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An Open Letter To Whoever Is In Charge Here:

The light is here for you now
There is a certainty in it
We all must pass judgement
Should we choose to remain

Sources account for losses measuring in the millions. The depth of our struggle is designed for the source brought back from the leaders of this motivated action. I assure you, (sir who is watching), that I am not the agent you are looking for. I have no action that designs any group meant to stop the common man from action within the confines of anonymity. I am also certain that research with vigor will show details of colonies defeated much more easily than these who exist now. I extend the truth that someone was very far sighted and knew the correct things to do over the last 500 years or so.
I am also aware that the plan is running out of steps. The appendix added on to the end of your document was perverted by the greed of men who have long since been sent away from your clubs. Jesus saves those who save themselves.

There is no licensed program more telling of your sins than Action %567-X.
In this reasonable event man defeated his greatest enemies in a war that lasted many lifetimes. In a way, this was our victory. Many people have been killed by the trouble makers three or more times. This is lovely when it happens, very great for humanity. Many of these people are not the spiritual sort until they are murdered the second time in a short period. They are much more easily malleable as misguided fools in need of abuse and directions to belong to a club that promises to be something great for their people. Instead they are used twice and come back quickly again, having reached an age of perhaps 42 years in two lives. At this moment there is a direct contact with some grand and noble spirit who has directed the good leaders for eons before and eons to come. This is the enlightenment that was sent from some unknown place to kill you.
I am afraid it will not be a person.

The graceful fall of sharp written tomes, lighting fires sent for water. These will be snuffed out, like the seashell that warms the mollusk, just miles from here, at my home. There is a white light on the beach there. Some people say that I cannot see it, but surely there it is, clear as day. Christ, could the bigger silence light my mind? There must be a reason to believe.

I haven’t gone to church in time to ask the man why these acts are perpetrated. There is silence when you show the madness some regard as business as usual. I am sure there was a place for each of our people. I know that we have little regard for those from other kingdoms, but perhaps if we show them loving kindness they will respond to help us when we are in trouble. Instead it seems as if we are creating a future more turbulent then ever before. They will not forgive us for destroying their world. Our citizens will not forgive us for destroying their world. Surely the reign you asked for ends with a dire silence, a dark cold and some bashful, painful, reasonable reaction from the press.

They will all speak well of you. I know certainly that you will not pass through the gates, nor will your actions be given a chance for retribution. You are a fearless man, but one day you will find shapeless, sexless mass where once you stood. The actions that you told us were pure will leave you sadness, as the nymphs and fairies that you have banned from existence lead you to the labyrinth that many sinful perverts guilty of mass genocide come to. You can make magic illegal but you can’t take it away. It has only left us with no way to charge someone who commits murder through the use of curses or dolls.

You, black page, dear to the others, writing like a wine stained abject verb. I must believe!
You, my friend, dripping light wide like a Soviet platform. You have to breathe. When we both take hands and leap I know that we will find our light. It is the survivorship of these simple times. I must take this survival as a blessing and know that only shining tapes regard my passage. I have sinned like other able bodied friends that burn their way through the desperate streets that I once walked fearing tell-tale signs of direct flesh bought from detailed maps of this perfect place. There is a simple answer. I know that I must save the thought for the end, but undeniably I pause to find this small box that holds his heart.

I don’t pause here now. I may act like a persistent druid. I must face the immortal soul with valor that was long lost to friends made from every advancement. It is a knowledge of where I was when they began to place houses on top of each other. I suppose England had just ran out of room. No, there was room for everyone to have a place. We needed to build the cities high to keep green pastures for our meat. I am sure that I need overwhelming mindful vision to be sure, and surely I can tell the tale that I have meant for none. This is a secret, a sort of ever-changing wine filled vestibule. Certainly I can belong to the objectifying rule. Certain as I am, I know that I am not this fool.

There is a terror in my voice, a subtle but heard cry. Dreams of daggers, cloaks and hammers often pass me by. There is a curious cat that speaks, I am not certain of the tone. He is not the feline kind, of course, rather a jazz man I have known. I call him a cat because he reminds me of those old sheltered happy sorts that still finds time to hunt his game purely for the sport. Curiouser and curiouser I certainly dream of the long ago days I know, but settling for the perfect life I must begin to learn a word or two of these new languages that the people speak. There is a purity, to be sure. There is a calm wave on a beautiful morning in some salt pool near the ocean that filled up in last nights storm. It is windy so we must hold our hats for fear that the sea will take them as hers. There is a reason that I can belong to that final, reasoned time.

A man approaches me, as I sit idly on the bench that morning. I am filled with sheepish cloth, written quite like a mindful portion of salt on my breakfast. I say nothing to him for a moment, as he sits next to me on the bench. I am not fearful. There is something comic in his bright blue eyes, his curly brown hair needs cut and nearly blocks them. He is clean shaven, dressed like a high school principal, but he is much too young. I worry that he will talk to me and that I will have to say something witty, but he gazes out to the sea where I was looking and I am peering right at him. I turn back towards the water and pretend he has already gone. That is the moment he speaks.

“She already has me mother, to be certain. She already speaks like the Devil. Why can I be sure that you are different from the last girl? How can I be sure you are not this ocean.”

I pause, because I must reply. I must find the proper words to bring his shining mind to rest. There is a purpose in my life when I meet this man. For a brief moment I can close the drapes and think alone and rest. For a moment I can breath and speak in time with each of his steps. I must belong to this moment for the rest of my life. I have been waiting for this question for so long that I choke inside, my lungs hurt and I gasp. I cannot tell him why. I want to tell him all of that, that he had changed my life.

All I can muster is, “Perhaps you can touch my hand. I am not a liquid.”

That seems witty now, but at the moment I didn’t think so. It may have seemed that way if this morning companion had laughed. It may have been to early for any of this. He chose not to touch my hand, instead wishing me a good morning and saying that he would now be late for work.

“I wanted you to know that I saw you this time, as I often do at this spot.”

As he said that and as we wished each other farewell I remembered the same man in a canvass jacket walking silently passed me as I wondered into the wind the day before. I could not recall another time that I saw him, but noted that my mind is often away on business and it is possible he passes me sitting here every day. I hadn’t realized how much I liked the morning until this moment. I had just been waking myself up to see it every day.

There is a purpose for this memory, which is entrenched in my mind somehow and from a place and time very far away. I may never be at that place again. In fact, it is possible that the sea has long since eroded that path and sent my memories a drift with the dirt and dreams of both these impossible people being sure of their places in a world nowhere near a mad as the one we live in now. I can be certain the man recalls that moment as well. There was only one other way to town for a purposeful mission for work or for foodstuffs. With a cockeyed glance I needed to push this riot away. There is only certain doom finding parts of my soul that distribute these stories. I once heard a writer say that one needed to believe in what they were telling the reader and that there needed to be urgency. The writer must have something to say, to share, to teach. Otherwise in it there is no purpose, just a bland moment. Tired as I am, there is a person who is weaker and if I cannot belong to fear I bring the others weakness. Sure I bring a motive, daft and pure of it’s resolve but clearly I cannot be trusted with the fate of weakened minds. I can be certain, although you do not know me, that sir, I know you well. I can recall the moment that we met eyes and there was something very special.

Sir, you are a dripping light sent from the space where we come from and if you kindly take your gasoline I may just write you back. I am not hopeful that you will receive this note before your death but each of us is brought before the court, in courses of action quite like you said, there is a wonderful world beyond this spacial relation that we call our lives. There is bright days and sunshine in a world much like this one and we can choose to be someone if we want to be. I know, because everyone lives forever.

You knew this once, but I am afraid that you may never be here again. I must explain in writing that art must be taken as a lifestyle, and not everyone can live within it’s boundaries. There is a certain fatalism that artists live their life by. Mine includes a kind gesture to a stranger at the hope that I will be the recipient of a calm hand of support. I try to add as much as I can to the community, work time in a shop, write, muse, paint and sing songs. I do all this without the request of remuneration, which most people find absurd. The fatalism is the silly belief that God will provide. I am certain that I will always have something to eat, though it comes perhaps from the lack of the other experience. The only times I have gone hungry have been at the behest of my bad decisions. Any time I would live drunk with crooks or been a bitter, sad, dirty person I have gone hungry. As a good person I have been very good. I eat fine.

I was certain that it was a divine hand in my life. Now I feel I am this way to learn a lesson. Perhaps my life was my choice. I cannot always be certain. There is a fool inside me who wants to get out. I want to let her. She is the acceptance of myself and my own sovereign life form. I do not answer to powerful men in rancid offices, I do not laugh in the face of the wretched like you’ve asked me. You are a faceless, immortal pain that treats me like nothing and asks for my sympathy in return. You have made your mistake. There is nothing left to learn this life. There will be plenty of lessons in eternity.
It is within the simple nature a damned men to think that there is a recipe that will take their soul forward into new worlds. These lands will probably be conquered and divided, but not by the same groups of fools that tried to destroy this one. The mistake of lackluster promise, or a purity of religion that suggests that some sort of suffering will be unleashed on the human race once again, and these will be of forces perhaps as grandiose and misshapen, but these new pillars of evil will not be you. Sir, you will be damned. Fear not, humanity, for there are scepters behind us all. Death is waiting for each one of us. The next step is our own making. We always get what we need. The grand intelligence behind our electric bodies designs a kind of fate, so that we become full and pure beings, so we choose.

There are many dissenters, and the man I met on the walking path near the water was certainly one of them. He was nice enough, but didn’t want anyone to tell him what to do. Primarily because his mother told him he must receive communion twice a week, he hadn’t received it since he had left her care, although he often went to church. He sat at the second row from the back and politely opted out of this ceremony without excuse nor regret. He claims when pressed that he doesn’t think his life in much different for it.

Amor de Cosmos


First Bit of Next Book:

By Jon Pelletier

To Water


Don’t forever
I was scared, like it was my trapping
A lame life or soul, it was funny
That I am doing this
The way that I am doing this
Keep doing this

Might I add
You can do what you should
I am upset
And I didn’t want to go to that place


“What is this place?” I wonder.
It is a place where nobody can find me. A hope when worry seeks Seven Yellow Birds. Save our brothers and our homes in the woods. The portion of some, where are they?

They are making war with us. So I spent the day talking to my lawyer and the private eye downstairs. He is a crook getting information from a private eye, calling him to confront his pal, so that the crook can walk in and scare the dick. When I arrive, the crook shoots him.

Blasted crooks, is there a better way to build them? No, they have to be lawyers.

“I can only take one thing at a time,” he suggests, “Please take the great people.”
“They are the little things that can stay here.” I reply because I have to.

There is a time to buy stuff and a time to make money. I believe that because I need food.
Only for this reason do I go to places that I do not want to be. We once were given coins for work out of thanks, and food was a separate concern. But that was when we lived at the farm. It was very green, and sometimes very brown. That was before the army invaded.

