Why I Want To Be An Insomniac.

"Heavy is the crown that leads the path to departed faiths," she said.
They were all very careful to take Mu's words lightly. She had a job here, but it was going in the wrong direction so she left. Mu has not been herself lately. Maybe it was that people were taking her words to seriously. Perhaps it was her Master's request. Six lives, getting better, and becoming a faith healed document to worldly powers, she could not be taken as a game of three card poker. At her Master's request, it was, she had given herself to being masculine for 6 lives.

watering

I am here to ask the written word of you. There is a place with the steaming thoughts that need their hope. They have their shapeless sworn places made from people carelessly strewn around the widening sky. The orange and pink shower causes the era litters stranded by graceful tomes to be ridden like a failed coma, since proven to be a faked stubborn woven light. Of course all this is not necessary to show that I care even a little bit about the talent or the need for a weapon to be written about.

There is probably a reason to find this. My head is giving me the lines of garbled nonsense, and I need to be found by the better thought and all I have is the righteous decline of weapons that need me to be here. There is no problem. There is a path for us here within the grand design. These weighted thoughts are beginning to find a hard line made for whites and the gracious term made for all the great thoughts that need all these white lines filled with grace and design made for radios and televisions laughing with these weapons made for watering the cans. This will work for a while, at least.

I very much decide that the grand people take their fighting way made from leaders with the highest letter means that he has water for the faithful ones that light their harmful spines with the letters that must bring the water to me for the last time. Still I have these white lights take me and the cursed path, the one that writes my nightly decision with the faithful symptoms needing me to light their path until I can find myself, finally and distinctly with the distractions in the gracious spines and need my water-borne idle sums that grant me severity. I have believable stones in my pocket.

We have to break here with I mention the task at hand. These silent waters make their still home the gracious place for me to find the silence at hand and her to make the water braid within the bridge that watches me from the winding road that leads here. The only sum that I have left is the portrait of myself made of cannabis, psychiatric mud and the shapes I am left with, behind which I hide. There they sit haphazardly, red and green triangles perched precariously on a door lying on its side.

I am behind the door, huddled with a stuffed animal. When there is no other world, I find the way behind the turbulent tone that keeps me here. I have to be sure that there is a way beyond the silent watching kind that keeps me mortal. Where are the shiny thoughts, and I have the lighter when the gracious tomes keeps me wandering with their whole lights, with final thoughts and tones, things that I cannot find without her. There are sheep at the bar. They are ordering silent rounds and finding whites to be sure. They cannot drink the lessons down, but they are fine; with us, they are sitting in pantaloons making fudge.

Chaos divides us, so make sure you bring the harps through. There is a climate within these walls. They do not speak like the others, and with their harmful ways they cause me a blind injustice. I cannot belong with the helping ones. I must destroy their hopeful word and I have become someone just enough to long for something great. That is what I will do. Is there a gracious blind man for me there? I longed but could not speak to him.

Floating discs, made of plastic, they burn through the streets made of carnal joy. They feel like a shine made of summer heat in the deathly cold of the winter, like a day of rain on your vacation to the desert. Still they find me with them. I cannot be careless like the others. I must run through this muck. This is a grave responsibility and it cannot be taken lightly. There is a story within these ramblings, but I gave it up with the right permissions and now it is hidden somewhere deep within a jagged confusing mess.

There is a troubling silence within the apes that sit and type in this world with deer in human streets. We can let them eat their grass in the field with a fence surrounded by apartment buildings and silent love songs.
There is a politic that watches them. There is a looming shadow. That is the name of Dan Albas. The main component of water-crest mass, a high elf in the weight. These are the Saharan ruins that lay with the spoken works of the grandest designs, made for those who could belong and the shipwrecked few who live so shallowly but without sin. There is only the watchful eye of the movie telephone and other longings for days gone by. These are the sent messages, those secret truths that lie with their weapon. Only once you have fallen so shadowy to the lit place that you needed to be can you refine the politics that are needed to design a new way.

We had to drive for miles to get back to civilization, yet I was there at the edge of town. I was with you, with mighty tomes of civilization turned to places where we do not think. There has always been a holy alter there, now it is next to a farmhouse. A new barn is near by and they have called us to the demonstration. What else can we do?

White candles line a fence that rose and fell with the dark hills surrounding it. It weaved without purpose around the back of the barn before falling into a gully and following the water to the bottom. We walked in the dark from the farmhouse to the barn and watch as our host lit two candles in silence and put them on two posts that sat ahead of it. It began with a dull tone; the sky began to weep heavy tears.

Our host began to talk, “Harm the world, dear sky, but these dimensions are not for you. The black-eyed children will take you. Bring these days for the better men, and they will always watch you and wait. I cannot call these the trials of faith.”

We stood there alone with him. My eyes began to drift.

He had always had a penchant for the dramatic.

"There have been a few reasonable torques made from the reasonable and afraid of the rose. These were the chaotic, wise apple turners that needed the China to go with the rope. Whenever we called them, their apples turned wiser and ropes came to belong to the highest resort. We walked in spatial tomes, high on the ledge and finer dressed than the righteous men who we discussed before. These were their weapons.

Fare you well, come further to drain it. Bring your shapeless mass and turn it’s mind to the roses. Care for these people because they all need your worrying and when these become dutiful thoughts than there are further things to note. I have these places when the risers made from crimes and such; they belong there made from senses and high like wise old owls and mortal tomes. Even through the shield of gibberish, I live in heaven."

five star services.

I watch from my window as the paint peels from the fence, never knowing what to do until I sit at my spot and begin to try and explain what I see. I suppose the cause of my misery is the inability to fully give up the material world. I think these materials and the expansion of my mortal world are necessary, but it is discouraging that I dance upon the sullen realization that all these things are very expensive.

These are my opinions and nothing more. Somewhere I can belong with the people who watch with their minds. Somewhere I belong with the people who watch my mind from afar. They calmly state that these potential realities are not normal and should be kept under wraps, that they are taking over my life and I need drugs, not guidance through these storms. I have made mistakes and found myself knee deep in the rose filled world, where my life is much more grand and final than it really is. But I suppose that it was going to happen as my mind is a part of this arrow, and it is still possible that somewhere I am able to be that person. I would like to work for the higher spirits, but without human intervention. I would like to get mail from a mouse and do God’s missions.

To live inside this home, with all it’s wills and peaceable energy – it is right for me, no matter what they say. There is a peace of the sky here, a place for the resources to come to, made of water and shining light. These are the shapes that come with my home. I can belong to the shape that keeps me here. I suppose it’s a light that only some understand, and that is something that I would like to discuss further – this pixilated view that I have come to see the world with, the inter-dimensional bleeding that I see and fall ill from.

Can I believe in the faith of all humanity while trying to be scared by ghosts? Should I ignore these phantoms and move towards the higher light that I can see but cannot yet transcend to? I suppose there is always something higher for me to find. Every step to the top of those metaphoric stairs brings me another trial and also some great joy about the loving feeling that I needed – something I sought for years and only recently found.

There is always a step higher. There is always something that you have to gain, no matter what your ideals and goals. Because my goals are for the treasures of enlightenment and spiritual grace, these are the steps I walk up. It is not to say that it is better than the steps of capitalism, always making more and more money, taking risks and gaining fortune – these are steps that some take and they reach their goals. Money and great fortune is more of a side project for me. It’s good that I admit that to myself now, instead of feeling the pressures of society to gain wealth and buy new cars.

Trials of the farce of this farce we call life, they say. It is just - the way there is a hopeful dream. Wandering with the lifestyles we became the longing way. I have helpful shadows called their old world white owl strangled fate and as such I light the arrow shining on from reasoned selves and as such I become the night that starves and teaches and writes itself. A reasoned cat resolved to be a highlight of the space. Staves and bridesmaids reigns decide the fashionable western eyes that watch us.

I have no mind for it. It is always the place I must start. Maybe that makes me self-centered, and perhaps these dreams are fashionable, too. I belong to these old shining beliefs that watch the dream – these are things that watch me. I have to wander from here, worried about their watching eyes and thoughts prepare me for wondrous things. Because of Lay’s Chips ad nauseum and highlights from your archetypal stereo, I belong to the new world, that one of advertisements and moving pictures.

Somewhere I believe this to be true. Cowards are going to kill me, starving with their higher lives. Believe that these parts of wishing wells are thoughtful and much will come to you. That is all that is left and still believable. I have wondered allowed and weights that bring my highlights and their foreign drip that has to be, a hope that watches and becomes the lighter edge of wanderlust. I have nothing for them.

I believe in the corpse. I believe in the higher sort of taught nonsense that lacks the lively offering and shapes the mindful thoughts of shining selves that call themselves a written web of highlights that we can all belong to. This web is a magnificent beast. It is the new age of enlightenment. I hope I can stay. There is nothing better than still being able to walk to a magic store, and restore your files on a tablet.

