things i think without psychiatric medication:
by jon pelletier (bo sek shen - parialk zeek, hektor mustard, et al. -d, roma - kaizakia)

-the current psychiatric program of canada is really messed up and should be changed drastically. i also believe that i know who i am and if i am not bothering anyone i should be allowed to live according to my own devices. thusly, i have stopped taking the medicine and i am now thinking the thoughts that i should be naturally as a human at this point in history, not being forced to believe the ideals set forth by people who do not give a shit about me, nor this planet, and would like to control people into acting the way they feel they should. i am not, for the record talking about my psychiatrist, psychologist nor any counselors or nurses at mental health (they are nice people trying to help a worried person who may not trust them, it is a stressful job). i am talking about those who decided the system that would be imposed on the oppressed people of north america. these are a people who are unaware they are being tormented and blinded from the realities through the actions of a small group of people who would like the world to themselves, but are not intelligent enough to realize that they would have to build and fix their homes and gadgets, nonetheless work on farms to feed themselves, which by my estimate puts their average IQ at 65 according to common scales and places them far under the disability line, suffering from various afflictions, grandeur, social anxiety, megalomania, psychopathy and mass murder. they are yet to notice that these methods of control have not worked at all on their population, yet use one part of their brains (the verbal communication center is beside it, i’m not sure what it’s called) to try and control their “commoners” through the smoking of crack cocaine, which they themselves smoke in cigars that are illegal in their country. this does not actually give them any power, although their belief of the divine right of kings is about right, because is any trace destiny of these individuals seems to fit, they have been little else but one person at a time murderers for centuries (at least) and got a big hurrah near the end of this planets cycle, which already happened, don’t worry everyone is safe and just like those holy books they have all over the universe say, nice people didn’t blow up the planet and got to stay. i should repeat that although i am sort of talking religously, i am not currently even a priest, i am a police officer from another planet and happen to be the only one on the planet that is doing this. the only other one is one of my best friends and she is only here on vacation. also, as requested i did and did not bring my life-mate, and can often be found fucking myself. (there is another person there, by the way) oh, and it is totally ok to hang out with you dopplegangers, you do those lives one at a time.

-every consciousness is immortal, therefore the linear time of earth is only an agreement by two parties. the only moment is now, although there is a now for every consciousness - which gives time an almost infinite variety. thusly, time travel comes from purity of the soul, mostly because given the opportunity most un-evolved consciousnesses (such as those who seek power) would go around raping people (and do) when they are given the opportunity to stop time. if you kill or commit one of those sins, then you will lose your gifts (enlightenment and immortality) honestly, this is just common knowledge to most, but for the rest, i’m not a prophet, nor angel, nor saint - i am a cop. i work for the intergalactic space police and i am here to arrest a bunch of stupid folks who are commiting genocide. i will henceforth refer to these guys by the name dick cheney, although i mean the various dick cheneys who do not realize they are on stage right now, near the end of a really old and really good calender names dick, bush and colon (although, to his credit, colon backed out a while ago on the third simulation of what became their reality, a topic that will be discussed later or before, depending on how you use the time space continuum.) by the way, lots of those trippy movies are legitimate theories and some of the more far out ones are what people believe. there is life everywhere, that’s what russia thinks, and all you’s guys just don’t know that you are oppressed, you think that the other folks are, but don’t care. that is why you are.

- kids are taught nearly nothing but hogwash in schools, private or public - and this is both due to ignorance to the truths of the universe, and systematic defeat of reason by those in positions where control over the population is beneficial.
eg.) cats, dogs and other animals do not think. (this is genetically untrue and very easily provable by chilling out with a cow.)
eg.2) atlantis is a lost civilization, computers are new and canada thanks the hudson’s bay company and catholic church for their destruction of the first peoples. (this one is pretty easy to figure out, by looking at what was saved as history of atlantis, the ruins under the city of atlanta, georgia, and the state of the northern first nations and their thought training in which they are taught they could not read nor write. more proof silly things done in the name of god are easily found, as it a credible resource for trust and as the proper paranoid would think, some jerks use it.
- another proof for this is that for fourteen years we are reinforced the same history, and nothing regarding canada before 150 years ago is aloud to be taught to children. this is properly footnoted with a mention of proofs of liars known to psychologists overstating things because they really want you to believe it.

- when i sleep i go to another planet and live life as i choose to. this is true for all consciousnesses, it is just unknown to many. it is possible for these last 100 years to be little more than a computer simulation of a future crime - which was then run as a real event, although many of the major players in the simulation backed out, leaving fewer genocidal megalomaniacs, at least. it is possible to time travel while sleeping and live an entire life before coming back to the place that you awake from: that is why many people claim that the world i am currently alive in and have memories of is a dream. strangely enough, it is quite like the movie inception, which is often played over the subliminal message radio signal that (if you hear it) at times will sound like birds when there should be no birds.