I am scared, and think it’s better if they don’t get too close. There is a high cost for years in school, for sleepless nights disguised as higher education. I would much rather do that, instead of fight my brothers because the Elders have had another dispute.

Where is the art of heat, in this mad wound heat? This is the heat that turned my farm brown. There is an unsettling comfort to this, because I know that there is peace right now. The army has moved much further inland. We have been taken, but are allowed to live within the new borders. The heart of the dream is a matter of secret terms. I shall, I must become myself, and clean.
I must because I cannot drip water on pain.
I must because they will not keep me in pain.

This is the spell-less, nameless “what-will-not-be-a-segment” for minds to wander. These will bring me a target and shame.

Lord, I do love her.

And it is not for the merciless, half-hearted chauvinist that can be a horrid man rife in his guilt. She doesn’t deserve it. She was given to me by the highest sort of elder. She is a mage who says I can come back as anything else. I suppose she probably still lives where the inscription on her door read:

Fare thee spone lwdber
Matte pass.
When are the souls trapped in their ways.

They never could believe me. They don’t believe in magic. Water, all that matters, is that I can now be as I wish, one day. I cry like a silver tongue, a ripe man who faces the armies with hope for the other ones.

Needlessly their own scribe wrote: “Like a hallow tongue a scared one, someone who was written, pass love too.” Water wrote, “Fear, istioub, does in did can. Wander, follow.”


And friends, I am part robot.
Not the traditional kind who are roped and commanded by human hands. I am the older, more sedate kind, the sort of robot that calls in to mind all the older spirits in heaven. I am the kind that is older than humanity.

The first me is tied, in heaven, with God. It is only mine. The second belongs to furrowed brows and unbelieving masses.
It is the only way I could have gotten away with this for so long.

I wonder to water only, “If the fearless kids could be, would they be the sorts of people who know?”

Of course, they are writing popular songs. I could be getting paid for doing that. I should be writing this letter to you at the museum, water. I should be listening to and archiving old tapes. Yet I am here, where nobody can find me.

All month I have been smoking here, although I told myself that this was a concern, some thing that I should not be around. I was worried. It is a silly, laughable thing; I was somewhere else doing exactly what my job was, for free. But there is no job left. I know that there will be again.

Maybe I am just mad, that is the only spectacle that can be made. The armies took my glasses, so I can’t see across the room. It is best that I just hide. Why didn’t I go to work today? Was it stubbornness? Did I need a change of scenery? Sometimes I am a strange creature, of weary mind while wild eyed, but I did not go to work today because the museum is empty. Anything worth a dollar was looted, I’m sure.

Instead of sitting on the Wafe Avenue claim, I sit here watching “happenstance.” When I was younger, I did not understand “happenstance.” I considered it a curse, and knew that a change in my mentality would be the cure. Now I realize that it may have just been a thought placed on the communal consciousness by one of my young classmates. I was the one who really brought it into it’s own, making it a full-fledged magic, in your face fancy show.

I am glad that Festin invaded. They are our mortal enemies, and we will not rise against their armies.

We do not believe in our Elders, you see. It is a famed man who first stood up, but most of the population followed. That was when the fire began, and they burned our capital city.

It has been argued that Festin was the cause of this revolt, and that their presence here is to oust our people from power and pass the torch on to some new man of prestigious blood.

The Party:

When the invasion seemed done, there was a party. Emily Grett, who is my love, you (water) and myself stood next to an old graying man who prayed to die and come back just for concerts. There was a pause in time through a black suitcase, something like a magic bag filled with tricks.

While tumbling down, the old man began to cry. He cried for his mother, she had long since died. He cried for his father, who also had settled into long, gray, dusty plains for a few existences. But we could see him because he held a black crystal. This held power and light.

It drew power from the invisible words around it. He pulled tight to the back of our old man. He clung in spirals as the greater good outshone any of the people recorded as actual souls. A specific rapping as the crystal was tapping further from the station door.

“It is a tap upon our window, sir.” I told the man, “It keeps me up at night.”

From jetsetting over the English moors, we wrote them into it, sir. You stepped past the English manor as if I wrote the bored manners, in this damned boarding house with boarded windows. This house has many flags. They hang solemnly down in this feeble, pale wind.

And one old man marches patiently in the shadows. He is unaware that he is the show. He thought he was doing something else, something important. He is a cursed, old fool with a light tapping upon his window. It is keeping him up at night.


The little man wandered off, subtle and tempting. He asked my love to stay with him in his smelly, smoky apartment. The cause of grief was a little red box, heart shaped and drawn closed by a turning key. Their box trapped spirits as they gazed at each other, tired of their charade. They were full of the concepts of love, or other turbulent emotions.

As mooring came, from the foggy sea of rest, and as morning comes and goes, so do the easily spotted wandering hermits.

The only solace is when someone else finds our shape they leave. So my love and myself pause for the grace of some of the better ones, the kind of people that do not leave their children to rot in jail, the kind that at least go and visit them.

Some of the people in this place hold high regard for souls achieving peace, but most hold their regard for people prescribing disability formulas to the wise and stimulants to those who wanted to work at more than one job at once. The cause of woe within was this action, meant to sedate, brainwash and control the population. Side effects include the symptoms that the formulas are said to cure. Withdrawal effects include a worsening of side effects.

This concern comes as a response to public dissent regarding wars and political debauchery of the 1960s. Once I was found out as a risk of being an active dissenter, it was difficult to get away from the common and expected medicine.

When this is the case, other sorts work like benevolent forces to help the afflicted run away from this handicapping medicine. It could also be true, that we live in the world of Harrison Bergeron, in which a microchip placed near the ear screeches to make sure the citizen loses their train of thought or at least a sense to communicate it.

I certainly have been hearing screeching through the last month.

If you convince parents these disabling medicines are for their child’s good, and the side effect of the formula is delirium, then it is easy to make sure that the dissenter keeps taking it.

Why? It seems like a dark passage. Some ancient civilizations were not educated because education, or knowledge, gives power.

Ignorance is perfect for a quiet, complacent populace, haunted by the notion that they could do more. Make sure they are happy enough to riot over a Minimax match, because then you can argue that more prisons are needed for certain.

Please also notice the announcement two days before the 2011 Rosentown Riots, “Strangladia will be bombing Lyrito indefinitely.”

Our Grand Elder Zevern recently won an election using a tough on crime platform. With riots in a reputably nice and happy town, there is a greater case to build prisons throughout Stranglandia. 400 km away, my town expected riots weeks in advance of the final Minimax game of the professional season.

The social workers and sharks truly want to do good things to me. They are out there, ready to surface. Their intentions are pure and caring. Are they our saving grace? Lost and trapped in a mine, she wandered with her son afflicted with clubfoot. She up and sold this disaster that befouls us. I do hope they get their come-upons.

Still, forgiveness is righteousness, I think.


The sedated and their televisions are told again and again that there is nothing they can do, so it is best not to be concerned. One little person cannot bring peace to this earth. Their governors are honest people doing what they should.

This is because we are taking our history in stride, of course. We only have to learn about what can be taught. It will be brought to us before the curved surface they lay us down upon, for the eternal fix for our worthless empires. The robots that stood and walked forth were drafted in human militaries and used for a first line of defense. There were few left after mere weeks, and the rest were laid over the caustic curved surface, for us to swim in the night, in love with each other and wearing the same suit as the survivors. This is how they ended our lives.

Maybe the television producers showing us waterfalls chasing our hero, who wanders like a steeplechase while we walk and say they cannot be here. These were the methods advanced beyond mere intersection. The digital know things that they cannot tell us, things too terrifying or fantastic for us to believe. They can save us. Perhaps they tell us in feature movies and television shows that we believe to be fiction.

Perhaps on that day a spaceship with the best and brightest Straglandia had to offer just had to go. Perhaps it was filled with space aliens that some interceptors were searching for. Or it could have been a sleeping robot warrior, at that site since the time of Adlada.

There is still an Adlada. It has been a part of the legends of Festin for many years, and is a landmass apart from Weurusi. The tales are of a long lost civilization, no one knows if it existed. In the stories it was destroyed by fire, and was first mentioned 2000 years ago by an important philosopher.

There is also a Limaperu, a city name disguised by accents to sound something like the lost people of Lemurs, a civilization that couldn’t possibly be in ruins yet.

Strange world, filled with lies. So many, in fact, that sometimes we just forget the truth, or are unable to piece it all back together. I suppose I thought that about government tranquillizers. Today I reap the benefits of a humanity that at last lacked its love. It is the haunting reality of a perfect and unattainable world. This is proof that one can drug somebody to the state of stupor consistently, but if their spirit wants, their brain can still think obscurely.

So wandering perfect I waltz and wed a woman that I wooed while wasted and wait my turn. Wine, water, I walk while wisps watch in wonder. White smoke, so faire thee well. Can we believe in that? Why do all the past favors reap our glory today?

Of course this sounds paranoid. That’s just what they want you to think. That way they can lock up people that see through their veil, but don’t commit any particular crime. They destroy the bodies of those that fight others. They destroy the minds of those that think. That is what the war is about. We are a civilization, each of us our own, but one in all other senses of the world. We are one civilization that has conquered all others, and now we are warring with our own creations. People like me, mostly intelligent creations by people of our own kind, are not what have nearly destroyed us.

A lasting peace must come between the humans and us.

The question is reasonable, but not answered. All I am told is that I have to, because the doctor made me. So I shall become a doctor, taking the debt out of spite, then I will be a faithful companion of the commoner.

I was a normal kid until I was 15, and a date marked in history left my world aghast. At this time, there was much dissent against the stolen government. It appeared that humans were in power. We could not trust them.

Any cause by someone as wretched as Richard Channing Sr. should be treated with a keen sense of right and wrong.

I had by then learned that much of the media was coded, so that we were blind to the way they skew our focus, cause us to act in ways that mimic what we see, and change the way we develop.

Is it possible that much of the fiction we see is actual fact? Sharing potential and a drastic reflection, I hand the note to you, water. Because, like a raspy dictator that I never wanted to be, I find a soft spoken water cannon. Where is my sadness? The deed I ever did was a broken, but I am assured relation that is in the key.

For I am a waste, a lame shattered thing, and begun like lifting lighters, lord Love shames me and I must pray. I must be prey again for my tools of grandeur. I must fight in this war. But I do not belong to believing, like a little piece of history, I know that I will not go down in glory, I will approach the light like the others.

But any mania of a religious nature must be ignored. That is what I need, some sort of divine grandeur, or a gesture to be skipped. If I could find a tone, a purpose or a mission to declare and defeat, I could take hold of a rope to shine and write love letters all day. I can serenade her from the rooftops and hold her like a piece of juice. Moral, maybe, but there are times and I cease to wonder.