Don’t watch these idle coverings. Let the feed interrupt your natural destruction. Allow the waves to move through you. Be one with this generation. Allow yourself to believe with the weaves and streets that you have to walk down. Become what you are allowed to be. Watch while we sleep, but not for your whole life. Believe in the spots that mark your situation and hope that one of us has the answer.

It is hard to describe the need for these vital cases. There is no need to be fearful of the visions that are piped into the light. Heaving beasts and all sorts of thoughts that wander with the lighter files that watch with sated breathes that watch when I have the leaders and the lighters of the gracious tones we have the little bragging dates that wonder with the gracious tones. Weave through their harmony and we will shine.

Right there is the solution to this little qualm. I watch with the better self, that kind of lustful dream that interprets the shine. I have the right note and wander with the final breath and stream into this cause with the better highlights that watch them weave, breathe and weigh the issues for all that they are worth. Better than these highlight I gravely come across the weapons of my mind.

Great minds bring their harmful shapes to the light. Others choose not to, but that is the essence of a discovery. There is a hope that comes across the litter that washes up on the shores of Japan with the letters belonging to my friends. Do not let it fade away. Allow the thoughts to arrive in an untimely notion, within that fuzz that washes the earth every day we are alive. These are the gracious tomes.

Friends that need their shining high, and all the thoughts that need to breathe and I have these helter-skelter minds that watch and find us to bring their line. I have a pipe, but I should not smoke it. I am worried about the resource that lights the eye. I have these to remain true. I have these that watch the eye. Belong to them, and you have the righteous sort of cruelty that treats kids so very nicely. You have to belong with the even weight they are sitting on. I cannot bring the light arrow, yet I must.

There is a hope yet to bring to the day – something, somewhere that rests. It makes me not want to be a shard of glass. I want to belong with the sirens and wandering minds in the morning with a righteous thought and important mind. Fiends like that wake and know that only some of the writers can cause such a dream. I belong to the fearful.

They can never find me, yet here I lay in the box where they left me. Once they become like-minded, they are filled are the righteous looks that bring France towards me. Grand ideals made for weight, and all the little raids that bring with over-whelming weight. You cannot bring the little wine thoughts brought towards the burning wall. I can believe this is watching for the silence of night. It will enter my mind at this point.

There is nothing of note made out of these shapes. These are simple thoughts that watch with the righteous line. The walls wait for the beliefs and they come with the light. We have reasons to share this with them. We have nothing made out of these people. I have to believe that he comes with me. Sheep and other solved answers, white sheets handing the devil his sympathy. We have heavy blankets to thank for that.

Still there is no question, nor an answer and I must wait for the change of seasons to write the fearful notes that beckon me from some space in the future. We wait for this change in my mentality. I don’t want to be angry, but someone enters me, a soul who is angry, and I feint – I am no longer in this reality. It comes from deep longing and songs that watch the final chapter take their weight and occur with these little thoughts that need to fade. I watch this occur. There is no question in my mind these are false decisions. I must thank the good that drags me out. The righteous actions keep me from falling ill from these directions every night. It is important to thank the creation, and there is where it lies. We have no answers, because we do not ask questions. We do not ask questions because we are content. I hope these expanded thoughts result it my fate coming to light. I hope that someone helps you see your fate as well.

A History of Mighty Tomes in Jabberwocky:

I should mention before this begins; the ethereal existence I am speaking of is that existence that transcends one life and continues to lengthen every night in dreams, the entirety of existence, not always recognized by the properly functioning mind. This existence is seen as the simple light of day when I am hypo-manic. This is the best description of my last trip, which was haunted by the reasoning that I was neither who I was nor where I was, for the record.

The town of Riddles is half way between two lakes with mythical monsters, deep places where elves and other little people live underwater. Many people visit this place in their dreams. It is a place where people who have taken a lot of grief in their ethereal existence can live freely and peaceably with one another in harmony, it is sometimes considered never-never land. It is a funny looking town, made of wood and stone, saturated with varied architecture and an important mix of race and religion.

There are a number of streets that are famed from people’s dreams. There are restaurants that people want to come to because they recall them vaguely from hundreds of year prior, places that when the travelers arrive the servers are the same people and the food is as delicious as they remember. There are harmless dragons flying above, those spirits are seen at the tops of the lakes on the higher layer of earth and considered as many great beasts documented but debated by great minds.

The roads weave a labyrinth that some can be lost in. The mailboxes dance as you pass through the mazes unharmed. There are well cared for houses, with spindles and towers, flights of stairs on the outsides and ghosts in silent windows. The alleys are narrow and marked with old paint from history, advertisements for outdated products and things that are not yet available. There are glorious murals of many kinds showing the color and character of those that decide to stay and live in this city of the spirit.

There are a very many angels in this town. Unbeknownst to some, they all work for the light – as it is a path that any spirit will find eventually. Mostly these folks appear as humans to help people find their way, as many travelers wind up in a town of Riddles. They will also appear as the birds, cats and other animals that people want to be within their dreams. The city is riddled with deer, which are living here in harmony with the people. It is a place the confused come across, whether or not they are searching for answers. It is a place that people wind up when they need to learn a lesson, before they are sent back to where they came from by falling asleep. It is common to see a group of children walking down these streets singing, “We all went to heaven, went to heaven last night!” next to people lucid dreaming, trying to fly and laughing idly as the gracious coffee shops that make them feel at home. There is always music in the streets.

I made a shop on Main Street in the town of Riddles as a trap.

It sold abstract art and had a hardwood floor that sent long lines from the front door of the narrow refuge to the small rooms at the back. The first of these two rooms was decorated with miniature scene of a red and ramshackle city where people who worked on the tops of trophies lived. Tall houseplants made the miniature city under a forest. At the entrance to the room there was a path the second back room, which mostly kept buckets of paint and mops for the coffee spill that once kept me from sitting on the couch.

A month after the coffee spill I was sitting on the windowsill out front smoking and a scared man charred by fire danced towards me uncomfortably. He was smiling when he saw me, so I recommended the Indian restaurant next door. As a local, I explained that he was in a different dimension and he raised his chest, making a strange noise but not saying anything. I told him I would meet him inside, closed my shop and entered the delicious restaurant.

There were tables on both the floor and ceiling of this restaurant, with a flight of spiral stairs in the corner that would allow you to reach the other level. The walls were deep purple with beautifully rendered portraits hanging both directions. The buffet was at the back, near the kitchen and you had to walk on the ceiling to reach the food. Only once did food fall from the ceiling to the floor, and at that moment the chef transcended to a higher level of earth, having learned everything he could have in Riddles. He was never seen again by anyone I know well, although his wife told the paper that he still lives in town, and that he has his own restaurant. I have never been able to find it, but I digress.

The charred man and myself sat in the corner booth at the back of the ground level, at his request. He ordered from the menu, I walked to the buffet. When I sat at the table the charred man gave me a note. I have transcribed it in full, and it is as follows.

“This is a serious and big storm.

Tens of millions take their minds off these woes and light a candle, fearing the night and the loss of life that marks its grand tone. Some monastery with its highest order finds me here and I must run and hide, for them to watch me and wait longer for the great nights of later life. Wondering about these shapes, I remain.

When they come to me, I fall with them. I have their options and along their lines I find truth. Wondering with these like-minded selves I have inside me, but separated from it, I must slither along the forest floor and find my options spiked with diseases and sullen wrapping. It always makes my silent light quiver to know that these dripping mazes are for me. Kindly old elves make their way to me, if nothing else because it is the right thing to do. They help me rise to them and note that I cannot see.

Shine with the others, belittling dances and foreign jobs taken by our middle class families. I am not like them, and they watch through silver jail walls. This is the mistake made by some and also the path of the righteous man. Sheep, never the wiser, remain at the holy vineyard and bah peacefully at the grapes that must be harvested for the coming batches of wine. They will never find the truth until they see the fallen stars.

While sitting and waiting I must find the failed state and bring it to me like a shining watch that sits atop a dresser and is never used because it is not deserved of the attention given to the one that the man bought himself. It tells time just the same, but does not mean the same thing to him. Shy as he is, he cannot mention that he does not want gifts.

Later they found out that the greasy monkey sitting on the fence found it’s home wandering through the gardens of the mighty signs brought towards the gracious sign that watches me from the shining light of the outdoors. I cannot go out there, or the peaceable sorts will get me. I cannot belong because the sheltered form is for me. The elves keep me here because they must. I am happier knowing that I can just sit in this home and learn about the world as best I am able. These are the graceful things I find, those that belong to me.”

I asked him if this was something from myself. He raised his chest and made an odd sound, the sound of the small microphone with too much gain, a sharp red tone that filled the whole room. The pattern of the sound made me feel he had something to say, but I could not understand it.