- i primarily exist on the planet of kaizakia, coordinates 6.50.488.902-1, where i mostly play music, exercise and eat fresh natural food from gardens. it is quite similar to earth. there are only a few working “space cops” on the planet right now, and we are here only to save these politicians from themselves, yet with all the psychological help in the world, they have not been saved. when the sun turns inside out and the planet begins to rotate in the other direction they will stay, as that is their request and they don’t really know what they are doing. please accept that i have a very different viewpoint of time than most people when i say that this event has already occurred and everything is pretty much how you are currently expecting it to be.

- people experience what they expect to happen. i do suppose that your consciousness has probably existed as long as mine, (i am not certain because i don’t really know that much about the creation of the universe) had learned enough to exist on other plains of reality (sometimes considered other planets, often on earth considered dreams or states of enlightenment caused by meditation). i believe one has to be benevolent to be able to bridge that gap between worlds with the knowledge that we have gone from that side to the other. this is perhaps why people are drugged into submission and taught that we are not allowed to know anything. the mantra that the smartest man who ever existed knew that he knew nothing is both true and false, as most things are. this is for various reasons, easily provable with time travel, but the essence of the notion is that all things happen simultaneously in the present moment. which leads me to accuse everyone of being multidimensional beings and responsible for the troubles of the earth by thinking that they can do whatever they would like in their dreams. this whole document brings me around to sit with those nutty writers that talk about this sort of stuff, all of which have been commonly ostracized by the printers of money, creditors and warmongers who openly admit they would like the citizen population to go away, feel they are better than us and have been openly inbreeding for about 1000 years, which is why they tell people openly they are reptiles from space, which they are not. they are delusional both from drugs (which they sell) and madness (euphoria) cause by guilt from mass murder, which is well documented if you have the proper internet. these methods of control as definitely not working, even though they think they are. most people do not understand these control mechanisms, because of the drugging of foods and beverages and radio frequencies people are told they do not hear.

- nikolai tesla did not die, he just went back to space because the industrialists kept killing him and he was getting frustrated and wanted to work of science projects like a geek.

- my self, bo sek chai shen - hector d’jaberwokie am of a planet of little distinction besides its various monasteries and cool markets and tea shops that i like. i am currently about 27 years away from arriving on earth, but i am also here various times (i would rather not explain this here, but if you all check my mental health records i told the shrinks about two years in my future, as i have just arrived to this planet, which doesn’t make any sense unless i know how to time travel, which i don’t, but i’m asleep right now, so i can do anything.) i was actually requested by dick cheney himself, as i have much maligned my relationship with him i am primarily a psychologist and computer programmer who ran a simulation of his future crimes against humanity. i do feel this is all sort of my fault, as unfortunately dick bush colon decided to become who he was for all posterity, which at least gave us space invaders the chance to save the humans from getting sucked into a black hole to what is basically whatever you don’t want always land. i had no control over his decisions, i just asked him to go back and stop himself after showing him what was going to happen and such, and he just joined forces with his doppleganger. luckily, most of the other people who committed these atrocities served their long jail sentences, or are still serving karmically because as the shaolin know one can only ever harm oneself. this how i am able to be killed on a regular basis and still exist on this planet for the last 27 years without trouble, all while being here, not being here and being asleep on a bed of nails for a few days on a different planet. this is a bit of a leap of faith, but i don’t mind that you don’t believe that i know that i am a dreaming right now.

i should definitely add to this document the righteous confession that i am definitely not a prophet, nor an angel sent to help in this dire situation. if anything, i am lesbian nun who has spent a lot of time playing music while taking psychedelic drugs. i am, although, a working police officer from interpol (the intergalactic police). some people just awoke in their beds because they had a very strange dream. for these people, they would just like to live their lives as they have, and as they are expecting themselves to appear and become.
i repeat, i am definitely not an angel, saint nor prophet, although i was once sainted by the catholic church as nikolos, which then (because the rich and powerful are usually to ones getting in trouble for weird genocidal crimes and stuff, they have really tried hard to make me seem like a bad guy.) saint n. that’s pretty well who dick cheney requested for his war on god, which is silly, because if anything i would like to work for god, but i can’t get to close because i’m pretty much just a cop, computer programmer and psychologist. as such you may of heard of the devil st. nick, dick cheney bet him a hat that he would not be a still around guy at the end of whatever mr cheney was trying to do with this world, and in fact i am, so if you see him, i would like him to give me a hat. oh, and i definitely not like many of those catholic saints, and did not claim to be one, that was just what the catholic church bestowed upon leonardo da vinci, who was really just lost in time and on the wrong planet. anywho...