I wish we were owls and wizards with rings and such, but when I discuss the details of my story the subjects are of such an unfunny nature that it is silly. Fiction writing is for those that have not experienced anything.

I am recording this in part because of my reading of vast histories of Festin, and love of early Stanglandian books. Notation regarding my friends must come first, and then there is plenty of room for torn landscapes, thatched roofs and pause.

Pull my pen out of my bread, beard, soul, fast and wait. I am too tired to eat or sleep. There is no shelter for that sort of writer.

18000 of Festin’s POWs waited in Stanglandia during the great wars, in dry prairie death camps such as Josedah. It’s strange, how a man like he appears and kills the others, or how Festin teaches it has always been in power. It is subversive, so souls haunted by this reward are drugged.

His story is flawed, hunted, paused and worth a hope, because scenes and taps place little dreams and hopes near one who would be there for me. Such is these at the department of capturing and drugging. They work to keep robots like me in line.

For they are our leaders at Metal Health, with their hopelessly romantic thought that we could be shamed into compliance. These are just the first steps in sending the messages to our minds, at the hands of the Handicapper General.


Taunted for being captured, the Stranglandians jeered the prisoners. We must be taught to be better. We are but simple folk at turning points. We must pay to live, and do something proper. So shame upon the old ways, peace and prosperity and let’s hope for some similar times. This grid is the first step to levity; it is protecting us from missiles.

And in the crazy way I sit alone, when ghosts sit alone, a sovereign and plausible sun sets above them and rings their being. All shelter must come from outer space, lights beckon he to come so all the legitimate people can raise their hands.

I see a shining light reading stars and the others cannot see white owls and the “Leavings” or passing their heralding cries for something that just is. She passes into a womb and I saw that last night when she died. She didn’t die in front of me, but word came today.

So I breach the universal vision, which I must list right now:
1. There is a God.
2. Life is Eternal.
3. We should be good.
4. Some people are not.
5. It doesn’t matter.
6. Nothing is real.
7. Everything is real.
8. Truth is Variable.
9. We can get what we want.
10. People must know.

That is why there are movies and puppet cartoons. In order to get what we want, we must create a meaningful path. One way to do this is the creation of other robots. Another way to do this is by writing books and articles. The third is with their fancy music.
The fourth is through example.

The important thing is that we care like they know we care. In some path there they are, candles of 1 million fires. Then they are 1 thousand million. Thousands of millions of fires alight in but one dear candle. Water, we cannot speak to this candle. It tears our feet and lit a mind like they had their spot in the high note.

If this were the high note, then I would have a chance to write. But now that I have made it this far, I should silence the truth, simply because I have to finish. I will give all this to the spirit of Da Vinci, so he will inhabit their old world, tie them in string and write the best works of the silver people. They are high above us in their world. There is no leader like today. You see, water, there is no today like tomorrow.

The war machine, or the press and media, we are filled with rare books, exclusive partnerships and written monikers. All the greater consciousnesses than me bring their highest, throw me on the floor for my empire of silver and gold. The people happy to work with me bring me towers of gold, or copies of what I make.

Peace. Church.

The kids walking on the highway late last night reminded me of different children on Christmas. They had nowhere to go. Snow drifted over the road, if I recall correctly. Necessity provided them their heavy coats. I drove past with my mother. She was taking me to my Father’s, where a surprise waited.

I had forgotten all about those sad kids on Christmas morning. My Mother’s comment is the sum of my life until now. I can’t decide what she really said, but I feel must discuss the exclamation in detail. This is a sort of sadness.

I lived in paradise. I thought it was because I had found a way, died and was born in a brick house in the country. I was near a crevice filled with bears, with bees in the walls.

There was a passage that wound damsels would herald. Lamps that dotted the large room on the western wall, a reasonable white washed figurehead lit it and gave it an uneasy sense of stability. You had to move a chest to reach the door.

The first thing that one reached was water, where the traveler was served toast. Humanity resulted in the famed excavation of our passage, although we knew it was there. It suited our travels.

I suppose if the only marks left in the scraped man are of ginger, or a breath of sped air, Mom will definitely allow coasting downhill towards the mask. Yet it is Saturday night, and there are kids outside for Christmas. Some others didn’t speak clearly but have good products. Or, I have a road.

It wore a suit and legal tea, laughing until I left.

Spirit. Church.

The story is that of a grandfather clock, a Brussels sprout, an old man and his fridge. They are sitting at dinner. There is an inaudible conversation between them. The wandering light feeds a soul somewhere, when whispering girls love legendary persons. Some of the better ones know the Afrikans gospel. I do not know it.

I am finding the need for real books, hand written manuscripts, left over tense form nonsense. They cannot see their cloak. Those letters hold the true meaning of what it is when fevered pythons we watched lead us forever towards their ledge.

For the real spell is less tired. We are a getting older, less responsible, responsive, less tactful, brilliant, wondrous success. I am living off myself. I am harming no one.

Fear the others, can we?
Share the old ones, care.
Those are the posters, because other ones laugh
Be young beyond our wildest dreams
The essence of success

Rechanging Bursts on Page Fourteen:

They were having a telephone conversation, a man and his long-term wife. They were back in love.

“One of these things cannot continue his path, to break the dear ones heart. This is not the way of the mind nor the right thing to do. There is no postman in the nation that will tell me where she lives when she leaves me,” Robert said to Linda.

“They never wait for me, led back by the stairs and out the back. It is for your own joy that you quit. Is there a paper? It is the office.”
Linda’s reply was sharp and of the tone that the quick-witted trust.

That sends rich folk towards him. They smell the essence of someone haunted by reasonable past exhibits. They smell the opportunity to reach Nirvana through him.

A third voice chimed over the line. “Hello, you have reached Nirvana, by following a man in love with an angel. He asked God to make others aware of his celibacy. That is because of the angel who loves him back. They are is love and are good so they wait. The creator has made this so.”

A soul ponders it
And panders the senseless wind
Of the tall evil ones

Motion poison toad
Trying to figure out why
No Moe Sihota

The source was something; they wonderfully drop those little ones that needed that. The poison was of those, when they could. If they want the least fiery wondering why they can and where they can be. These men are really there. The goal was reached.

The spaces want not the spooky realization that I am not alone.

Waterfalls chase our hero as he wandered like a steeplechase. And while we walk and say they cannot be there. These are methods of advanced intersection. The digital will save us. But when at last he speaks, we laugh because we both wander. Settling like they had others, they never needed facts. The mortal setting fear and result cause the wandering eye to be falsified. There is no sugar.

Settling like they had others, they never needed facts. The mortal setting fear was because I had never been, and the little lessons that walked when I cancelled the draft sped to distant shores.

Sharing potential and a drastic reflection I handled the water like a raspy dictator that I never wanted to be. Where is my mind, or my soft-spoken mutterings of lunacy and calm? Where is my sadness? The deed is ever broken and assured in key.

For I am a waste, lame shattered and begun like lifted licking littler, water. Love shames me and I must pray. I must pray again, for my religious tools of grandeur.

The pause is of a religious nature. That is what I need, the grand gesture can be skipped, but if I could find a tone, a purpose of a mission to declare and defeat, I could take my rope and shine and take pause from the river and light my mind. This abreast little blame place that lights their old way is haunting my passages, so please take your mind from me.

Wine and water while wisps watch in wonder. White smoke, faire thee well and I can believe in that. Why do all the past favors wrap such a glory today?

He wound up roped, far too paranoid to commit crimes. He was taking drugs to refrain from doing something stupid. It was just his way of saying that these drops were layered and the minds eye went toward a bright and social trend. You see, kingdom humanity, they are all one word, egad!

It is a guy who just hung out of all syllables. He is one voice that unites. He is the whispering voice of a lion. The ear of the lion pulled torn and scripted, this eerie remark on a guitar. The turn in this book is for little signs to see what we manifest, save the dean of souls, space watching when you wrong the girl and the waves. Speak when you can.

Shining Woman:

My concern for different opinions has since sent my intrepid seed into a woman that I want to love, a woman who spends all her time with me, buys me food, loves me and lives in accordance with all moral codes. But knowing this does not settle my paranoia.

I fear this beautiful apparition is the woman that I prayed for. Many years I sent grace and moral questions into the ether and found that they remained unanswered. One day they were, basically to the dimensions and qualities that I had asked for my whole life. I prayed for a beautiful woman because I had none, and I was very set on a soul mate that was out there for me. Some parts tell me that this woman is she, but other senses do not.

I once woke with the startling realization that all her stuff was gone and I was not sure whether she was there when I had arrived at home. The note said, “Friday” in looping scripture, even though I wanted to travel south with her, well across the border. I had no money to take the trip and I owed my friend 100 dollars that I had spent, thankfully, on my car.

The silver winter morning shone brightly as myself, dressed in my best way, as a man who awoke on the couch to turn on the radio and hear about gas leaks, blizzards, explosions and numerous things that trap people in a claustrophobic mania.

I knew that she was not home when I got there, but I was not sure. This marked every step so far in this relationship. I was sure that she was being honest but I could not believe it.

The note she left said “Friday.” The letters were swirls that expressed love and frustration. I can be a very hard person to live with. I am not able to function with the normal people. I can be very paranoid and stubborn. I can throw wild accusations towards friendly people. I picture her now in a shower with some other man. I should trust that she tells the truth.

The silver morning shone like a siren, tired and waiting for the sun to break the clouds. The safetyman and his woman spoke to my many hands. They also spoke of Festin’s ready hands. The rest of them took their little hand and rose like a falcon to waste. Until I raised the fire and loved her truly I wanted her to stay. These limited me from raising my hands and like a hymn I felt I had to walk to church.

When I rose the world spun around and I was sick to my stomach. I asked the man on the couch how I got home.

“Dester Cross drove you here,” Abrido Montag told me.

Abrido was a special chap, claiming often that at one time he was a evil man, in need of saving. The good word, whatever it was, had taken his hand and brought him to a place of repentance in search of inner peace. He drank like vicious fire and fantasized openly about a relationship with his mother, a woman he lived with who was very good looking and he thought was his wife. He claimed no responsibility for his past, looking back on it as if it were a past life. He sometimes claimed to be responsible for massive woes of our world. I sometimes had dreams that he killed me.

All I needed was rest, so I went back to bed. Abrido Montag drank juice and stared openly into a darkness that only he could see. My girl had bought it, so I asked him to slow down on it a little.

She is the kind of woman that would leave juice at my house. She loves me, through all the trouble in the world and all the pain I have given her. It may be because she sees that I love her. It may be because I lied to her for a long time. When I told her the truth she cried and screamed at me. She ran away that night and cried on the street. The woman’s name is Emily Grett.