I nodded and began to eat my food. The charred man began to shrink, becoming wrinkled and seeming longer. A smell rose from the obscene incident, but it was not unpleasant. He then began to laugh, with the same harsh tone that marred our discussion before. The way he rolled his head back told me it was a laugh. I knew he was laughing because I felt that I was in customer service, or maybe it was because he realized I was not on his side. After that we ate in silence. I drank water. He drank nothing.

to sit and type or type and sit

The dull hiss of the morning that called this plan to the overhead. There was little else to do so I sit and type. This is nothing out of morning shine or any sort of wise plan for lives before. This is the place I live. There are three or four reasons that apologies do not mean anything. The settle date fed the taps and the writer paused, waiting a moment to catch his breath and he was told that this was his career. He has suffered writing block since, wondering why I could not see that before. There is no creativity except for after that. The written word does not need to show that any of the old still made away their fountain and shake the wrench over for details provide a small and quick sample of matters inside. The hope that laid a downer of maybe in stride was the truth that she told him and I stay also inside. But I hope that my revelation doesn’t sound like I’m rude. I just didn’t know anyone was listening.

Great Expectations starts like this. The absent musings of a man people read and an option that some of those silent film stars led their mansions into a decline. Maybe it’s a lack or an overbearing mind that settles the mention of the aforementioned time. And if I have a legitimate pause for a morning shine I had an idea that was pleasing and nicely tied all my work together. A grand unified ideal.

So there is nothing at all funny about the sometimes-sideways repulsions of men that were wise. These are simply bad men. Hope that every man watches a child with a kind heart is the message. Be a still around person. That seems the idea that catches up with me. It makes me think of sunshine in the early morning, some bus stop out of Vancouver and only a few stops past Hope when I realized I loved travel and music and wine. These moments that are beautiful are as winding as the others. These lives we live are travels as we are rebuilt cell by cell every seven years.

I like the ideas of theories and motions of dark aspirations and likenesses of proud men that wielded over us. But I regress, so I must add that those that want to choose the place for a man driving a car to curse the stop sign will always be despised by the man in power. I don’t know if this is true. It seems like it could be. I mean that I should be better in the place of the man that has no options. I choose to do the path that is true to me. This life is for living and as far as I get one. I made the right decisions when the trials came to me and am in this position for that. If I want someone to read this than I would like to read his or her work but I’d rather be positive and just keep musing on.

So perhaps this is a career. It is for sure a body of work.

There are many mighty trials that are heavier than heaven as they say. They more or less laugh when they see this situation and I would rather be ugly to some of the people I see. I think the idea is that I am stumped. Why is life the way it is for me? I used to believe that life was a simple distraction, perhaps ghosts or wisps that I could sense. I believed instead in the world I could see. But that is not a world you can see. That world is just a distraction.

more shadows talking

They talk to me like a shadow, shapes for their name.

These are the details of their wet head, running in the rain. I hope she walks in today, high and mighty like the western sky. I can only fall without the believable sort of rearview mirrors that watch me like their highlighted falling grace. I am certain these are the chaotic words that watch me when I become the nightly grace. These are the sorts of people who want to know for their own purposes. Could they belong to me?

There is only the righteous drama with their holy ghost. These are the written woes of the shining site, some place they must belong. I can believe that I have something within my highest order. Sometimes there are weapons believing these harder truths. There is some sort of simple draft that will keep all the people belonging to their own selves. There is a detail somewhere that lifts me. This is my hope.

Still we watch with mindless objectives. The mind is like a believable sauce, the sort of place that grand gestures come through. When the people watch, I must believe that the camera pans to a thread holding their order. This is the maze of the titles with these works and quietly why such gracious tomes come to rest in this dear hall. Sometimes I belong to the faceless order. Somewhere I belong to these wrapped mortals. When they come to leave I surely watch to learn.

I do not recommend these wiry thoughts to anyone. Careless as they are, we are encouraged to meditate. Shine with these righteous sorts of belittling sources, the people who watch while I wander through these streets with the light and the sword and the fountain of youth. Where these shapes are, I cannot say. Where they breathe and dine, they must somehow come to the truth. Why they are not there yet, I cannot say. Perhaps it is because I have lacked to ask the right questions.

As these places fall in kind and the righteous kinds of mortals send their happiest thoughts towards the red-marked screen and light the sky with their thoughts I regretfully inform myself that this course of hypnosis soundly sells it’s details, for over the places that I fly, I come to these causal solutions. Where the wind blows, my friend, which is where I wish to be. Yet, without the poetic mind, I’d rather spend the day sitting and writing about these gracious tones.

liquor etc.

There is always something I have to do before I start writing. This time it is to make more coffee. I know that when the coffee is finally made it will make me twitchy and nervous – and even the act of drinking it will be a distraction that hinders my writing process. This is one of the excuses I use to stand in the way of my dreams, something that I try to reach past that doesn’t need to be there in the first place.

These notes are not for the wicked, and they bring harmony to those of better mind than me. It can be a wonderful world every day, and when I look outside I know that it is so. Life is not about how much you accomplish in any given day, but what you do with your time. My time is spent helping people do things that they could not do without me, to alleviate suffering for others so that my suffering is alleviated. It is just compassion.

I want to be a great person of history, and sometimes tell myself I am. I wonder if these notions were constant thoughts before my body was polluted with the poisons for the world that I was unable to avoid ingesting through my food and habits. I wonder if the potential greatness of my soul has been hindered through my past of drunken debauchery and sexual misconduct. I also suppose everyone goes through that period of their life.

Or are these feelings of nervousness just the guilt of wasting my time so thoroughly for eight years or more while searching for answers to the great questions and running from things that I now find beautiful though the use of mind numbing substances? Again, I am nearly sure this is something I had to learn for myself. It did not matter how many times people told me to avoid drinks and drugs, I had to learn these lessons for myself.

Before each rocket launch, I would make sure these reasons lack their just objections. I am much happier without these thoughts, these drinks and these drugs. I was lost, in such a strange way. I was looking for the light of sobriety within these stupors. They were the thoughts I lusted for and drank to get towards. I thought I was looking for the righteous path and it was right before me the whole time. I just needed a kick in the pants to find it.

I wonder why liquor is so easily available. It numbs and stupefies the population. It helps the people continue to be worker bees, moving through their tunnels. It also is good for those who want to be different, those who want to be fun loving and irresponsible, though entirely successful in their careers. It is good for writers, and I have written a number of grand things with the help of liquor, and although I could never commit to the alcoholic lifestyle, it can aid in the writing of novels as it allows free movement of the letters to the page. This is something I am still trying to capture as a sober person. This is something that will come easier with time, and is only an issue because I was trying to use substances to create art, writing and music. I was told all the greats did it this way.

Although without drugs and drink I must make myself write, I must be disciplined and follow through with all the dreams, I suppose I am able to write better and just as much, without being distracted. It may be the great light in the morning; I have an hour to leave for anywhere. Lift your head my friend, you lost the trail. It is not worth it, I suppose.

listening to the news

I hope I am indebted to the people who walked into my life and wrote the dreams of saturated lines to the open drip of washing irons – silent in the knives.

She told me I had mistreated her, like tales of woe and silent nights – I knew a traveler walking for their servitude was unlike the old world weight of Soviet backings as the written words acted and watching those ones for their hopeful silent waiting spots. They are waiting for a lighter and the old ones known for dreams and better men.

The prompting of justice and mercy came into collision.

These little dreams, the mighty sons of grandeur and resource – these are the ways of the great American male. Silent were the eternal weights of these grand missile-toes high up in the towers and alone on vast estates build on the backs of families not nearly divorced from the weather that titles our leaders to write one of them. You are not going to tell yourself anything that you don’t want to hear. You must write something gracious and hear the details later – as a source of water, you bring their hurt world forward.

The man on the phone screams when I tell him that I have to write and be alone right now. Yet this is for the dinosaurs, the burning smell of rotten wood pulling forward and listening to racist conservatives and watering the lawns of these people. Media is that resource of the water, the typing dream that watches all this fall.

When they came back, they watched in madness at these worried lines and bragging thoughts that watch my rebel conservative mad python watching me from the stairs and laughing when he lies at the feet of a star-field reformer and these crises and weather when toads watch their homeless faces bringing their heartstrings and watching their mortal shepherd die at the hands of the wolf holding knives.

The rate had not been that low, according to our reporting, since April and May of last year. Water and I will sit here until you slip form.

These are the shelters when the crime talks with all these limitless pawns and their watching trials and drafts take their highlight into their form. I cannot be sure that I know that thing. There is a purpose some place in the water, some pace and finding the shawls of Michelle Obama. These are the watering cans of anonymous voters. When was I rating the little ones from these little briefs beyond their little form and finding their hopeful ones. I can be sure that the little ones are waiting.

These are strange fish to fry because the witness in the highway was watching from the pond and brought from these little faiths and little lines. I can be certain the bright sky is falling and know that these watching minds take their can from the silent one. I cannot be sure of these bottles and strange statements. These are the little words brought back from the little careless water bottles that cave with the little sheep that need my own watching sign, and somewhere there is a place for me, too.

