "—immense. I’m a real, slam-bang, honest-to-goodness, three-fisted humdinger. I’m a bona fide supraman."
Laid to rest and drifting slowly through the universe, words are meaningless to describe the only inhabitants of space. Time moves on though and it’s- nothing to do with style. Nothing in the way of living-
to conquer is to succeed to be your own enemy is to be your greatest undoing,
and it’s ones own self that really should be ones best doing. It’s a metaphor for being the greatest foe to ever be encountered in life. In reality the obstacles of the environment lends it to manipulate the sculpting of the self development.
Simply can’t be tested but may be attested. The thing that it is, is hidden from us and present at the same time. As if though because reality does not require us to be present all the time in mind in body in some cases, one can be absent minded and completely immobilize through deliberation.
Mirrored with all the tainted colors of compounding factors one’s own consultation has rendered the ability of conference with all of humanity. Objectively drop the veil that all preconceived notions should entail in our actions and then evaluate the genesis of your reasoning. The spawn of ideas will arrive into a world encompassing universal revelation of thinking. The utility of such brain-work is a rational discussion with yourself.
When it reveals itself, you can hide confront, or become anew with a vision that you are more than one you are the individual- the one- that usurper of the many.
To the north to find identity, for the ones that are and those that will be.
Without a map we can be guided by those that are our friends and enemies.
Swallowing depression and asking for no help is of a quality identical to shoulder hearts.
Those, Antiquated senses help the dead stay alive, and the accent is not what it is it’s a dialectic. Never to the south never crossing the meridian, the hours are early and the sun is beating down on us- yet. Escaping from the eves of the branches the shade has an immigrant underneath. Being and identified and presupposed nothing matters until its too early for some and then too late for others.
The story starts off once again in traffic. The time is right the time isn’t late its just on time, and its better to be with someone when your alone. -Let them know, we’ll be in shortly.
While all the instincts of dinner can lead to an appetizing experience we, are- still in a rush.
Some new faces, count, one two three, no one else. Three, recognize any of them?
-why is everything so complicated,
the flush of nausea, rushes up within me. dipped in reality
Time says we are all getting older. Stop talking to myself, stop talking to us.
Attention is not held, my attention is focused too much on the experience. Coupling together everyone, plays the part in letting me know the problem is as much this situation as we are in, that contributes to my part in it. Few words describe the unrelenting tap of my foot, the unending unravel-ment of thought that leads us cyclically back to the start, its a loop, has everyone seen the loop?
Don’t say I, don’t say we didn’t tell you don’t mention me, don’t talk- showing signs of weakness, -open to be read, and we are as much me as I.
Arms sitting “indian style” (and they do not say that anymore, and one day writing will be optional) the vibrations lead me to realize my heart is failing my blood flow, it’s in the flow. We all get old one day they will be old and one day- they might not be that young. They might not make it but you still have to watch what you say. My thoughts return to the nausea that causes me to realize the vibrations are driving my blood pressure up.
Does everyone feel this, my hands can’t keep still?
It’s in my arms, my heart and reality is nauseating me- the second floor vibrates
-the speaker is dull and our uninteresting interest is as much a construction as it is a landmark.
-of the uninterrupted uninterpreted? Dipped in reality- The food taste better and it seems that everyone agrees on-
with the meal, one is provided- the bearer of a burden to which it will draw forth our commands’ of attention, and it’s hard to explain but it is not mandatory even when they tell you it was it should not because it does not matter.
“I am obnoxious to each carping tongue,
Who sayes my hand a needle better fits,
A Poet’s Pen, all scorne, I should thus wrong;
For such despight they cast on female wits:
If what I doe prove well, it won’t advance,
They’l say it’s stolne, or else, it was by chance.”—
The pain is constant and it allows only for brief moments to forget.
Pain subsides with a relaxing comfort that begets our affirmation. It is pleasure that ushers in the pain, with a simple loss of words to describe a vacancy. Words are but mere perceptions of the truth that is not true. In it were all the misgivings that faith in hope, can bring- to sacrifice fear for simple pain. The language, of the unassuming mistress of death.
She comes and goes but one day the mark of her forgiveness will alleviate all pain. Counter receptionist will disregard that there is a threshold that can not be measured, in quantities.
The absurdity lies in the matter of unpunctuality,
“— Mere reason is insufficient to convince us of its veracity: and whoever is moved by faith to assent to it, is conscious of a continued miracle in his own person, which subverts all the principles of his understanding, and gives him a determination to believe what is most contrary to custom and experience.”—HUME
Her words were like caffeine. They deprived me of sleep and sent my mind racing to the furthest corners of the earth. I was racing myself to impossible distances. My body is motion primed and adrenaline agitated but I am standing stock still. I cannot yet unshackle myself from here. My mind shall have to go ahead without me, while I try to catch up.
She rubbed her lips. “You need to know why women are silent,” she said. “you need to know why Heaven refuses to give light and the stars refuse to shine. You need to know that it takes to make a thang go right, and that a woman is something that pays ten cents for a cup of coffee to sit at a lunch counter and blow smoke in men’s faces.This and more you need to know.”