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.