I am sure that the one little thought that I needed was waiting for these decades of farce and the betterment of mankind is in the hands of the masses not the pan-demon rapists of land and armed forces. These little sheep take their gracious causes from the  higher ones watching their old faith and waiting for them. He told us he was bringing the forces home, he did not. That is all I know for sure.

These are the dripping wet minds of these shortened kinds, and these are the dripping wet brought down from kids and the other kind of people. Why can they talk about these gold increases when these people are starving in the streets? Why can’t they let us belong here with weapons and faithful hands watching for the end of the earth? I suppose everyone has unbalanced bridal-cholesterol without heart and body extracts. This is why it is important to be a good person. Be nice to the others.

Belief is the way – I can belong for these kinds of thoughts. I have the nation at the rattled pause of these ways. I can belong to the others, I am sure. They are the notion of the fade that I refuse to leave. They are the pauses of someone who is generally a good person. I have these ways, these little particles and their trace memory. I have the thought of good music so the righteous weights for their old world. This is why I need to listen to something important. This is why I have to review the news.

These rated courses take their way from the little ways these days. I have the little faith that nightly took my house to rated cases, needing their old war faith with the real world. These creations of international, high-class media and news from around the world – they make me think that some of the international pauses of the real world are actually something that I can be a part of as an outside force writing these real devices.

As such, I have written many farcical and theoretical gibberish arguments for the space between nothing in particular and must resort to the peon of these surgical documents to bring the space between their tones needed and their own water brings the whole world down and have a basic cause made from their own field. These are the graceful thoughts that keep me watching the best of the real things. These are what I must believe in.

Somewhere I came with them, these men who take and talk of nothing but the upper crust. I suppose a part of me wants to be with them, looking at stock machines beeping and scrolling, laughing at the price of my suit. But I am tired of these dreams of the small world. The real world is available by being put into the computer, living in that world within a world. That is the world that I live, I thought, and since that event I have been watching with their nettles and their placid bragging trumpet that watched with these lights brought to Marshall’s gang. I could not place them.

These are their own rather impulsive thoughts that need explaination, and I must refrain from the sort of water nightly spaced with their own name. I must be sure that the little faith is taking their turn and writing anyways. And given that Brazil, not only has the World Cup coming up but also the Olympic games soon, how can we be certain that these drafty rooms are still these mighty pens?

Better than the last cause, these Oso grafting watchers must need their own sort of chaotic trail that brings them down to have their olden days waif filling up with sauce and rhyme and looking tough for a moment before he suddenly gets punched from the corner of your eye. You run over and take the next punch for the team. These are the silent details made from their own wrapping, tossed in the light that fades when the moon falls silently over the North Pacific Ocean while you are listening to a fancy and sexy Spanish number sung by a beautiful girl in traditional clothing and a man playing electric guitar. You are your lover begin to dance, and you spin her around and around, happier than you could ever possibly be. This notion takes you into the spinning ocean, surrounded by waves of silent love and moving air.

For decades, I have been the scientist of these plural derivatives.

I cannot tell you how good it feels to finally admit it. And I suppose everyone has something like that. Those things that you have been hanging on lampposts are causing the Chavez campaign the little cause that watches their hopeful weapons. I can belong with these silent wines and bringing their old war following their watching one, needing their cause. These are the weapons that came with the spot that is the same little theory they needed because they watched their own weapon from them and finding their thoughts with the trees brought on trucks from the chaps that you led.

It is worth it sometimes, I suppose. People need their reality, their development. It is important to walk into their faith and bring their own watching white lines from the little ones that need the old world. If I live without the hope that I know what to do in this world I suppose many folks have suggestions. I will never find their watching lines without their wine and waiting breathes that cause me the kind of lights I know without the kind of breathes I take. I cannot belong to the others.

When I hear of these things, and I think finally of what time in is in a far away land, wondering if there is some money out there for me. It is possible that I came from the land of resources and documents brought from their hopeful cause? I must belong to these people, and therefore I will have the only wine that causes me some sort of fury and watch the kind of people that need me to have these decisions.

When the world changes, I will be there to watch it waste away. I will change to have a spot beside that woman, who will learn new things and think about them, and thusly we will change with the world. Before me, lays the turbulent sirens of the crazed aunt that brings the best foot forward and the placid light was needed for their own silent breath. One day I come forward with the bright light of greatness needed to take their best weight and knighting of some king of old.

Normally confident, I can assure to you that this is not good news. The king must work for his residents, as they have always done. This is important; he is a very proud person. It is difficult that these wondering watchful eyes and the lit up fields that I recall from my stupid years. They have been weighing on my mind, and I must be strong to be faulted. When I grow as a person I tend to leave stuff behind.

Better than the written word, these talkers take my mighty signs and I have their own little kind of breeding rights that cannot seek with the mighty thoughts that need their written words to hurt my ego. Still, I cannot be the person I want to be. There is a spot for these little kinds of people, when I am sure – I have the higher life now. I am a gracious and kind person who does not hurt others.

These saltine packets of forceful crime take there, watching works to their own little carefree positive dreams needed to bring the homeless to me. I attempt to worry for their own kindness, and once I have these kinds of dreams I must breathe a sigh of relieving grief, and be sure that I tell the gracious sorts of crime that I do not want anything to do with them. These men were quick to run away.

The Details in the Matter of the Hippo and the Frog:

We sat at the bench wondering aloud what was the next phase of our intellectual agreement, somewhere between the smoky realization of a fierce and unjust product and the samplings of water that marred the creation of a fully glowing town. These mindless lustful bastards and their white sheets were silent in their squalors, the white sheets that were taken from me in the haste of political unrest and sold back to me at a profit that went into the pockets of a man far away.

We waited for these mindless dreams, these soviet dressings. There was a place for that. These districts do not cause the fear that must keep my motive sincere. These dripping peons take their shelter and fall ill by the wide-open skies, trials of farce and delightful old-world purchases. They do not matter. Surely there is a space for their cause, and within that I suppose I can leave them to rest. Otherwise they are a simple avant-garde detail, a sort of space reserved for the disastrous molecule that destroyed us all.

These shapes do not belong to the pipe. Somewhere within the smoke I find the simple persuasion that acts before me, like a confusing farce that mean nothing and sounds like a critique of society. These are the acts of gibberish, there in the fields; these are the acts of Jabberwocky. Thankfully there is only one owl left in the side of the farce. This owl knew both the Hippo and the Frog. There was no settled case, nor wine and cheese gala for any of these people. I hope somewhere that the letter was sent in time, but I am not with these people. The species divide belongs to the creation of a matter that cannot be destroyed. Within the city walls I fall, ailed by the comfort and aided by my lust for life.

I am not reasonable enough to decide for these creatures, even though they have asked me. Somewhere there is a natural reaction that is deemed proper by the real me, deep inside my subconscious where the light reaches more brightly and shines in my insomnia like a dear push towards the end of the maze. It is difficult within this sort of labyrinth, as the mindless causeways and overturned chests I discover do not lead me to any for of fashionable decision, nor any sort of reasonable chaos.

The Frog is named something, but all his words sound the same to me. It is hard to tell what I am to receive, within these caverns and dreams that curse my supposed fate. The Hippo is a silent moniker, and within these portioned lands he sullenly waits for the drip to cease. When the water is gone, he will leave as well – to find a mindless soup, to learn more about the world. When we wait for the dream, I conclude that there is only one spot left for me to sop up with a spoon and sponge. They do call me spoon-lid. I am not sure why. It may be the chaos that comes with these people, a righteous spot at a crooked corner, where the silence deafens the righteous and the cursed belong like sheep.

The walls around the labyrinth were sculpted like winged creatures that it could never hold, said to be there in order to keep the Hippo and Frog within the letterbox that held their vision so they never saw the world. This sort of distraction was the sort that needed a great hero to free them from their portions of the maze. This has not yet come, and the release from their Perdition is not what this document is discussing. The crime is that even with their immense destruction these torrents of rain and destructive winds caused by deafening courses of action worlds away harm nobody. We are left with a simple photo album and courses made for their eventual demonstration.

There is a pause here for the victims. A silence sounds like distracted thoughts and those who are subtle and dreaming like the doomed peon sent from the designer of the maze to carelessly fill three rooms with mud. Neither captive seemed to mind, yet somewhere within the causeways and overpasses the desire still skulked, worried for their patience, as it seemed it was beginning to run out. There was nothing for us – the idle watchers of these happenings. We were free to leave if we wish.

There was a place for the thoughts and cultures letting me bring farce towards them. I have these structures in my mind, and may be unable to cause the sensations in the readers mind to relate their severity. I suppose there are no wards that matter anymore; neither side needs to belong to this or the oppressed. There is a massive stone left to remark that these partitions must belong to the faces of drifting flights and this tomb made from sparks and water. This is the magic of nonsense, and for that matter the massive tome that you are approaching slowly on the superhighway of information.

