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The Jabberwock would show that all is nonsense and nobody really knows anything for certain. Poor old Speedy and his Pook. This is the trouble set to world events, time like a tornado and personal conquest, perhaps to read the perfect set of words.

It was snowing and I wondered aloud whether it was over, some catastrophe or nuclear winter setting time space apart from the world we were born to. The conclusion was that if many people died at once they may have created a world that was quite similar to the last and lived out their days as they would have expected them. None would be the wiser had we all died at once. This gripped me and I realized it would make delicious fiction. Then I knew that I was acting properly because I came home, fulfilled my obligations and typed the words so someone else could read them.

Three of us marched forward like daft men who knew that only the strong would survive. These simple silent footsteps drew the hearts and minds like modern turmoil bending spoons to turn soap back into pig fat. The little head on her smiled and she spoke like an over-bearing gift of consciousness. I did not dream her. The little sign that she showed a liking to me was the whispered nothing, a sweet tone in my ear. It penetrated my heart and matched the lining of her sold safe soul, trapped between webs of lies and conscious of heartfelt drafts transposed in the document that lit this room in the night.

That life was normal to some, cold at night, but only in the winter. In the summer we had to look forward to sweltering heat and cool night breezes as we escaped our humdrum exit or some sovereign state. We were no longer an English colony, and her personal strife with the existence of my kind hurt because I could not understand it. The light was a show that we listened to but refused to watch. These were the hearts that I lived under.

Personal anguish was something that seemed buried deep in the past, but it came up sometimes late at night while we were tired. I would take my frustrations based primarily on lack of sleep and partially on dishonesty and wrap them in her tired world and she would scream at me, “Can’t I have one day of happiness?” I would exclaim that I loved her and I didn’t mean to hurt her, just that I wanted us both to be happy, that I wanted to make a living doing something that I loved to do.

The soul haunted me. I was disparaged by cases leading to the epic failure of foreign nations to pass through the tyranny imposed on them by people like me. I didn’t impose this horror of their people, my people did. The curse of a white man in a world that we created is that we believe we know the truth. We believe that time is linear and we are at the end: that next comes the future and we only build on the past.

This allows us to accept that our technologies that we have recently discovered, such as electricity and computing, are in fact new technologies. There is reason to believe that they are not. The theory I have is that there was some catastrophe that discounted our past technological advances. Because I am only able to accept technology that we have today, and not strange lost truths, I would state that this catastrophe was something like a nuclear holocaust that created the ice age that we so fondly remember as years of glaciations and uncertainty. In mainstream it wiped out the dinosaurs and allowed humans to become the powerhouse they are today.

But even more recent than that, perhaps the tales of flying machines of the lost city of Atlantis were countries on the continents now known as North America. It is said to be at a location in the Mediterranean, but I suggest, with truthiness, that it could have been located in the mountains of Peru or jungles of Mexico.

But that is neither here nor there, for the face of the rails that haunt this factual statement suggests these numbers cannot possibly be calculated. There are several people haunting statesmen, the kind that stop the shadowy men in black, ejaculate wildly in the most Dickensian form and shift their bodies to some other resource, passing through computers and the time-space continuum and falling asleep around noon.

This is how some people travel. Because men in suits that drive fancy cars and try to decide where the yield signs go always change their minds. That is the dire truth that we can see while we use the lights in our minds. The days come like little red dwarf clouds, passing over our heads without note because we see them every so often and think they are beautiful. Those red clouds are not pollution, as some so efficiently say, they are the weasles of the sky, gaps in the time space continuum and the place that men in fancy suits who drive nice cars nap.

These weasles are wasted. Every day their tone wanders and warbles like the night time in June. I must keep vigilant to keep them out of their plausible notions. That is why I stay up at night. These words are not a safety net, nor are they sold as pattern terms of endearment. The best portion of safety is in the light that can be seen underneath some modern dilemma. It is nonsense of the highest caliber.

These men do not speak highly of their shape, nor do they pass from one form to another. They do not cover anything up, but they know that we are each many people, typing at times, driving at times, fucking at times, hurting at times, happy at time and sad at times. We also do other things akin to hope and/or turmoil. Sometimes these happen at the same time. And it is a wonder that we get anything done at all. The fast faith lies in hopes and dreams and turbulent weather, masking the volcanoes that are shaking the earth some place far from where the smoke is billowing into the sky.

And so we rise every day at some time, whether from sleep of a state of mania and say nothing, even when we speak. For some people this is a different place than they think they are. For others it is socially awkward. Still some more find a peaceful endearment in such a suggestion, as they know that nothing is said, nor can be said, on any topic.