- on to the hard to hear stuff, these various jerks (bildebergers, NWO, some of pretty well every government, most of the media and whoever else hopped on the bandwagon) were totally only six people, and probably killed you a few times. it is ok. i have had 8 different names claiming to be the same person who i am writing this document as and each was assaniated at least 8 times, which is nuts but these people who are shooting everything and stuff don’t really get it, and that is why they don’t think it’s strange to be called dick, bush and colon and be destroying the world right now. we all know their crimes, so i won’t get into those. the funny thing they proves they are insane is that they do not think we notice they are doing this stuff. my favorite thought is that i choose not to participate in their requests entirely on purpose and therefore i live according to my whims and eat food when i need it and live a happy life having fun and being in a whole bunch of places right now.

- back to the science stuff (mostly physics), time should probably start at some point at zero, you remember, like it did 2000 years ago because everything happens right now, but there is a past and future, time is an agreement between two people. i can go to sleep and go back to the nunnery and hang out for a while, maybe take some classes and then come back and i have only slept a night. everyone can do that stuff and does. how there is only now, yet there is a past and future is a great mystery of the universe for the record and maybe the giants in the other dimension that even we consider angels know the answer to that, but they seem totally pure and stuff and i am still into learning about this crazy old universe that we are hurtling through a massive speeds. every once is a while the earth is totally destroyed because it will smash in to, like i dunno, a space turtle or something and nobody notices because they would like to go back to their world as they know it to be and expect it to be.

- i don’t know anything about scientology. my faith, on this world is called gnostic christianity - which is an acceptance of hinduism and therefore was excommunicated by the catholics church (as a form a control - as most people who are terrified of hell have on remaining chance before their expulsion to that whatever you don’t want always place until they quite destroying, well mostly the poets and minds of whatever and so on... again, this is not what i am here for, i am a cop and from space.) i feel that as far as religion is concerned, we aren’t even really supposed to talk about it because we do not know what god says, nor what his name is, as such two languages will call him the same word in a different accent (yaweh and allah) neither of which i suppose are his/her/it/we/they’s name, and nobody i ever met knows any of that stuff so lets deal with the other things like the speed of light and the reality of what water is, as i can totally breath outside of the space station (nasa knows about us and tells you lies) and it is sort of like being underwater here for many space people, which is why folks see the funny grey men, they are basic space suits. i bet the dolphins have myths about spacemen abducting their best and brightest while they are trying to catch fish to bring home to their family, and i should maybe use this opprtunity to mention the roswell incident: american military shot down poachers who were harvesting humans much in the way people kill rhinos and tigers, because they were considered whatnots and whatever and so forth, but interpol caught those cats and they are currently in jail. anyways, my opinion on faith can be summed up using parts of two songs - if i’m causing no harm it shouldn’t bother you, so let my lay down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff. i also think that because something exists without being made by say, a person, that is enough proof that it should be allowed to exist, which is why intergalatic laws state that no plants are to be made illegal, as many of them are cures for mortal desieses and such, and plus the old eye in the sky (not us) who people figure made everything made that stuff too and i assume likes to smoke pot, like me. i am in no way comparing myself to god, but i figure he likes me at least a bit because i both am totally blessed and kind of cursed in order to learn what i need to at this point in my existence. as i said, i wouldn’t like to discuss to much about faith and should assure that angels were probably here the whole time, and that yep, there are totally also atheists in space. i guess those who don’t believe in god figure that their parents made them, or whatever and anyways, back to the crazy stuff.