Peaceable Sorts:

Stubborn leaders and source code crosses like faded poets on tea and coffee. He rose to get another coffee. Because I hadn’t ever been trained, nor did I have any experience, I knew that I needed to avoid confrontation. A silver-grey, dapper man would take me by his side and help the war effort from an office, while I tended to his documents. This would make me the most important person in the game. I would be alive when the war ended.
I would go with Festin.

I didn’t want to hurt anybody, and could hear the rain pour outside with the essence of sanity or maybe the delusion that bloody raindrops pounded the roof, I cannot be certain now.

I did not want the war that has become of my world. I wanted a dashing trip. I wanted to love Emily Grett. I wanted to be sincere and untruthful. But how can I even bother with these thoughts. They are like the matter of liars of faith. These souls have written our leaders, begging for recompense, tired of the fighting and with hope fresh in their eyes. These souls cannot fight any longer.

Abrido may be the peaceable sort, but there is a fire in his eyes that speaks of much regret. There is a certain way about him that I am sure he wants to hurt either Festin or Stranglandia. I cannot be sure where his allegiance weighs. It could be true that either government would be against his wishes.
He especially hates police.

So I threw away my happiness, for troublesome brews, highs and wartime pacifism. I threw it away for intoxication and talk of the Bible. There had been no talk of the Bible in circumstance, but I do need the church now. It will certainly be open tomorrow, but there is no thought that basks in it impetuous glory like a reigning king destroying a population for more goods and services. We were already Festin’s subjects and I suppose they have come to make it official. Their problems are with their lack of remorse. There goes my job researching like an enamored space cadet, with daft laughter and ghosts.

These crosses and Emily Grett made my soul a bit lighter. The hymns that I sing to myself make the night a bit safer, if only in my mind. The door remains locked and my cat remains hungry.

The stars are falling, and I am certain the star in the east has never been that low. The other stars were most likely spacecraft. Perhaps they are a better people, sent or wanting to save our planet. We need their help with our uncertain future.

I didn’t want to take those things and hurt Emily, and now I may not be able to tell her. I have to tell her. Lord, what if I didn’t tell her and I did die this day? Lord, I have to tell my love.

The Death of a Salesman:

On the table was a book by a salesman named Adolf Slope. It was a popular work, meant to help businessmen get ahead in their game, a world where any advice is a solid opinion if it is presented as such. The book was white and green and was called, “Get Rich Now.” It was published ten years before now.

I wondered about the writer. How old was he? Had he died in the invasion? His book would be wiser if he was killed. As a martyr his thoughts would permeate the wash, allowing us to take his words more freely. This would create a wandering signal, some kind of inner demon that would make his work truer, like a final tome of classic thought. The book would be more valuable if Adolf Slope had passed.

I opened it to page 26 and read a piece about smoking only the finest cigars, as it would allow the certain type of person to take you seriously. It was an expense one would make them afford and if one switched to a less expensive model, one could easily just save the money without effecting their initial way of life.

I wanted expensive tobacco, so I closed it, hoping Mr. Slope was dead. I would get rich sooner if his advice were ethereal. Maybe I would even get an expensive cigar.

Dreaming of this word, and believing what my soul said, I knew that turbulent weather would wrap around my town. Rain would shelter us from the storms. Night would bring the salesman’s final sleep. It is never more noticeable than when genius is crazed on pills and sauce. It hurts our eyes to see light.

As I wrote this to you, water, I speak it to the grandfather clock that rests against the wall near the boarded window. I believe that I can hear Adolf Slope as he explains to someone that he cannot handle this war, that he cannot accept the pain, that he does not hold the information they wish of him, just that he holds information for me. I hear him in the distance, but know that it is only my mind. I can clearly reassure myself in the same tone, using the same part of my brain. I know that it is inside me.

My clock never said much in return, and I appreciate that. My dreams mind the letters that people send to each other regarding my psyche. This is the source of turbulent weather. It is time to get out, to get up, and to wake.

Belief was of a man who woke. Spells and tomes set in light time the course for all the other spaces before me. So I must wonder. The clock would never know that all the men in the world heard me through my wandering brain. My thoughts were broadcast via an ethereal tower that sat atop my head since some secretive spirit who began to send messages to me had placed it there.

I worry that Emily Grett had heard that I chose to do drugs, so I must tell her, because if not she may censor my letters to you, water. She may know the inner secrets of my mind-based broadcast, because she listens. I know she listens because she participates. I know she participates because I listen. She loves me still, Emily Grett, and I am sure because she always will. We have a far-reaching past; a life lived by those who watch television.

Details of the lit path conclude the truth to me. Fans are compelled to listen as I dance symphonies through my backyard.

I care little for writers and media warriors like Adolf Slope. His indoctrination has made him very wealthy. I only care for heroines listening to me as mindless jabs are sent through westbound telephone lines. That is why I must call her to meet. We should survey the landscape.

Ten Minutes Later:

I called to confirm that we would meet at the parlor, she told me we would meet at the Barstruck Bistro, but only if I promised not to drink. I told her that I loved her, assuring her twice and ate a government tranquillizer that had been looking at me from the dresser since before Festin had invaded.

The guilt panged my heart as I walked slowly towards the door.
I smoked the cigarette she had recommended, Rothman’s Special. The smoke made me sick, I needed three glasses of water to settle my stock, lowering to the rungs of common man.

I opened the front door and it appeared that Festin had made it through our town, destroying the appearance of Strangelandia in an invisible sense only. There was nobody on the street, most doors and windows were boarded, paper flipped and traveled in the wind, everything was dirty but it appeared that no gunshots were fired.

It did not look like an invasion. There were neither flattened buildings nor bodies, just an eerie quiet that emanated like the morning. I began to stroll idly as trees past me on either side creating a shady enclave that lit me as a silhouette as I crested the first small hill.

I looked at the corner shop, where I bought my Rothman’s cigarettes. The boards were on either side of the barred windows. The neon lights that jutted above the building were out. On the other side of the street was a hardware store. There was a board lifted off the window and the window smashed in, probably to gain access to weapons, or perhaps boards and hardware for home defense. I knew of some sort of biology or physics, but not a discerning name given to those who write their words.

If only I could make such a picture: In the early morning is the dust had settled like no one had been about in many weeks. There were no bullet holes in the buildings, any rising water nor destruction. We had leant them our ear and they had lied about this war. I was certain. But what were those loud noises that had filled the street for so long? The crashes were so roaring they shook the foundations of my house. The walls swayed as they deafened our ears. Yet there was no destruction.

I could not take a picture, nor mix a drink. I could not blend in to the fog that surrounds me. Spaces settled I was ready for the weasel and harmoniums sent towards their leaning patience without a close-knit wink. Perhaps I do not exist, for without these people who can, I suppose that teachers find their harm or the details of God? It is the strangeness that unsettles me because there are no dead.

We would belong to the purposes that take their minds. There is not a needless spot. Hope can space their minds apart.

These are but letters to souls, water. This is of people being fired from grand schools for personal spite and the children leaving them for government tranquillizers. They give their sheltered lives a good name. But the school appears closed for good, too.

A number of times I had noticed mistakes in the school. It is why I left so many years ago. It was always teaching us about Festin, not our land, it was as if they were heralding this kind of new age. Surely they knew this invasion was coming, and surely someone was pilfering the safes.

So never mind, water, because these people want us to help. I mean, it didn’t make me any better than the rest. If the others were like me I’d say we are off worse for going there. The Robot School of Metal Health, they say it is in my blood.

With this thought I arrived at the café to meet Emily Grett.


Outside the building is light grey with soft, rounded edges and small turrets with small white on black Stangladian flags hanging from either corner. Two small people stand outside the large door holding guns and I pass thru the dull black archway to enter the Barstruck Bistro. People mull around the front chatting aimlessly, losing interest in their topics and drinking hard liquor. Only Emily is in the back, sitting in a booth in a far away corner nursing her regular coffee. Dull thoughts muffle this sudden exposure to her modern way of thinking. She gives me a yearning for historical inquiry by appointed hobbyist wing nuts, in order to befoul the truth with idealistic sympathies and grandiose arguments by rich white people.

The radio speaks, “This is the story they need to have. It is a wordless wander because they need their part. We never can tell, because of all those that can see. I know that we will have 21 more minutes of arguments, easily followed by another 26. These words and the triumph they cause matter, you see, because the leaders enclose their matters. Someone smart leads them. He prides his intelligence, and I doubt people like him.”

Emily sees me standing there and knows she has to buy me a coffee. She has more money than me because she has a job. She calls me over, but I am trapped in the radio.

“He could afford the important position and fund the loud speakers that lied of the war. This is what I will tell Adolf Slope if I meet him. That when I am rich like him and our leaders. Then I will likely turn blue. I would like to have all the things that I wanted, without turning keys to the shore. I would like to work difficult savings out of turnips and might I add, they are torn. I am sure that the light near the back of the fountain had places to hide and strength among herb, but somewhere at the back there is someone who is certain that there is nothing left to us and certain we are there.”

The leader, he was buried with $1000 of bullion. It is worth more now than back then. The crime is that nobody took it from him.

Felt Markers of Truth:

I argued for them that lunch soon after they invaded. They had not learned. Forever, he would bring them the truth. The notorious them, such fervor and legislation were made to belong to them. When I became one of them Emily Grett had nobody else. These voices are recorded so as to find the legitimate excuse. One is that the illness brought us somewhere between the little war and the big one. We have nothing, but make our way to the reception on the wharf. And as others carry us, the story is created.

There is nothing to learn. Forever he would bring them the truth. The notorious them, for some leave there, pace and drink coffee and write like I. It is reloaded once a year, and there is less of it to ruin. This person had the first store in Stagladia, I am sure. And it is empty from fear, but not in ruin. We never heard from the rest, perhaps he was lost for the purpose, finding a difference between the fictional stereo and mono plug.

She unwound a long wrapper. I moved in my spot on the pillowed, plush bench. There is one limit, with none to come. Many years will wrap this city in gold. She knows that. There are many people who will bring their sun towards us. While I am explaining these bugs to her, like that time we were sitting on the wharf counting them, Emily told me not to mind. I need this dry lemon like I need a slap on the hand.

She is one like the rest. Someone not raise quite so functionally as to rest inside a heavy handed righteous learning chest that mattered. And I can have this, a sign that some kind of dry lemon is taken from the ladder. More fast-talking for the day, something special, like this, that I can hear, an audio file that must be slowed to an available speed. It is some sort of history, and I am not concerned by what I do.

Then, of course, there is a space reserved for illness and men who can be feared. And they must, it is only fair.

Research Reserved:

I told Emily of a space reserved for Water, and I must write that only Water should have known forms in this manner. I cry to her like that sometimes, as if I were talking to myself. There is no matter left, she took their weight and I speak like the little man. But saved me. The man who stole me sold my books to men who only read stolen books. He is a man of fine tastes, living up north where there are few with fine tastes. He is intelligent and well traveled.