This is because nobody knows anything for certain. Every universal truth is just yet to be proven otherwise. All things, however meaningful, translucent, absolute or true, are basically hearsay. All things are theories regarding objects discovered or made by humans. We do not know for certain if any of this stuff exists.

Perhaps this world is but a dream to the sleeping life. Although, I will know this for certain if I awake in jail tonight as I slip into the trance that rests me as I run from the monsters and haunting soldiers, heights that I can’t fly from and various deaths that I have experienced over there. But perhaps rules are for this reality. The rule makers do not run the show over there, chaos and madness reign. And that is why I can do drugs with a psych ward nurse and videotape a crooked policeman arresting me. This arrest will most likely not affect my nights sleep tonight, as it was simply because my friend was sleeping with his wife and he was angry about his home life, which is why I videotaped the irate man at our questioning session. My friend laughed and knew that we were safe, because we were in the world of dreams and not this one, filled with consequences and funny real police officers. The excuses of a power mad crooked cop arresting people eating uppers in dreams suggest that this particular jerk is out there somewhere. I have dreamed with other people, and have been able to converse with them in detail about their dreams.

Back with love and sapient dimension, for high lettered, eerie steps and that sound of tapping that keeps curling up my toes and sending little fingers into my back. The nice thing about typing wildly, nonsense for the sake of possibility, is that none of the facts that I am telling the reader will mention the reason for details such as tone or unrelated strings that really hold the whole book together. With noting that, I must relate that I can recall distinctly a finger holding my back down, a black shadow at dawn and the ratings of squirrels or other sad creatures keeping me up at night.

I remember green trees the I passed in a car with a young girl and her father, near a record shop that had posters of Soul Coughing and Sonic Youth. This forest was near the road, but since I have recalled it many times in the eleven years that have passed since I was there, I now see the forest from the other side. And it has become tall, old, thin, green trees moving past a still, thin log fence with two rungs and three posts. I am not moving, but that car is. I wonder if in my minds eye I am truly peering through that thicket at the road near that illusive record shop, and whether that record shop was real at all. Is this all just a memory of a dream?

I should have given her a cigarette, but she didn’t ask so I left no trace. The light was a signal but I had no idea. Help was the key to the morning sun and when she spoke he had a little rasp in his voice that kept him quiet. He knew that the leader sat back in the hotel and wandered his mind like a reddening sun. He stared at the sun and swore under his breath. He wanted to speak but his mind was a wreck. The shelter he crept like his mind and dreams lie, the lines that he wrote and the “Fine, Ma, goodbye.”

Our hero awoke for the dream.
He knew that if modern man was segmented they could find all the reasons to lead the new water, for these are the people who march in the summer. They can be speaking when love is a matter. I know that the little green white and blue scenes where shock rock, pigment and mindful escapes. Where did these men come from? What was that sound I just heard? Why was I unable to decipher my dream from reality?

It wasn’t gripping. It was sudden mass. The light at the end of the tunnel was that I could not speak without spelling. Love guided me in. And as I spoke softly to the intellect I stood outside our representative’s office and the person who wandered was perfectly grey. I knew I could see him. So I stood there with a microphone.
Why did this man want to run a nation?

There he stood across for me, the leader of the local and vocal skinheads and he wanted retribution for appeasements made. Across from him stood the local parliamentary official. They both had microphones. I was safe at home in Craft Club offices and grabbed my trusty megaphone.

This what I told him:
I stared across the bathtub at her. She looked beautiful, but different. She was taking my breath away and reminding me of a long lost love. I wondered if we had been together longer than the six months I knew we had been. Then I wondered if the lady she had reminded me of had cut off her face, cleaned it and was wearing it.

I needed a cigarette, so I got up and left the bathtub. It was dark outside. And my mind wandered to another lit round, or at least a sovereign league of sincere reasoning.

Are there other options than “good” and “bad?”

Is there a variable code, shades of grey for those terms? Or are those the directions that emotions are based upon? Should we rate our experiences with these terms?

There is a scale, (Bad, sort of bad, neutral, sort of good and good) which can be used to rate an experience, thought, action or object using only our opinion. Good and bad are the two ends of the spectrum, although beyond that there are words to express further joy and suffering. The question of faith lies in the spectral reasoning of most people that states that some actions can seem bad, but be good and can seem good and can be bad.

We can intend to do things that are good and without thinking of consequences, creating ill winds that permeate our expansive consciousness. And one person’s bad is another’s good, like eating cattle, a sin to some and every meal to others.

The lust for gold and gems is good of bad, depending on whom you ask.