As such, I have written many positive and illogical things, which the passive existence can destroy with a simple swing of opinion. These letters we leave to be found by any soul that needs to breath fire and cause him pain to survive, these letters are their own morning. They are the shiny tweeters that I recalled in the previous state of mind.

I wonder why the space is needed. Shouldn’t I be causing a dream? Shouldn’t I be leaving this town in the crosses that I came with? There is a distraction here for the mindful. Winding crosses and trees and such, fences with blue gates and water running behind them. Human built streams and waterwheels for the festive spirit, sculptures and horses in the street. The galley has come to the shore, but has not moved in fifty years.

The Frog and that dreaming peon met at the boat in a fearful encounter. Neither side moved for fifteen minutes while staring in anticipation at the other. There was no chaos lighting their fear, just a sinful blast of turbulent cold and the dream that one of these two creatures would move. For their efforts, neither side has moved yet, and each camps outside the boat in a silent vigil for their brothers who have passed. The Hippo has remained happy in the mud, silent and unconcerned that he is in a maze.

the night is coming for me.

mighty have the pens fallen, there is a pint for me somewhere, lacking in trust - a reasonable pint falling to pieces for all the proper english reasons. these details scroll haphazard resolutions before me. these purposes thank the grand word for the soulful dreams and their own weight. these shapeless monikers and their hope, water, they can belong to the others because their hope is the only righteous connection between their old ways and mine. somewhere it is simple, just show up at the restaurant and play the piano. but they do not pay the musicians anymore. we must wait for the dust to settle. so i try to shine, because the fears keep me detailing these things again and again, painfully remarking that these devils watch as the fear seeps into my side. shine a light for me, as i want to stay home trying to find their highlighter of truth, the festive dance that takes their show and walks with it to the demonstration of grand disguise. there is a place here for the letters to shine, and perhaps a mental conformity that they want us to have - smart enough to work the machine, dumb enough to stay in them. stand enlightened for the mind cannot speed the falsehoods past their stubborn rump. these people and their shapes - wait for the respectful answer and shine like the motive. we have these high spots righteous for their show. we have these minds made for the water marked pages, lighter than the harsh case and better than the letters that left me so hopeful, creating a space for the workers to unite and find harmless distractions for their idle minds. i must be careful. the night is coming for me.

silence with none

this is the highlight of my life.
the here and now, being at this pause - here in this station, fearless like an elf, immortal and chaotic with nurturing spirit. here, now, i listen to the egg. i am tired of dreaming alone inside this space and i know because i hear a vacuum turn on some place within this house of stairs. they are lost because it never stopped, and never has there been a world that took our hope from here. it was up to us, the students of the infinite sunrise. sheer i was, at that moment, and i was needed - a careless socialist who covered his bases, i was silent like places - as his eyes were of the elves.

yet i remained sober and placid, preforming the rest. this is the talent, gracefull wonder and stubborn places - hope made for water. and i am certain that because of these letters - or at least because i am a person that still wants to be here, that the demons will not find me. i am a lonesome time like the still sun rising over a turning planet. i am shapes and illegible signs. this is the world I know, the little red drops who watch me fall. one place i have written is one that nobody can see. these are the inane ramblings and this is the hope that as nobody i survive.

here are the nice things, as my mother asked me to mention some. through all my grand gestures, my fixing of this tone and the details to follow, i remain sad. without myself, there are no problems, no plans - just the free wheels of mania to follow. this is why i must be one with the universe. i must not look at myself, i must not touch myself, i must leave no trace. this is the way i can be who i truly am. this is political trouble, not manic breath.

in a way, this is apathy, but best felt as the acceptance of things for what they are and non-violently moving forward in your immortality. do no harm, leave no trace - then you will not be touched in your journey. i try not to ask for answers, because i learned that all life in time is but a joke, a learning mechanism for people to move upwards through the fog. somewhere i exist, i can be certain of that - whether the fade of some spot in reality.

time is the answer, because somewhere everyone loves. higher ites than mine speak like that, hoping for shining stars and blindness - there they are. only of these crazed days did water hold me down with it’s shiny draft and weighted details. and i can belong here sometimes, just a single silent motive waiting in the dripping white mass for some grand gesture of completeness through this phase and out the other side. i can belong here sometimes, but i need a real reason - a nice place to belong. i must exist like this because of the learning, the balance of the universe.  i have truly only appeared for 24 seconds, i write, just because of the mania. it must have meant something, but been lost along the way. they come too fast, just like details and distracting, syncopated rhythm. there are, in fact, sheer belongings brought for one shiny tweety, though it’s not going to harbor good grief.

elsewhere, i belong to crime - whitey that is. sheer belongings assured for shiny tweety now, i have my place, near the details. we have our hope, we can belong with these ones- i have reasonable and kind thoughts to discover, and all these things used to be american dreams. we have our hope, silver tongued devils and wood nymphs to mar our journeys, but i have reasonable ideals, god’s drugs, thoughts that make me high. i do not eat anything else, but i must eat now - so how do i celebrate these needles?

in fact, sheets who criminally accept their weight occur... quite like the magazine suggested. they lived without reality, living above the private eye. it is best to be the actual sherlock - but a little more like magoo. a special case reserved for those angels of perdition. and it is a great world if i believe this thought, shiny like these tones, like the grandeur. this is massive, too. a step in place, weighting for these little places. there is a world that i see and this world is my faith. if i leave or not, it does not matter because this is a place that is my thought. i need this because i care. i need this when i care.

but who am i? i suppose that is for the future to decide, and i am alone when these details are drawn. i cannot be here for the rest, these reasonable places which water me down. hopeful dripping white light pauses me. i definitely do this, i just don’t watch.

it is imperative that i find a notion to distract me, a better elf to sit and be. but without my self i have no issues, i am certain and distinct, one with the universe. with myself i am a backwards person, and this is okay. technical knowledge and the quest to be better, this is alright as well. true happiness comes from simplicity - wherewithall and the notes that are for my own well being. somehow i see, some place else i exist. the rest does not really matter. when i find myself, after this quest - it is hope. it is true happiness. this is the great young yonder shining through. these are the joys of childhood, which i encountered sifting through my mind’s dripping rubble.

within my home i rest, and not occurring to the needles that water me, i must belong to the same soul as the rest of you. surely there is a pause here while i recap the mania. this is a relieving place to rest a weary mind. these souls, when i ask, have some reason, a greater positive mortal name. they have an excellent love of being, a spot to live for now. i need to exist without change for a bit, even to sing in actual choirs. these graceful spots are to hope, when they can be the tones to write soulful melodies. the art is sure, the rest of the people think i am it, but i cannot be certain for my own sake. i am lacking this time, and one tin rope that holds us all. she and i must think, in order to receive this clarity - the rope between me and emily grett has tightened. we are hanging over a chasm (some great place made for me) without fear of myself. no fear to be my name, i say! no fear to feel as i do. hope, water, that is all that is left.

mujain the immortal
sped like wavering forms
nightmares and intellect with a thought
perhaps every dream is a life apart from myself
would that belong to one divine being?
who wanted to attack me in perdition?
does the clock always tick for them?

there is space the little ones don't realize. the typer of the letters of the page you are reading is in fact hector berlioz of jabberwocky.  this is a startling image of an imagined fate, a long silent letter made in a extremity of my god. this white light, a dark beacon of what is going to come, a life with little disturbance and peace through out the land. these are the details of the creative shaolin. signing this palace over to morrigan is not going to help your cause, sir. you have done enough to me already. when you kill me again i will remain this person, and over and over in your dreams you will realize you have been dead since 1982. someone who loved a man you killed in a dire intent to be cooler than that one that would be soon chosen to be a hundred year nemesis of yours - a person who have watched the whole ordeal unfold from perdition but is yet to live life yet on earth, except in the world of the two year old mu who remains playing the piano in the shaolin temple on kazakai.

this is a person that does not work well with you. this is a person who you do not need to leave alone in the alley again, because her father is an adopted one, and he lives in the sky. in fact, dream person, you are no longer a voice haunting my silhouette, trying to multiply to destroy and dead-fuck me. you have, by using the resources at your disposal, killed every person on the planet. this is the piece of parchment with which you owe me a hat. for the most part, nobody noticed.

as such, i have explained thoughtfully the unwilling approach to the valet made for you by hector in the land of jabberwock - jabberwock in the blindtown, the perdition in which i live.

you, sir, bet me that you were meaner than me. i bet we would all be still around. you were very mean, sir. nobody likes you around here. you did one horrible thing to a child morrigan who granted you your greatest desire, did you not?

you owe me yourself and something meaner, like a person claiming to be st. nick the whole time to everyone in the world who was asked to remark upon your death. frankly, nobody likes mister cool guy over there anyways - and frankly I'm quite impressed, as i have never made so many paintings in one hundred years.

