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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.