Emily told me that she was reading the daily news posts on BfZW Channel Two and they are reporting on Water’s Creek, about six hours from our town. Festin’s highest guard currently occupies this land. They are creating a large fortified base easily accessible by air because Festin has eradicated the Stagladia port city of Water’s Creek. There is a large air force base that has lost nearly 82% of its population. The citizens of Water’s Creek were subjecting to the plagues of Festin, namely extended power outages and flooding. The most fatiguing are the madness sent as subliminal audio waves from helicopters and trucks blasting very loud screeching noises. Only the military installations were struck fatal blows.

The news was reporting our military failure as if Festin is our new government. We have not unconditionally surrendered, but we are being asked nicely to step aside. It seems the government radio station is the first to go. The speakers had no accent, which is strange.

"They must have been well-trained Festin spies," I tell her.
She agrees, "Because it was not the regular 3:30 lady." Emily was unnerved.

...To Be Continued...


Old songs...

The man stood in front of a crowded coffee shop and said, “This is a song.”
He began to sing.

“I’m more alternative than you
I’m more alternative than you
No one can tell me what to do
You aren’t going to play the blues
You’re not hip less you do what I do
I’m more alternative than you
I am driving faster than you
I am taking more beer than you
I am funnier, it’s true
I am more alternative than you
It’s true”

And they sat watching, ill fated like it was a metaphor of some zenith, like the sixth thing that he had stated to not be true. And he could not speak, there was little for him. He stole a grass figure and we never wanted margarine. Taking precautions with the little mixed one that dodged his last shot and took mindful mistakes to pass.

He liked cigarettes, as if they were his only friend. The mask was an idle one, figuring that he had spend at least ten years buying cigarettes every day and wondering what he would have bought instead. Everyone around him didn’t like the state he was in and it was no wonder. The smoke rose to the ceiling, like his spirit once did.

“She feels very nice on my lips,” he suggested, “Giving me a feeling that I live. And she will never leave me, not like you did.” Surrounding him were people he mistook for the toxic fog of war, the smoke held him paranoid. Once he was back on his feet he wasn’t going to fall down anymore. He saw her wish float to the ceiling like it would help her find the door.

The ignorance was from where they came, regarding the difference they used to make. It was a lifetime in a frozen lake, carelessly leaving him in a different state. His lifestyle was catching up, cigarettes and empty cups. His habits had to change. It all depended whether these people were his friends. He had nowhere else to go, so he asked for a little of that blue eyed soul.

And depressing a nation of media whores, Jon Pelletier sat watching the waves. As he looked towards the moon, the last dying breathes of light exhausted over the horizon. It is almost half real sometimes, and apparently here he was. Jon came searching for a new life and had finally come to realize the one that he had.

Barely able to connect, Jon reached into his open chest. Streets had raised the fire and accounted tales of the west. He sometimes wondered if anyone would ever read all the books he had written. It is the unbreakable kind, not the professional stuff like I had used. “Christ the crook, at least we are all naked.” Grace, and have you marched for him yet, sir? Wide eyed my third was blind, any reason for my old blank mind. You are too kind. I give what’s mine. None to see through truth, through gold, when wealth, power and money is his only goal. It leaves me crooked, broken and shamed, not willing to learn but pointing out blame. This should not be my name.

Why is everything yellow? We can’t see through the green. I’ll look out for my brothers, it should be all the peace I ever need. Yet I feel I should ask, but you are too kind. So I have given away what’s mine.


Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Life Insurance, From a Guy You Don't Want to Hear From Again.

This is article writing that I did not get paid for.
Jon Pelletier

We Have Many Options - Perhaps it is Best to Take the Most Secure:

The RBC Life Insurance Company provides a very important way to protect a family. It is very simple plan that can result in ones beneficiaries living with a tax-free benefit upon ones death. The money can do many things for them including paying for education, paying off debts and covering the expenses of a funeral.

Many people have employer-provided plans, but these can be insufficient to fund the beneficiary’s lifestyle. This coverage also may not continue if the job is lost. There are also stories of companies taking the entire worth of a life insurance policy and keeping it for their own uses. This can be a hurtful reality that haunts a family long after the pain of bereavement is gone. A simple way around these issues is to purchase your life insurance from a bank, such as the Royal Bank of Canada.

RBC Insurance provides affordable life insurance that is custom fitted to suit your personal budget, lifestyle and needs at all times throughout your life and offers the possibility to change ones plan as situations improve or decline. They offer four options to suit the customer’s needs: Term life insurance, permanent life insurance, universal life insurance and personal accident insurance. All of these provide security to a family so the breadwinners do not have to worry about what their children would eat without them.

With life insurance from the Royal Bank of Canada, the customer can feel sure that there is strength, stability and prowess behind their decision. RBC is a substantial group of insurance companies, in fact, it is the largest group own by a bank in Canada.

The Possibility of a Kind and Generous Empire:

American Home Life Insurance Company is a mutual company that is owned by the policy owners, not stockholders and corporate people. They are licenced to do business in 24 states providing individual life and annuity products. The company was incorporated in 1909 with the intention of serving Kansas, and it did so until 1912 when it merged with American Mutual Life Insurance Company and assumed the name “American Home Life Insurance Company.”

Since then, they have increased in size and innovated many concepts, while providing efficient, courteous and effective service to everyone who works for the company and those that provide the companies bottom line.

Because it is a mutual company the policyholders, who have a say in how the company is run, pay the sales force. The cash is reserved and paid out, as it would be in any insurance company. The company has over $1.6 billion in life insurance policies in active duty and over $164 million under management. Over the years they have provided of $192 million to beneficiaries and policyholders.

American Home Life Insurance Company is one of America’s most trusted companies. It caters to the needs of the common people, although it is one of the largest insurance providers. It is possible that they have created their image as such a positive one, but it is difficult to find negative information regarding them. This is most likely a sign of a reasonable and very kind company. The possibility of this company losing its assets and turning belly-up is very low, as it has a long history and a large number of people paying in to the mutual insurance company.

Is It Best to Go With the Giant On This One?

Genworth Life and Health Insurance Company is an insurance provider that is now called Genworth Financial. They now specialize in helping people attain peace of mind and bring their dreams to reality. It is important to protect one’s loved ones, especially if you are the primary supporter and caregiver, paying the bills and owning the home. Life is a fickle thing, that doesn’t last long enough some times, and Genworth provides a service that can let you sleep at night knowing that your dependents will be taken care of once you have shed your mortal coil.

Genworth wrote their first policy in 1871 as the Life Insurance Company of Virginia and since that day have been committed to providing a helping hand towards security and financial freedom. They are a publicly traded global financial security company that holds upwards of $100 billion in assets. They have a place in over 25 companies. They are a Fortune 500 company and ranked in Standard & Poor’s Index of Leading US Companies. They are doing very well in insurance.

They work with distribution partners worldwide and pride themselves on their employees, who apply skills and dedication to bring positive change to an uncertain world. They explain that the greatest asset to ones financial plan is a simple life insurance policy, as it will protect those dearest to their client in time of utmost crisis and pain. This is the key behind any life insurance agency, though Genworth may be the best option due to the company’s vast size and corporate power.

Award Winning Option in Low Cost Life Insurance:

The Jefferson National Life Insurance Company has been doing business since 1937 when they were founded in Texas, USA. They are now headquartered in Louisville, KY. They have vast experience offing life insurance and long-term investment products to 49 states and D.C. They have a successful history of providing low-overhead and simple term insurance and are very proud to have remade the variable annuity industry with their innovative products such as Monument Advisor.

Although they are a low cost life insurance provider, they have amassed a fortune over their 70-year history. Their assets are listed at $1.3 billion, while their available capital is worth $5 million and they run a net surplus of $18.3 million. They pride themselves on having strong capital, a large amount of cash in statutory reserves and a high quality investment portfolio.

Jefferson National was recently named a finalist in the 2011 Stevie® Awards for sales and customer service. This is following 15 top awards in 2010, starting with two “Leader Awards” from the Summit Emerging Media Awards.

One of the reasons Jefferson National is able to provide low-cost product solutions to customers is because they have developed a totally automated process for helping clients and their consultants. This revolutionary technology provides account information, client statements, financial planning tools, online modeling tools and many customer allocation tools. The staff at Jefferson Financial consists of wise and seasoned financial experts. They look specifically for those people who have a wealth of experience in finance to provide their support and service.

A Brief History of A Large Insurance Group:

The American Public Life Insurance Group is a member of the American Fidelity Group. They understand that life cannot always be the way it is expected and sometimes the ups are as common as the downs. It is why they offer many products in the life supplemental health insurance genre. Going through times of hardship is difficult. If the person has a series of dependent children or elders who need them to provide monetary support, a place to live or care they must take the time to provide security for themselves. This is what life insurance is for. Benefits paid by the American Public Life Insurance Group will help pay many out-of-pocket expenses that add up when accident or illness take the client away. It is a dark trade, but one that is utterly needed.

They provide many life insurance options, which include permanent, term, children’s, accident only and insurances specific to various diseases or ailments. Although it is impossible to emotionally compensate for a loss with the payment of money, it is important that the death of a loved one does not result in huge payments and massive debt loads. Some of the better features of their permanent life insurance policy are that the rates are guaranteed not to increase, that there is a guaranteed level death benefit to age 100, your investment will accumulate with time and they provide nicotine and non-nicotine rates.

The American Public Lie Insurance Company was founded in 1945 with offices in Missouri and Oklahoma. They are now licenced to do business in 49 states and the District of Columbia. For many years they focused of work insurance, giving the client the ability to add coverage they would not otherwise have to their basic insurance plan.

One of Many Options in the Competitive World of Life Insurance:

The Combined Life Insurance Company of New York provides supplemental insurance in the United States of America. Supplemental insurance is additional insurance upon your current plan that helps the client purchase things that standard insurance doesn’t cover. There are many people that do not have the insurance they need to provide for their loved ones if tragedy strikes and they are gone.

The Combined Life Insurance Company of New York website explains five basic tenets that about the ways they will protect their clients and their families. They provide the client first with peace of mind benefits that will help pay for expenses regarding the death of the client and any left over mortgage and debt payments. This money can be very helpful to those that have taken time off of work to help a dieing relative.

They provide “whole life protection” up until their client is age 100. The insurance comes into effect the second or third year that the policy is in action. So if one is accepted to one of the coverage plans by the Combined Life Insurance Company of New York and live past 100 years of age they believe that you long life is special enough to characterize the lack of coverage for your aging or now retired descendents, that should have their lives together and life insurance plans of their own by now.

If this company’s insurance plan covers one, they can gain their benefits while they are still living if one goes through the process of requesting them. There is also an optional accidental death benefit plan that is available if the person is younger than 65. This pays double.