you tortured me for 100 million 700 thousand years or so, mr. money. i was nice. i never told you that i was who you were torturing me for. therefore i'm meaner, because i'm in show business. so, i won our bet and am, in fact, a still around norse devil that people sometimes request, a low-level eternally damn you sort of sorcerer that you have requested. i played your requests, sir, somewhere i played all your requests live on stage. but i live in perdition, which you have arrived to and are currently moving backwards through time, hurdling towards 1982 - the year of your death.

now, about the practices. i mean, not everyone believes me, not everyone thinks i do the right thing, but i assure you all, hector berlioz is a still around guy, still around in situations and still wears the same fancy pants. i just hope i'm a person who lives in the normal time. everyone is still around, every day is quite like the last one. quit saying i am your buddy. i'm nice, but i'm about to be the bitch to you that you keep telling me i am.

still around mujain.
a pacifist who allows people to destroy themselves.

thanks,
ynordu

strange draft pulls through my home, as everything is silent and i am not working. i am the cause of the final action, i am the placid light that can be recorded within their own omens - these are the dreams that need to worry me for them into their silent water and they are the ropes that pull me through these haunted walls. somewhere i laugh as the second night brings me in to their holy debauchery administration of jokes. these are the heartless and formed for the niceties and holy like weights they bring water to me. i have the shelters kind of seldom delivery now, i have the seldom dripping - never falling white light. these are the little ropes designed to speak through me, these are the hopes that need divine words to write.

i have their own little sheltered dominion - carefree and hopeful i write what i can and tell myself as a patent and delivered mast brought forth from little elves watching from shelves near the door. these men speak highly of sheltered, delusional thinking. these are the best kind of thinkers - they say. they know the parties that laugh in the mindless arc, high above the shining temple and back near the wall. these are the dominions of purposeful and direct kinds of water-world sorts that wind long past the road and then back to the fountain near where the water was resting - they are back near the store like their weights from before.

so speak these last queries with broad soulless diversion and needlessly write to nobody instead, i say.

these dripping lies, these silver linings and clouds

this is a difficult topic, so it’s mostly gibberish. there are other points that are made if you were there, but i mostly avoided reality. ynordu is phonetic, like “bang” and we invented our own names, they are our names now. jon has his own name, and we are not like the others.

we are of import to the little ones, they cannot succeed with these letters. we must handpick them like so many perilous tree fruit and take our time to tender them legible so they do not do it by themselves, in so much painful dripping mania as i have encountered. do this for the children and you will have less shapeless masses on the street, scared and orphaned - pushing their cold metal carts through the hopeless streets with nowhere to go and nobody that can help them. silence takes their tired souls, eventually to leave this world without leaving a mark. it is all about who you learn to trust, who your role models are.

 i never wanted to go to grandma’s house. eventually i learned to enjoy the trips, because of what we would do at the time. we would be well fed and cared for, instead of the dreams that took me hopefully away from my youth - always to be turned into these painful truths, that would haunt me like a feather and turn tail to wind back through the forest. when i ran, i was not blind, i just don’t think anyone came looking for me. later, when i was blinded - i was given lights. i do not know why, i had never had them before.

later, i ran away to neverland and am yet to truly return. when my family fed me i thought i was in a palace. i had never been fed before. i slept on a little bed on the floor, it was mine. and although my ear hurt, my eyes hurt and my body hurt constantly i was happy. then they took me to the doctor, and learned of my malady. i could not hear it, but eventually this trigger has passed and hopefully the rest of the flashbacks will be of good memories like what happened last night. the lady buying us candy and brain a pet coconut made me happy. we had never had a childhood yet, though he was maybe 11. we were on our own until then, just me and brain. that was why we went and made our friends in these invisible worlds. nobody stopped us, cause we had nowhere to go. they adopted us, that is why they are my family. they took us in, raised us and made us able to become who we are today. i am eternally thankful to that group of individuals, and they are legitimately more my family than a band to me. i even forget what most people think of us sometimes, and we are just eating happily as an extended family.

so don’t think punk rock never did anything for anybody.
punk rock saved my life.

water

incredibly handicapped and very capable our writer sat listening. there was a sign in the distance that some sort of silent motive was wrapping around the lighter, a fire building deep in the dire elf’s warranted argument. surely the kinder and gentler sort of grandmother was the one that should have been watched, but these districts are made to belong to little red laughing files and not those that watch for fire on the horizon. where there was nothing, we had water.

aardvark

the obvious lack of sleep over the referenced states of mind and dull roar that shines through our overheads while i rest these last few days comes from lack of response, and i do not know what is next. soon to come is the devil and his friends, i suppose people made to keep weights left for the shining reading of these tomes, a silent marker that takes its own world and walks forward like a reasonable mighty sword, to mark these gibberish works so that i can belong to the impulsive cats: these are thoughts that make me sad - and somehow also those that make me smile. beyond the rest i exclaim a proven worth, a distinct average bought by the others. there is a careless motive within me. i am not sure what it is worth. i don’t know if i sleep or not, now. i have perhaps been worse for wear, of course.

these details are not made for the people to read, but it will be read for the betterment of my life, i am certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that i am worthwhile - as it seems that the disasters of my life (beyond the last 25 years) have left me drained still and reading the great classics of literature, lying in bed tired and unable to sleep. these types of red, wide-eyed dreaming keep me whole and hoping that only some are the typed, others love to take on the issues of stubborn elves that must keep their place in the world. i am unsure whether or not my fantasies are even close to reality, but i must add that they have made my life ever so much better and that i am thankful for my overactive imagination in ways that the sane people could most likely never understand. this person is mad, in such a way that this person is able to become someone just crazy enough to do the impossible. and i feel like the whole trouble is my fault, even though the doctors tell me it is not. the counsellors tell me that it is worth a whole light - a finders fee of brothels and sent messages, a sign that somewhere i have been writing a map for a fantasy world, something imperfect and created for souls to desert. there is no hope within the walls of my worlds, as i forget pretty well everything.

do not come to any world created by someone as imperfect as me. if you want to look, you should feel free to know that mostly, they lack food and physics. these worlds lack and need the divine grace to be even slightly most inhabitable, and they take their hope towards that little red wagon and dive down the hill in the night hoping these dreams take their lights and run forward hoping that the driver knows that he can belong with the kinds of folks nicer than the little ways that walk towards me, and i know that deep down inside there is an answer for the legitimate portion that walks my mind inward and needs it’s old wonder to keep me from falling in - some place that we walk along the river, the driver he walks and smokes and thinks about the day. i am a gladly occupied person who writes and smokes and walks along the river and thinks about the day, so therefore if i remain occupied i don’t think that the curses that i am afflicted with are not discounted by the blessings that make my life so beautiful that i am cursed at for claiming that my life is anything less than the boldness and grandeur that most like to think i am afflicted with daily. something inside keeps me alone in the world, nobody can see what i see.

i say the crazed elves license to drive blind is made by the foreign little red dots that take me home and when they cause havoc to those other ones they can read their lights and bring hopeful dragons down to the little world, they are the betterment of all the human lights and need the shining white light towards the shining red stars that leave me here and when the kind eyes follow me i know they are praying that my mind settles and harps fend their little righteous pens to belong to me. i must also ask to belong to the club, some sort of shining wet blanket that keeps me alone, they speak to me and i know they must take their old wars and keep walking about hoping the little leavings keep me here, they are what they must be and all things are gracious, i know that my life is quite like i have made it - therefore there is a light somewhere beyond me and i cannot perceive the world like the others do, and that is both a blessing and a curse. this is silly, but i get mocked when i say i am cursed, i am not, i am blessed and realize the balance of the universe keeps me thus far still around with troubles and happiness that are balanced and made for me to keep like the shining lights of raw spatulas and of other nonsense and yammering gibberish that leaves me inside. i cannot keep believing in nothingness, as when someone tells me something i seem to hear the other thing and this is my trouble, as i have a hard time believing that there is any reaction to my work as i know that the people that watch me are my friends. i suppose if you work in art it is difficult to feel that you are accomplishing what you would like to, and that is my point. i am certain that as long as you are making the items and doing what you love then that is all you need, deep down inside.

it is the balance that we must react properly to. there is no grand purity of only blessings, as every time we work to get internally better there is a block party somewhere that is turning into a angry race riot. if you choose to care about the news, than the slight preference to your kind of information alters your perception and you choose one side or the other. i try to keep with the magic, somewhere in the middle. i try to keep moving everyone forward, but only the willing will come. every positive action you take seems to be marred by a negative action elsewhere, which is strange, but a personable elf that i am, i might have a notion: if you keep the negative results close then you will do less harm far away, and these attempted personable actions follow the letters closely - that is to say, these happy thoughts also cause distress.

