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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.



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.


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.