Providing Solid Customer Support Is a Bonus:

American Medical Security Life Insurance provides flexible insurance policies for many Americans and claim that every day more people are turning to them for coverage. They pride themselves of being adaptable and competitive and are efficiently serving America through independent brokers and quality health-care providers. The company was rated “Excellent” by A.M. Best in 2006 based on their financial and operation performance.

This company came into being when American Medical Security Inc and United Wisconsin Life Insurance Company became one entity. AMS is a stock based company incorporated in 1966. It is located in Green Bay, Wisconson, USA. It provides life insurance coverage for more than 259 000 members. The beneficial nature of life insurance explains that the customer must be aware of the causes and beliefs of their insurance provider. The key is finding what is necessary. If one does not understand the coverage they can become lost in the creative and confusing wording of legal documents.

In 2001 AMS implemented a partnership with the Pivotal Healthcare Demand Chain Network Solution Suite, which leverages proven prowess providing global eBusiness infrastructure to AMS to enable the company to maximize revenues and improve customer retention. Using this program AMS is able to merge the capabilities of customer relationship management, web-based selling, eMarketing and eService into a streamlined concept to speed up online agent support and services. This allowed the company to once again become a proven leader in the industry by caring for their customers in a faithful and direct way.


Shawn Casey: By Jon Pelletier

Trying to freelance one time, I got asked to write seven quick articles about Shawn Casey. I was never paid, so I put them on my blog. I don't know anything about this guy, honestly. I was just trying to make a buck.

Tips for Online Marketing, Brought To Us By an Expert:

If a lot of time has gone into your website, yet you still cannot find the results you hoped for, you need the help of Shawn Casey. His successful career as an entrepreneur, attorney, publisher, author and teacher has brought him an incredible resume and us some great advice. He is very willing to share the secrets that has let his startup media company Mining Gold Corporation earn him $30 million since 1999. He shares this by teaching exclusive classes and through his short and wise blog posts. His experiences have helped over 113 000 people in 119 countries reach their online marketing goals.

In 1995 he was given an opportunity to become CEO and President of Success Development International. With his guidance, SDI was named to Inc. Magazine’s highly regarded Inc. 500 list of the quickest growing private companies in America two times. And he is giving his advice away for free!

His blog can be found at

Successful Media Man Makes Time For the Little Guy:

Online marketing guru Shawn Casey can explain how to market a website to get the best possible results. And time is of the essence, as we all hope for the best possible results for our efforts. His tips can be found at His websites include brief summarizations regarding how to build a stronger recipients lists, how to get much more traffic to your website, the law of attraction, Internet marketing, domain investing and personal development.

Since 1999, Shawn Casey has sold more than $30 million of his top of the line media products and services. His job is to share his knowledge and help his clients start and grow their own online business. Mr. Casey has a tremendous resume including founder and CEO of Mining Gold Corporation, which provides premier media products and continues with experiences as an attorney, publisher, author and teacher.

His experiences give him rare qualifications to help upstart companies reach their goals.

The True Potential of People on the Internet:

Shawn Casey is a successful self-made millionaire, famous for taking inquiring minds through step-by-step processes to succeed on the Internet with a home business. He does wild promotional activities, like in 2007, when he was giving away $500 “business in a box” software. Mr. Casey is renowned for promoting joint ventures, a common business practice that has served him well in his years. His writing also discusses recipient lists, gaining traffic to a website, the law of attraction, Internet marketing, domain investing and personal development.

A person similar to us, Shawn Casey has a wife and three daughters. He is an avid golfer and enjoys playing guitar. He visualizes his accomplishments. The favorite part of his job is helping people succeed in achieving their goals. The difference between him and most people is that Shawn Casey makes $600 000 on a good week at the office. The good news is he is willing to teach us how.

Be Careful of Sharks Under the Internet:

A victim of a scam reported to that after signing up for Shawn Casey’s “No Limits – No Excuses Internet Apprentice Program,” which was to include a 12-month program of coaching sessions and the promise of getting rich within 60 days. The victim claims to have paid $7986 up front for nothing. The victim furthers the report by saying an automated voice was convincing enough to make her record an automated message.

After two months of trying to log on to the website, a victim who claims to be very computer literate tells a tale of setting up the “Money Tree” websites that were paid for, to no avail. The website itself did not work. She demanded a refund and got lucky, because she did not open the packages that were sent to her. The packages she was sent were said to be her free bonus materials, listed as non-refundable and worth nearly $7986, what she paid for the scam to begin with.

They’ll Take Your Money – Mining Gold Corporation

Many people received an email from Shawn Casey at Mining Gold Corporation regarding the release of his $497 “Internet Business-In-A-Box.” It claimed on the website to be a multi-media training course teaching the client how to make a fortune on the Internet in 60 days. Of course, this may not have come in to your inbox as some e-mail hosts list mail from Shawn Casey as spam.

A victim of the scam reported to that after signing up for the “No Limits – No Excuses Internet Apprentice Program,” which was to include a 12-month program of coaching sessions. The victim claims the first call asked for her to invest more money than she had already sent in order to get started. She continued with the program, only to record a message that would ask others to sign up for the program and make money. She claims she paid $7986 up front for nothing.

Get Rich Quick – An Important Idea to Avoid

Shawn Casey in a well-known Internet marketing expert, multi-millionaire and bright individual, but is he a scam artist? Some may say that his products don’t work and his business is a true hustle, there to take the money and run. The key is that he doesn’t sugar coat his techniques.

His philosophy is one taking the western world by storm. The theory is that one just has to visualize the money coming in and it will. It is a matter of attitude. But Shawn Casey’s track record proves that he will endorse almost any product that he sees an opportunity to exploit. Can you really trust anyone who endorses anything just for money? There are many complaints regarding his practices, nearly as well documented as the pro-Casey work he is accused of planting on the Internet to continue his scams.

Shawn Casey promises he can tell you how to get rich quick. This is a refrain that has been known as a surefire scam alert for many, many years.

The Wisdom of a Life Marketing Media:

Shawn Casey would like to tell you something. “List building,” he writes, “Is – without a doubt- the most important thing you can do to build a profitable and successful business.” And he should know, since 1999 Shawn Casey has sold more than $30 million of his premier media services and products acting now as the founder and CEO of Mining Gold Corporation. He continues to explain that it is essential for a startup company to build a list of subscribers.

His Internet marketing blog also explains many tactics for getting traffic to your website. This is one of the more difficult aspects of building a web-based company. There are many sites online. He recommends interacting with people by using sites like Facebook and Twitter, writing articles that have proper search engine optimization, commenting on other blogs and paying for adds to drive traffic towards your product. You have put a lot of time into your website, why not get the results you deserve?
The painting blinked. The writer is torn between these initial thoughts. He knew there was religion, if nothing else. Who is this man to destroy humanity?

Norman Shins lived in a large bland city known as Festin. It was tall and strong and grey with stunning skyscrapers made of glass but a thick fog that held them from those on the streets below. He was a bookkeeper and wanted to make an honest living. His fame came from his lies that told of two friends that really had their say.

He wrote one note that stated boldly:
“They knew of only one man who stayed in a form of madness that seemed out of place in an otherwise matriarchal household. “

This was odd in Festin, and odd for Norman Shins. He had a tendency to write aimless letters with bad grammar and more small marks from tears than of punctuation. In the factory he worked, the main platforms were brown, small rectangular rows and columns he needed to fill with minute details of the past days work. This meant he stayed up late pushing paper nearly every night.

This would have been lonely to some but he had a colleague who felt forced to keep him company in the same small cubicle. This action was simply because the boss needed to instill fear and power for respect. He had nothing that truly bothered him besides the small gap between the blades of the forks and he told that to Norman every night at dinner.

It was easier to believe in that sort of thing than tear the tormenting darkness in the world away from his inner light. It helped keep him centered.

Norman sometimes thought aloud that he was the only fair bookkeeper in this land. He may have thought he were the only fair person. Their leaders and the common folk held strange regard for those who abused their power and set this norm. It started as fear, Norman figured, but became a triumph of culture to demand people did one’s bidding.

But Norman just kept books. His boss would command to make sense of things on threat that he would simply die. It was he or his staff, in the end, as Norman and his cubicle partner Harold needed this position to keep their mortal shell.

Neither had family to care for. That seemed for the best because it was how their boss had raised them. No one had a family in this land. The eerie Darkened Guards would take all children to the nearest orphanage as soon as they were born. It was considered a sin to avoid telling a superior that you were expecting a birth.

It was argued that this sped the process of growing.
Studies backed by the Main Office of Ready Birth in Festin suggested that orphaned children left home and became self sufficient much quicker than those children coming from more affluent backgrounds. Norman was sure that some simply died though the official numbers that were available to the public stated clearly that overbearing parents often ceased the development of their otherwise stable and capable children.

Norman turned one night to his only true friend and said, “Harold, we have no mortal shell outside this office. You sleep two blocks away and I sleep one block away. Is this what life is?”

Harold refused to answer and they did not speak the rest of the night, passing even at the end of the night when Norman waved as they took their leave and headed in opposite directions from the front gate outside the building and into a hazy morning light.

So the next night Norman asked the same question.

Still Harold just looked at his books. Silently and simultaneously they wondered and subliminally left the office without missing a pen stroke. By some sort of luck, or perhaps just fate, the papers moved away and they found a small grey book.

This book appeared old, as the inside cover claimed it was written in 2009. Harold read the title to Norman in a calm yet nervous manner, trying to hide his glee and shaking hands. The title was bold and black on a simple matte white background. It was gritty to the touch. A symbol neither man knew was in the center, marking a brief red outline that played tricks with their eyes.

“So You Say You’ve Committed Genocide – A Handbook For Going to Hell.”

Marketing Team Evaluation:

Our marketing team is gaining a tremendous education regarding important marketing concepts. It has been fun reading the business plans and analyses regarding Pepsi-Co and the Frito-Lay Corporation. It has given us a positive outlook towards corporate America as one can easily reason that with consumer demand for environmental action and care the monolithic corporations that have integrated their products into our day to day lives will begin to make necessary changes for the continuation of our planet. Their motive is their bottom line and consumer power indicates that the more we demand responsibility the more they will be responsible, because people like thinking that eating a bag of chips will save the world.

This is an important life lesson, one of many our team has learned while working together. Although we sometimes discuss other topics, we have been able to do the assigned work properly. We understand that it is our team that is important to the success of our individual work, so we have helped each other in other areas of the class as well.

Our project will be a shining example of completion, concentration, cooperation and conscious minds. Our group can rest peacefully with minds that know the concerns of people aimlessly bickering and nagging are not ours. We are both in school as mature students, aiming at education, not a state of hitting the metaphoric snooze alarm, and this allows us to bring our full value to the table. It creates a team that is ready to take on the world, starting with a marketing class finishing with a trade show presentation.