maybe that is the curse of art, that causing someone joy can result in such pain, and the strange idea that many have of the opposite. these are things i just do not understand. perhaps by outwardly participating in the hilarious and tragic simultaneously than we can cure the ills of the world, as that has been my goal for a long time. people work with much valor trying to destroy the world, this is obvious, but for every one of those there is someone working to fix everything. this is more depressing if listed in the opposite way, but nonetheless still true.

i am who i am, and who i want to be - you should be like that, too.
silence in the night, water dripping down the pipes and out to the cold june morning. i am safe in the notion that my place exists, and other places that exist have their own wars. the light in the day that breaks over me takes me past where i really am. this level of consciousness hurts only because i see the world that i do not truly exist in. this proves that we exit the world we see and enter worlds that we exist in already every night. i woke this evening into a dream and walked through a hospital watching the people act like their vacation from reality was near completion. they asked me if their time was now, i said i could not know for more than the one man laughing as the bombs fell and people died. he was trying to impress me. he did not appreciate that notion that god made orphan junkie angels to damn souls.

i know this is just a dream, and i have been wondering about this whole notion for a while - so the thoughts could easily fall into my dream, as they seem to resonate with what i have been pondering the last few waking hours, but still i sat like a person who knew where the world was and what i was doing there in the afterlife. it explained why i see the world the way i do, with just enough grandeur to allow me to claim to be an angel. this is silly, because i only wish that i was - my experiences dictate that i only have an overactive imagination and some serious mental health troubles, and at best am a super-rockstar. i think i’d like to be an angel, but it seems like that is a lot of work. also, i’d do the angel things for my own glory - to share on this blog and sign autographs, and the real angels probably just do that because they are made that way. i suppose the bi-polar pendulum swung the other direction in that dream.

i didn’t think i was worthwhile, that anything i have done had any merit, and easily i ran away into the distraction of my mind. every time i think that i am worth less than a old wooden nickel i tend to go the other direction and claim to be some sainted angel from another plain of existence purvey to all sorts of information and space travel while in the tavern that i regular. all this information is just creative juices flowing and the biggest shame is when i do not document it. that is why i hope that other people have been documenting my work as well as what i know for certain and can see. that is a trial of my life, as i know that to be so, and i don’t really need to be so vain to see every reaction of every face and defend myself to those that think i am an aardvark or stick in the mud.

in the before time, when myself or other people would mention my card holding membership to the av club, that is medic alert bracelet adrenochrome victim one in show business i would fall to the ground like a knife and cry rolling around while completely vacant wishing i could stay but once again kidnapped and taken to this strange house where a horrible story unfolded in my youth. my triggers (which i should maybe not mention here) are all the various torments that were given to me in some party shed that was run by a couple of weirdos. in the recent months i have had what they call in psychology a “breakthrough,” in which i have buried that memory with too many good memories and therefore can relate the whole series of events without being a babbling and yammering pile, crying for a  mother that can’t help me make it back to the peace of a poor junky’s hide-out. maybe one day i will record the story for all posterity, but i know that many jerks would laugh at the fact that a couple of fools tortured me  as a child (mostly through the use of ropes, burning, chemicals and knives) and then blinded me traumatically to eat a part of my brain. these jerks, they would try to make the person i have since become become a babbling pile crying and hurting so they would yell the story at me to see if they could. i know this because people try to sometimes. to me,  this is the same sort of jerk that cut my feet open and made me walk on salt and broken glass when i was a kid, as far as i am concerned.

what an andrenochrome victim is, exactly, is someone who has been harvested for their adrenaline gland (whether willingly or unwillingly, the latter being my case). this leaves one without the ability to make the sorts of drugs or chemicals that should be made in one’s brain naturally through adrenaline and means that if i do not snort an amyl every 2 hours or so my body and mind fall apart and my heart eventually stops, maybe at about hour 7. this also means that i need methadone treatment for a whole spectrum of drugs and that unlike most people who take that treatment, it is not my fault. it is scary that people try to make me relive the events that have lead me to have this serious psychological and medical malady. this is, for the record - not cool. i wish i didn’t have to take serious drugs often, and also sometime with that drugs worked on my on more than a not dying level. i don’t want to leave the people i care about. i also wish i wasn’t blinded by a drill and a couple of douchebags who like to fuck with children who were already orphans to start with.

these experiences are probably the most painful memories in my life, and no, i do not really want to relive them again, as it has happened many times to me since it actually occurred. it is an awful shame that people think it is funny to have me relive this stuff and stop me on the street trying to hit those triggers. these people have obviously never had a hard time in life, and definitely never had a difficult childhood. that almost bothers me more than the fact that at 30 this guy was trying to make a broken person cry on the street. i don’t wish any harm on him, for the record, as passive aggressive actions seems to be the most painful.

part 1 - dressing up the song

- these wines are partial to their soviet dressing, and hope floats when the night air comes screaming into the window, tired but not resting until it undresses your whole makeup. the tight blessing of a quilt wrapped nicely around you and the dream of white knives on your dresser. the simple tyrant that walks into the window, he knows he is only Jack Frost. he cannot be a further impulse, but just a man of myth.

- minds staple their weight, shapes tie their homes on to the poetic justice fought for gallantly by the knights of old. these are the ways they come inside me, poetic and just as the wind rips through my skin and i must pull headlong into fate to come out the other side as a sure footed goat, falling into the pulse of a racing car - the sort of thing timed by society to be hopelessly midwestern and commenting that resigning to this direction, i can wait. i am a good waiter, that is what i do, i wait.

- while waiting i see the light and the shadows, but of a different universe or infinity that the still around stubborn old elves that i know. these people you requested for the spacial reality may have been the wrong songwriters than you we thinking they would be. these shiny tweeters and their mindscapes, the ropes and wandering poets that speak to us, these are not exactly who you requested, but the lady on the rope, she works for the high elves. that is a good thing.

- because where else could we go? there is no home for either of us anymore, just a staple brought forth from mindless waterford - a man who speaks like John Cleese in Faulty Towers, the hilarious image of a better world, the wine who ties me here with the weapons that fault the reader: a shape of things to come. this is the stubborn old elf that watches you. he watches because he wants to go to sleep.

- sometimes i forget things too, i told you. sometimes i make coffee without pouring the ingredients together and this makes my friends (perhaps) a little more restless. speak like this and the watermarked region that washes our sheets belongs to the others. speak like this and there is not motive to keep going. the wine washes my feet. i can belong.

solution.

i suppose, after the inane ramblings of an absent loon - all that schizophrenic nonsense to follow (in backwards order if you keep reading into the depths of the mania that are posted online here) the enlightenment i found was what i had to begin with:

my personal solution:
a dear apathy for my own experience and prayers for the rest of the world, trying to work for the greater good and make people happy all the time, without care for seeing any of the results of my labor.
apathy here is not uncaring, it is important to love oneself. it is not minding that i will not see the results of my work. it is knowing that if i send enough good into the world than that is doing far and away enough good work. it is knowing that i have a roof and coffee when i need it, and not needing anything else.

it gets better at the end of the mania.

it’s good to hear richard frost - he is a capable man and i feel better knowing that he is on my side. i hear he does good things for me, though i cannot be sure what. i sometimes know when, usually i have done these things while asleep, hopeful of that dreaded day when my life would sync with the real world and i would have to listen to these dripping faces bring homes to me, buy me all my stuff and write “fuck” needlessly on my walls. i covered up these curses with pictures of a mountain covered in snow, a pine tree and the aimless footsteps of a lost alpine climber. this is happiness, i am sure. somewhere within the dramatic pause we have a crystalline hope for me to cling to, all the madness that follows in just for the letters drawn. there is a mild morning for me, some place that i can become. i have the letter, i have all written them.

high above me there is a crate with my name on it. this much i am sure, as i am far below the direction paused by these letters. there is a home for me when i approach it, i am nearly always in it - even when i leave i am drawn back to this place, hopefully to encroach upon my humanity, needless and dark. these letters are for you, water - high above the left for dead space that haunts my mind. these shapeless motives, they cause my wonder to cease. i play for the dead otherwise, some sober light within my place. i am glad i am sober, as the grand wonder of this world ceased while i drank myself into dark oblivion. this is important at my age, i suppose, and just something that came with graduation into adulthood from a seemingly endless youth. this is a face of altruism, a placid light that drips on me, and hopefully i can emerge uninhibited to join myself on stage tomorrow. 

this is not the multiple personalities that i am suspected by conscious beings of having, as in fact - although i sometimes cannot recall reality to any degree, i am always this same person. as these are insights into schizophrenia, and the dim realities that a running away sort of person is singing for oneself to understand that i do exist living my dreams. this is sabotage - these are the little ones, these unspeakable ails that haunt my living dream. i am, perhaps, always awake and telling myself in my blind that these walls are the only world, that this reality i experience is the shared one. this is to make myself feel better, but this has gone on to long.