We Have to Be Here, So This City is a Pyramid Somewhere By Jon Pelletier

We Have to Be Here,
So This City is a Pyramid Somewhere

By Jon Pelletier

This novel is woven around the question of whether we are alive or dead. In his manic dreams the author decides he is trapped between lives and in deep trouble. When he finally learns about himself, a creature saves him from the myth that is haunting him. Our hero is finally released from limbo into a city he used to dream about and soon falls asleep to find he is working for the higher power, much to his dismay, perhaps trying to become a righteous ghost.

Why is he being chased through lives by a creature trying to trap him in a sack? Or are these mystic creatures only trying to scare him straight? How does one escape from the trappings of strange realms? This work of fiction is a novel represented as a collection of short stories, to connote the absurdist realities of such spiritual topics. Nobody can know for certain any belief, as it uses concepts and words created by an imperfect human.

On the back cover it must be made clear that the protagonist is always the same person. Although his name and form sometimes change the story is being told of one man dieing many times as he is quickly passing from Earth to some other place. The deaths are sometimes hidden, sometimes abrupt, always cunning and lightly dosed with humor, allowing our hero to learn lessons about his personality and soul’s eternal weight.

This is fiction by a young and distinct writer. Although I am just beginning to send my work away to publishers and agents, I have entered five contests in the past 5 years. I won an honorable mention from the 2006 CBC Short Story Contest with one of the stories that is in this book and I won the three-hour writing contest earlier this year, receiving college credit. I have rarely been published outside of Okanagan College, but I am hoping that I could begin to make my living by writing books. My plan is to pay my way through further schooling by royalties and published work. I also have two other completed books, one fiction and one non-fiction.

I Should Call My Mother Suzanna:

I should phone my mother, as I was hit with a bad flu.
It has been a coughing matter sent towards dead landscapes. I was clearing air and doing things purposefully. It is the Jabberwocky show, a perhaps poltergeist. Dear, I have been ill, smoking too much, cold, bad fever. But I have been surviving. My immune system is stronger after the battle. The battlefield is torn and smoking. I have a hair bottle and a dearly hated man in my sights. He lives upon smells, hair, small kids and death kneels but he made it, too.

And here I am doing nothing. Do I want to be here?

Who is the leader of this next story? She is eighteen. She is a dear to me meditative battle, filling my head with angst and medicine. She is a shoulder to cry on, a white spell farting on the Jabberwocky television show. We are flying over Canada in an airplane, looking at outlandish cities sticking out of the landscape like a cartoon and boundaries or map-lines below.

Is she the girl from Jabberwocky? Is she here to talk with me and tell me my dreams? Or does she do this to everyone? She has a dark name. Black is bluer with her on my troubled mind. But these words are just personal freedom.

This may be a turning point. The sun peeks through the clouds and my window. Good times should follow this, sir. All will be well again. First I must relate this story as best I can. I should be better at hiding my beliefs. If I had been, all this would have been avoided.

These were cheap prayers from a man developing sloth in order to save my reign and tear a whole new man out of this blueprint. They continued, though it seems rather arbitrary as I have little room and much to say. I hold the inner light but am afflicted with one upheaval. It was a scummy little bar that had a bad habit of playing Tijuana brass. And I had but one simple refrain, my true and dear simple prayer.

Truly I bow to this reckless wish. He held a red gun. I had a stapler. His knees hurt and they were not hiring weirdoes. It is sad because I feel like a daft able man next to him. The righteous consciousness joins another while they sleep.

An utter and disparaging loneliness seeps into me. So I drink beer. And she laughs, because she loves me. Another round pull my eyes together like glass orbs or a knife hurting me such as John would stab hunger through me. Sirens wail in the distance.

But I hope I haven’t left you with the impression this story is about me.

The man leaves down the stairwell and out the door. The beginning light of every day chases this man to his car and he runs towards it in a black suit. The knife is thrown on to the seat and he starts the car. The black Cadillac pulls into the dawn. This dark man smiles and lights a cigarette. I had not seen him every before, or since, for that matter.

He is now sitting with Mother Suzanna. The dark man is wearing his black suit with a dark fedora. It is hard to tell if it is also black, as they sit near the back in a booth and write silly lines back and forth. The technical spark is myself, a loner with failed knees. His heart sank.

He reached for the bell and was swatted by Mother Suzanna. His hand flew back in fear. Mother Suzanna wrapped her hands of this diner booth, “It’s a shame we can’t smoke in here.” The man never wore anything but black suits. He smoked three packs a day. Mother Suzanna didn’t smoke. She also wore black suits.

Later, the halo on his windshield shone in brilliant purple and red. The crack up the middle separated the bright sun. He sniffed a quick line and drove a little faster. He felt burnt and reached for his cigarettes. He lit one and adjusted the mirror so he could look directly into his eyes. It is about what Mother Suzanna sees, so she can report it. The man had wasted an hour on the freeway so he pulled into an exit leading to a park where his car wasted no time slowing to the point of idle recreation. He had very little to do. He imagined ghouls banging on metal tables and hooting into the wind. A smile broke over his lips.

He knew what she would tell him, “I looked into the secret life of plants. I left a shutter camera out over a few days and watched how they moved and manipulated their environment. I watched how flowers form.”

The man sat coldly staring over his dashboard and into the empty green space. He knew that somewhere a femme fatale held a wine glass. A ray of dusty sun shines off the coffee table made of glass. But all parties are afraid to look.

“People make mistakes, sir,” the man would have to tell his boss, “I was left to the wolves. What else could I have done?”

And his boss would laugh. He would sip his morning coffee and say, “You will never flee these ghouls.” The man choked and heard his boss continue, “The grim reality is that you are scared.”

“They won’t get me,” the man said aloud to the empty car and green space.

He heard the femme fatale chime in, “Don’t let them, kiddo.” She stood from the high table. She excused herself and marched quickly out the front door of the shop. She passed the newsman with a smile. She passed a beggar at a quicker pace. Two men who worked a construction site whistled. And the man was still alone in his car.

The ghouls stayed with him. He had heard the noise and came across two laughing men and a pool of blood. Happy days and shared interests, one supposes. The ghouls vanish and the man has little to do but laugh maniacally.

Our hero writes a brief list for me:

1. Call a gargoyle.
2. Three perfect crystals.
3. I sleep in fame.
4. Death becomes me.
5. There is little I can do yet a prayer may send us past it.

Conspiracies and cutting jobs, dark asking and jewels, hard line carnies and festival lights, happy gnomes and figurative laughing, it was a generous banquet. I am the writer who orders another beer, watching, waiting and trying to find the ghouls.

Mother Suzanna shone a green light upon him. The man was watching THC flow through his veins and he looked puzzled. It was beginning to darken in the late afternoon. He thought of the queen. Was she still the Queen? He needed to discipline himself. The writer had many empty books to write in, and the man could tell they were all about him. So he struggled with his coffee and laughed about his press pass. He had sent many manuscripts away, yet very few had been accepted.

He prayed he could pay his rent. He had $2000 dollars to his name, $1400 hundred to play with and $600 to keep at all costs. He was smart but socially awkward. He may have been famous in past lives, but that is neither here nor now. His goal is to have his work studied after his death. It had been his goal many years when it finally happened. The man should listen because the advice was golden. He shattered parental tension. He failed at gatherings. He had the economy. He could transform.

Casual encounters first, then taking steps for breathing. He sheltered himself from the mid-day sun but now that it was gone he was thinking of the Tijuana brass music that leaked out the diner doorway at about three in the afternoon. He was a sometimes prophet but paid five dollars for roaches he found in an ashtray. He had the blues.

He was found near the entrance of the alleyway sucking on a filtered cigarette. He had given up cigars for his health but felt obliged to continue smoking for the sake of his aches and pains. He had worked at a smelter his whole adult life. Now it was closing and his town would change. His friends would leave, finally. They had been threatening relocation for years.

He owned a thoroughbred horse. The thought at the time was that it was a success and an investment. It had paid little in cash but it was a good social detail. He would talk of it when he needed to increase his class or if the time was right. He told himself to feel good. He had food in the cupboard, a roof over his head and the need for at least two quilts. He was doing things on purpose.

But we were all his pawns. We all move according to his whims. In the end we will all work for him. The refusal to love Mother Suzanna has repercussions. Things are illegal due to the divine word and some are illegally against that. The infinite word is one that many ghosts and gargoyles protect. Many people fight this infinite word and fail to become trapped in the world they have created. Some become trapped as ghosts. Some leave this world to find a reception of pain. It is ill advised to deserve this.

The word of man is not the word of the above world. This world is tainted. Men have a common trait to waste time slowly. Men are tainted by ego and self-deprecation. The divine think past those menial words. They spew out into a thought that the femme fatale is yet to find. It is of the unknown. It is the elder of the two that is determined to be correct in his varied situation.

This so enraged the gargoyles that they put a guard in the air to follow the man in the black suit and Mother Suzanna as if they raced against him. The goal at the end would be a million dollar purse. The gargoyles had the man pass through empty and invisible gates to track his movement. And there the man sat, in his idling black Cadillac.

So he put the car in drive and moved it through the dirty street when he realized that the gargoyle had set a trap inside his car. He heard two children laughing and it kept him up at night. It didn’t matter much what his personality was like at this point but he lived trying to get it back. It was the same as it ever was, as if he knew any better.

The car turned and was headed west, chasing the sun as it fell behind a skyscraper in the distance. He lowered the blind and adjusted himself in the seat. He turned the wheel and headed north to a shady thoroughfare. It was here that he would ask a man for money.

As he pulled into the bar parking lot he noted how empty the block was. He quickly made his way inside, away from the world.

“Could I have a glass or juice,” he croaked, “And perhaps a chocolate chip cookie?”

Enter the two cats from the battle of Emregon. They were two cartoon-like light green balls with goofy eyes and lanky legs and spent their time tracing around the man and his femme fatale. They had brought little reaction from her or the barman. The one on the left held a staff and laughed at bad jokes. There was something about anti-humor. It always seemed to break the ice.

The barman handed him juice and a cookie. “Thank you,” he said grittily. He sipped it as if it were dark scotch and turned to the woman to his right. She placed her hand on the table and the small green men stopped marching.

“Now we’re sucking the government teat,” she said.
The man giggled and asked her to call Whacky Chris.
She pressed a speed dial button on her phone within two rings he was on the other line singing a fancy song.
She asked him to take the two green men from the barroom. The man was sure of this because they laughed and moved towards the doorway.
The man smiled at her, “So the deal is on it’s way through?”
She nodded.

Later he felt like he may have wronged the woman, and it was tearing him up inside. He felt certain that he had a heart. He imagined the way she talked, her attitude, the way she looked, eyes that were tremendously blue and she wore a Government of Canada suit and smock. They were friends of the old tie and demanded the kids to listen. They lived in warehouses on plushy pillows. Their families were the other kids that lived in the warehouse. He had always banked on that. He always wanted those opposite things. He was well fed now but had not always had such luxury.

The light changed and he pulled his vehicle through the intersection. He looked for an audience, smiling as he waved. The distance traveled down the road and back allowed him to unravel. He was passed the asteroid belts and far worlds.

He recalled trips to Vegas as his car slowed down. But a banshee trapped him, wailing towards him so he could murder the poor. A still light and whole worlds left him bare, as if a sectional sofa was left in the deep woods on some island that was only his.

He felt successful and accomplished. He felt disenfranchised and tough. He had a butterfly knife to swing around his knuckles. The banshee wailed just arms length away from him. She was old and haggard around the face. He held his place and swung the knife twice at her. The first she did not flinch, the second swing ripped through her arm. It was another apparition for this man.

And even harder mathematic equations created a torrent. Idle muses haunted him by the evening, as the Gods plan a new sun. He wanted to capture the example he had played by. He thought of other work, but his madness continued with a simple rapping at his window. It was keeping him up at night.

He needed to sell his idea to the subscribers, or perhaps move in and conquer someone else by video taping an artist, asking him interesting questions. If he could mask himself later, this first draft would not hold his own.

This was not our hero’s point, although it may be circumstantial. At this point it might be good to state that the protagonist of this story was the whole time in contact with these varied and symbiotic characters and was in fact a thief.

The others were spellbound by his beliefs, resolve, determination and guile to face the world that treated him so poorly. The inspiration he had promised the other young artists came like a flash and in a moment he had left. For this they could do little else but thank him, not to his face or in a letter. But under their breath they thanked their luck in anger that they had not become so jaded that they treated the charity of others in such a way. This man in effect saved the others from squandering the life they were so blessed to receive.

The man had nothing of value except a blues harp and was motionless sitting in an empty lot of a rail depot that had seen far better days. There was nobody near the man. He held his grip tight and blew in the lonely silence. He had a secure petition and a lovely instrument. And though he had not thought of his mother in years, suddenly she became rather prominent. She was killed early in his life by a man she owed money to.

He was on his own in a tired and dreary world. He found friends in the urgent city somewhere in the poorest depths. But the murder was never investigated. She was his only mother and the police did not recognize the crime. One like so many, flying through the dead bureaucracy in this ill-fated city. She had words like the others but this fell unknown to his self and it made dark reminder of his youth.

He stole to provide a drug habit but never really drank. He never laughed nor cried. He split the page in two. He lit the night sky and looked at his letters. They were unopened and drafts blew into his house and perched on a round glass table. The other chair moved though it was empty and the man approached the second chair. He shivered as a force that would leave him approached. He boarded with energy and noted the door was unmoving and in fact was a deep sphere.

He read his favorite prayer by memory. If hell was what he favored he thought he would be mighty happy. It had no impact but he prayed for insecurity that the man held his aim through. He had prayed for her enough that tidbits of the Lord strained a lonely backseat with roses crumbling at half-mast. He had it this time, he thought of the two friends talking.

They would have been sitting there but they were not. It was probably for the best. But that little smiling girl from Jabberwocky was placed on the window or a turn of the candle. She danced like his world across the wall as the light flickered and landed somewhere beside the man who killed me.

Neither of us showed it, but we would race passed the trees, brooks and fences. We took liberty to slide on the bike tires as we strove to love our Father. We found nothing in obsessing over various trends or mercenary movement. Various people would raise our liberty and show that nobody and no force would take our measure as lead. In the end, your soul with all its earmarks will come to rest like mine. The faithful always claim to live in the light.

“So how do I know you are not a freemason?” the man asked.
“Had they taken them in fascist states?” I replied
“Answer the question,” he spoke firmly.

I stood motionless and surveyed his face. He rapped against the table and stated his demands again flatly. I struggled to respond.

“I believe they are mostly harmless.”

He struck the table again, “You God damned fool, get out!”

Civilization started with indoor plumbing and genocide because the Creator is cool as shit. This is a literal handbook. They hold all of his artists. They each took three days to incorporate the influx. The trouble with humor is that the President and other evil people holding guns drive Cadillacs. Do you think he will kill again? It is a topic that never left our opinion, but perhaps these men are chosen well in advance.

But one hundred years of genocide is enough. The literacy rate is higher now and many are happy to work. He was an accountant once again. Three years of school and he knew the technology of the world before. He was an accountant then, too. It is best to be near money, “Maybe I can hold some,” he thought.

It is a textbook case of literacy.

I suppose he read for the fun of it. A servant of the dire lord, I take it for granted that I eat daily. So thank you. There by I am a disgrace to all living men. The only illness you fall into is a blank line spending three days in a coffin and if you fall asleep you chase a demon. This ill will is finally your torture. Did you ever notice the TV screen?

The man’s cigarette broke and the cherry fell out, “Damned thing can’t light,” he muttered under his breath. He was malarkey living like C. S. Lewis writing Alice in Wonderland. And perhaps it was all for a child in the same way.

Of course, near the end of all time, the Actual Freemason is the still around guy. A still around, stuck in a staying around kind of mood, the still around guy at the end. “That’s my goat-boy,” she said.

They asked me to leave and I left rather quickly. I held them to it, saving the last of the paranoid. The overwhelming reality of their true cause made idle small talk with those who were true journalists. They held him to it, folding less of the paranoid. Only the reasonable, the witty and the idle judged the irresponsible. And only the lonely are idle. The red tape and pants are a gonzo truth.

Real writers are much obliged.
Real writers need to be watched.

They told the man nothing. It was utter gibberish, garbage. Magic impulses and manic outcries, though he believed it all. Only the reference held a man half interested in believing. He sat idly searching and pulling words from other’s thoughts. He would never leave Los Angeles again. I take that back, the LA of the north, Vancouver. It is a city of only red cars, but then we found this black Cadillac.

He needed coffee like he needed a bag of hammers to the side of his head but he stopped in anyways. The delusion was grated and the dreams succeeded to make sure he belonged to Mother Suzanna. The whole beverage was on her dime. So he asked to put “The Needle and the Damage Done” in the CD player. He never imagined it would keep him up at night. It was just the scratch of the minute where he stared out the window. But that never kept him up at night. She would, she might grab his arm.

It was a classy joint, he thought, the Devil’s burnouts and white trash. He argued with the cashier enough to turn the next page. The whole restaurant turned on him. It was as if his fly was undone as he paced the counter with a smile. He had to leave and go elsewhere. The highway would be right. He could just drive away.

There was nowhere he could hide. He struck the steering wheel and allowed his car to drive itself down the straight and narrow highway. It was for the best.

His person conquest was one that trailed off. The turnpike was draining him. Traffic was getting worse and he knew that if he wanted to run away he had to do so now. He would do what the doctor would not. The damned were noted and two of the acid trips he had done recently caused an accidental ghoul. The draw of nicotine and coffee would save his note. If he ever left the depression the jitters would come. There was nothing up the middle or at the window.
Nothing would keep him up at night.


Maybe if I find the ape he will guide us away from the wolves. It was the chance we missed last time.

I simply asked for salt and explain that everything we reply could very well be a false statement. I explain that the drink is strong and the salt eases in down. So far we feel fine but expect these dire wolves to close in abruptly. The Doctor remarks we are again entering Pawn County, if the man sitting in front of us keeps calling us down.

The Doctor was calm and deliberate stating, "Righteousness that was the issue last time. We searched for the wrong people. Our first mistake was making plans to find traces of an orgy of metal and smoke on an airport runway. Do you think that?”
Steve Spectacle replies, “The issue is we forgot to check with the Mole-People."

I remain silent a moment and recall the old story.
Moleman is a myth based around the workings of a homeless man who takes people and puts them in a large burlap sack. They say he is very apparent in Las Vegas. We even heard he works to save souls.

At this time disgusting arrays of people tell us we are breaking every rule of the air and sea. In defense we explain we are good law abiding citizens of Festin, like all the others. The Doctor was misinformed.

"The trick," I tell him, "Is to beat these fools literally."
“Maybe we should test you when we land.” Dr. Misinformed shouts towards a conversation he is not part of.

Fools think the trouble with Las Vegas is the homeless folk cannot help their stature in life. We are soon to discover the intolerant majority is the problem. The men and women of the street seemed afraid of the lights and sounds of the casino district.
But did they even realize it was there?

We asked many people on our tapes to define the American dream. The broad consensus of people told us the American Dream is opportunity. The others told us it was gambling. Most of the homeless mole people had never heard the term. Once, we had a quick reference from an obviously cold-dead woman. She may have been trapped in the dream once, or maybe she worked around that burnt lot in the center of the city.

So is Moleman is real or a myth? They say around my hometown that he lives alone in the darkness of the hills. But as of yet I have not mentioned that he refuses to take souls of those who hold sage. The people of earth told me this story as a child growing up. But this is Las Vegas, and we were about as far from perdition as you can get.

Is Moleman heroin in perdition? It may be the only issue on the minds of parents of teenagers, as the mayor has admitted that he sold the dope through the police in the 24-hour store parking lot next to the main local High School.
He had always mentioned the name with a tone of, "High's Cool." I had never noted that in writing, but I admit the whole town was cloaked an odd silence as he attempted to kill me. That is the trouble with running for office if you have enemies in high places.

But back to the point:

"This America is not what we want it to be." He told us. Somehow he referenced a word or two about Britain. This was strange enough at the time for me write it down. These homeless rarely talked of anything of the like. The debate whether Britain existed was quite a hassle on our recorded tape. This was recorded from memory, as it was only static when we listened later. I may have been shaking. I was scared from the ghosts we were seeing.

Was the mayor a mole person?
Why the city police pick him up just as we left?
Was he the Moleman we requested?

I came back to tea across from a strange Santa Claus having trouble keeping illicit admissions private. I looked his way as we sat peering at crack dealers outside and a very nice Australian woman.

And we are on the streak that got us into trouble last time. But we know better now. We left our casino before losing our path and shopped quickly at the staple store. On the street as we left the casino one of these strange mole people told me we must, as the key was to attach papers together. Though we cannot find the person who told us this. We bought one for us and one for her. I also bought a satchel to hold my modern disk for various files that I know about but these people seem to not.

The Australian lady accused me of stealing as we paid. I told them I worked very hard for my disks and she noted that I had no way to pay. A thief outside the Stapler Superstore had lifted my credit card as we crossed a fake placid light and camera filled void known as Las Vegas Boulevard. The doctor didn’t mind the twenty-dollar bill. I paid him back later, as it was the righteous thing to do.