i have, in fact, recently prayed for myself. this is a strange thing, but i must belong here - as these are the hard facts. why do i care what i am doing, if i am functional while i do it? i suppose i want to see some sort of fantastic reality that i am creating. i want to exist with the rest of you, in your world. but it is true that i may have, through these wanderings found a sort of enlightenment. what is it, you wonder. it is just to be in the real world, with the rest. to react properly to the experience that i am confronted with. to move from one situation to the next and just react as best i know how. to be happy. just to be, and all else falls by the wayside. this is the enlightenment that i sought: just to be happy and safe, a sage just existing. i suppose that is what everyone wants, yes?

rambling jabberwocky 2161 words

tied to these tired bored letters and spaces, these little waked jets who wander for these little errors. i cannot belong to these letters. a person told me that there should be no hierarchy of letters. sometimes, i agree. other times, i suppose i must rely on the standard resources of normal grammar, as i did attend some place that supposed it was a school. i waited, of course, until i needed to respect the great light to wait alone in the dark for a placement bringing me down from the written way down past the leaving time. that was, in fact, a drunken statement by an important person in my life who wrote a note to me today that i was unable to see. he was not here to be alone with me, but sat with someone typing at the computer.

the impact is a level - these morning shiners and blessings of written wired spots brought by little men, they belong to the others, and i cannot see anything. that is, of course, the silence that i create. that is, brought together, the learned world i would like to exist in. it’s the people that bother me, i fear people, so i would never be able to exist with eyes.

wonder belongs to the wired wrote men, they speak like the foreign land and drip like a dire wonder watching from the sidelines at an old man’s play - written for the still around to be like the lesser pissers. these people have their riots. they speak like the midnight and watch for these mighty tomes, they can belong to restless folks and speak these midnight hours away because i must watch the television and learn that i can see. explain see to me, i told the invisible people - which they did. “that i do,” i said. but what about viewing the same perspective as me? i am unsure that anyone will. i am uncertain that penticton even exists right now. it could be a condition near summerland next to limbo, because i thought for years that i was dead but i suppose i exit this mind-state and live alone in my space, yet there are two people in my bed, a man and a woman, neither one is famous and neither one i know.

shining on the little razor i can belong like living folk, these places cannot be as sure as the one place they saw. these little razors take the little weight from me, i cannot learn without the little waste that watches me along here, places certain from the water that i drink when i have no coffee. this place is weighty and hidden and i live along the lines of soviet people. somewhere i exist in a place that knows that i can live in hopes that the world is quite different than i think. i must bury the thoughts that hide lower on this page, unseen by most if you look deeply than i know the hope is written somewhere - i hide like the rest and hope that i can be way far back and learn the written world is somewhere hidden in the mind as i rest. 

i deeply suffer somewhere in a world that does not exist to me anymore. i do not understand this light. some place i have written worlds that wish their hopes can follow these things into the hopes that wrap my world around the higher ites than mine. i can suppose that some with limps will understand that i exist with the rest of them, but mania can make me say some silly things. i suppose i do choose to live and function with the medication. i am much more worrisome to those who care about me when i snap off the tablet and pour the tin of thoughts down the sink. these are the inane ramblings, these are the senseless wanders, these are my notions and believe me - these opinions change regularly because, like my world, everything changes pretty well every day. some things stay the same, but the rest fades away.

this note with ropes and lights and pain will remain what is, the peaceable form, a sort of water that brings me home - the little place that keeps me hopeful. this space is mine, used for living, but in does not change. it has been other places. it has been a much better and a much worse world. the so-called parlor i once saw was taken from me. i had my sight once, then it was stolen back. he said i learned from the experience, but every time i go to nelson it haunts me. i am not supposed to keep leaving in the siren. i cry to approach a happy light. i am haunted by these trials. these shapes and figures that i see, they care about my mind. my first cell gave me the cat that stayed with the other first regulated sign, which i suppose is just gibberish - but means so much to me that i cannot explain properly. some place i ask my consciousness why i exist, but she does not know. i ask the angel on the other side and she sheepishly turns the old place and we have written nothing in the shame filled lacking drop.

so here is the jabberwocky: a silent step to find me, a written word to hear my little fending purpose and bringing hope from higher elves and brighten my day for these ropes that take their terms to written letters and they speak like higher ites than mine. i cannot be certain that any of this is real. there is a light somewhere inside the crime. the town is whitey, i do know that these folks were the crime. i was talking about them in the past, but i suppose if you keep reading you will hear it in your future. 

white elves, like the pasture keepers, they can be here. my friend and i are sure that the details keep me belonging to the silver line. they keep my posture correct. they keep the siren in near the shame that laughs at me. this is the little red fire that keeps me near hector and the rest of jabberwocky. crime belongs to writing about myself. sheltered people, like myself, care less for the written world and more for the sirens. nobody dreams any more, so the dad remembers that everyone must. keep the line off the project. this is the reasonable thought.

this might work if tried, a little elf that wrote me thought. this is the heart of the pirate. these letters do not speak to one like the foreign little fighting water that fords the white elves and pioneers the higher places that keep these thoughts down to me. i am not a place for these little wires, and the higher levels that place the hopes down wind from weighted places. these mighty matters, these warring factions, they are these inane ramblings. they are these thoughts that i keep to myself. the water knows, of course, and that is why it falls from the sky.

sometimes the elves come and laugh with me. some palaces rise for silent winds, the other final statements take their wind for weighted ghosts. these turbulent windows find their wisdom and wrap the hope and wind the crazed way down the path to bring the mighty laugh towards their ramp and pause a moment and love for a second before you happily space their spots past little higher written wisdom, high about these facts. i seldom laugh at these gibbered nonsensical wanderings. i shapelessly have their fate. 

silent as the little ropes, i can belong their way. this is a notion that keeps my head throbbing through all this wiry silence. these shocks only come from knighted folk who take their wisdom and speak like fellowships who watch the turbulent elves come from their hope. these little heads are not the shining ones. i cannot belong to the others. some place i know that someone cares about me and speaks a shadow through their hidden paths to mine. these people cannot learn from me. they must take their lights, their torches, and bow in hidden mines to take the their spacious hearts out into the field and bring them down one more time.

who is a cool person, the window? no, it cannot be but senseless wonder. no it must belong to these spectrums and speak like the immortal shining sun who is re-lightened by a soviet transformer robot every few thousand years. i suppose this is why i spoke of being up on dockets a while ago. that and the lack of the ever important species of medicine, the pot and other little roses. these ropes cannot find their modern world. there is no plausible denial for the rest. they can only escape on time and bring time back to me. i suppose the last notion is gone forever, and as impetuous as it must be, it is gone until the thought comes back.

some place i belong - the world i am currently writing you from, this notable home of my creation had some help. there is a woman here who works very hard and tells me every time i ask that i do, in fact, pull my weight. i worry about this because there is very little work in penticton, that is why i would like to continue making the music and written work and bring the hopeful world towards me, the art and such, that lasts in a sudden way, i hope. these ropes are high from the little righteous time and it is once again a year for living righteously. 

i have never told anyone things that scare me, but to escape my mind and i laugh with the invisible people, and higher than the rest i know that illness comes from smoke. this high drink shelters me and i have hopeful worries that rest at home with mental illness. that is perhaps why most of the written work on this blog is utter nonsense. that is why most of the lyrics in my songs utter nothing. they tell me i am a good person, who defines myself as a person, a second blob of fissure and resource that brings my home a reality. this, i am unsure of. but i did call for a plumber today, because all my sinks back up at once. this is the shelter i slither into and keep. this is my happiness. this is my home that for some reason still exists. i suppose it is in part because i pull my weight. i suppose this is because although i do not always see it, i can resurrect various souls and pull the hope towards a shining beacon of the north. this hope is my reason.

my father tells me that minds are open, and needed because i have the little war that brings me home. i hear the time tick slowly and i must think, i have very little to suppose, even less to write and hopeful wonderings that all the time i work - it is worthwhile. yet, i have no proof. i suppose if it matters to me, that is all the proof i need. otherwise there is always listening patiently to coast to coast am. i really do like that show, but i leave it on and try to wake my times, i lose my matters, i lose my functioning, i fall sound asleep and go on stage. this is my manic break, this is why i cannot function with the rest. this is how i sleep, on stage, with the resources that take my home from the others. something about red-cliff or dover, something about hope that brings me back to home. something about not moving.

our hero, the resourceful elf that cut his hand, he is happy somewhere, i am sure. there is no telling where he is, but certainly somewhere safe and acting as a sage written in the sky. this person is heavenly brought for waterworks and shining for the silent water and i am certain the higher elves are little silent watering the shining beacon from the north. there is basically no logic in the writing, there is very little space for me to bring forward. there is a place before my hope, there is a winding road for little elves and bringing me down for the hopes i can belong with watering hopes and some day i will be a liar in the silent night. these are all the home-schools prodigies of math, the silent wind that watches us. the musical sirens that laugh at the shining wind, the dripping white light that settles my soul.

and with that, this jabberwocky is over.

and i wonder what carried on.

thanks,

ynordu