-i own a bunch of patents that corporate america have stolen from me, although they own the patent on currency and this is really what got them into this jam in the first place. i don’t really need to get into the patents, but they will come to light eventually and i assure you i am owed a great deal. this is why they assassinate me on a regular basis, but due to the fact that it really doesn’t bother me at all i just continue to exist where i do, mostly because otherwise i wouldn’t really have much to do, and plus you guys didn’t really have the technology to stop them, and as much as i wish it were true, jam band good vibes really aren’t going to go that extra mile when they have tanks and whatnot. i do assure you that they have a button that will blow up the whole world and they push that button regularly and the world continues to exist. the world exists in this way, because of what those wacky earth physicists have proven about the need for an observer for a reality to take place. therefore, as they have pressed this button that they believe will destroy all humanity it either does, in their mind and they are therefore left alone is some sort of oblivion that i assume is maybe a salvidor dali painting, or they remain unsure of their actions and motives, themselves really and they learn that the button doesn’t work and go back to these mazes they call culture and high society. to each their own. i should assure you that you could be born rich right now and just not realize it. it is totally normal, but if you are, could you please share with the poor, there is definitely enough to go around and starvation is really, seriously, logically brought on by the greed of some people. it’s like a grocery store that is filled with food but the family outside is not aloud to have it because they do not have enough tickets. i suggest, out of the good of your heart, please give these folks food, because they are hungry, not whatever thoughts the television and subliminal message machine are telling you they are. also, as far as the war on god, dick cheney, as you requested, i will back out and let you do it the way you know how to. also, one of their charges for crimes against humanity was blood magic, but they don’t know how to do it, do i had the charge dropped. it’s kind of like the jedi’s (as a race) and then people say that they are sith and want to pick a fight, when in fact there really is no sith, so that is sort of a joke to that people when they come here in future moments of now, and i assure you i was told that before i had been assigned to be your (and i hasten to use the word but none other really fits) variousdickcheneys prison psychologist. i also assure you fine people of earth that we totally would have done something earlier, but we were not quite here yet and if you change to much with time travel then the universe gets kind of wacky, but you all know that because of the press.

- fiction is a story about people, non-fiction is the dissection of facts. this does not make either of these classifications true or false. so, for the record i definitely think that visitors from afar have discussed actual events and theories with you guys through the use of film, television, art and literature. as such, and as i am surely aware, everyone is free to think what they like. i know for certain that in writing this document i am going to be approached by someone who cares about me and they will tell me that i need to be drugged and incarcerated in a controlled environment - and my response will be, i have never suggested that for you, and if i am not touching a nerve than you would not want me to go away. you sort of see the predicament, i hope, that any new thought can be said to be the inane ramblings of an absent loon, that i could suffer consequences legally and my rights could easily be taken away through loopholes in laws and malleable judges who listen to their friends. this is why, because i knew these folks were going to try and get rid of anonymity on the internet, i have refrained from doing anything anonymously online. i do, on the other hand, have an admission from higher-ups that they are that group of folks known as anonymous, because someone asked me to crack that case and they shouldn’t have asked me if they didn’t want to me to find out. because this information is classified and a war crime i admit that they assassinate me regularly now, but i suppose if you are living on a another planet running a simulation of this world and spending long hours in a physical body working for space cops, well, space goats fart.

-anywho, time travel is easy, look up the patent for campbell’s mushroom soup, and it’s similar. as it is kind of a riddle and they solved it totally wrong and hilariously, as bo sek shcen can be, (thanks) they were unable to create an object from two non-existant objects and prove that whatever and whatnot, and because they couldn’t solve the riddle they got soup and did not tell people it was poison. then they fed it to citizens, (another crime against humanity), so i changed the riddle a bit and it’s edible, it was just posion for a couple batches...) so no, i will not solve the riddle of bu’s patent for time travel, it’s part of the fun, if you recall, you kind of have to know what’s up be able to do that because what various dick cheney’s do when they can freeze time is commit crimes and rape people, which he did until those “men in black” were arrested. they were, in fact quoted as being “a private corporate army” by those silly inbred folk who believe they deserve the riches and the sick, thirsty and starving - too bad. those folks, well, space prison is so much torment or punishment as rehabilitation and i dunno how long they will be there, but i’m a little bit sick of mr cheney trying to rape me, myself. for the record. by the way, i am totally in another room and only talk to him once in a while - i am currently in the year 2020 as it seemed safe enough to explain the charges and stuff, but i’m not sure when it will be posted to myspace or whatever, it’s not really going to be mainstream press but hopefully someone will publish it, one of my doppelgangers might own a newspaper, who knows.

to be continued...

fictional pause

There was a pause for a moment, while the young man fell ill with the fever of twenty-odd years of requests to die being granted. The notion was asked for, begged for, bargained for and made the appeal of these great minds controlling the machine. As he entered this world, he did not want to go and begged that he would only live a few years. The minds told him that he would have to live long enough to reclaim righteous leadership and intelligent ideas in the world and when he had, he would be allowed to leave if he felt it was for the best. When asked if he wanted to go he told the wise minds that he would like to go to where he belonged and be the person that he truly was, instead of the gracious in kind donation of a synthetic shell that had carried his consciousness for these 27 years.

Although he understood the remarks made towards him, and the repercussions of leaving the world he was currently experiencing - he knew that his fate had been decided by metal shards, mighty blows and the halls of great requiem that would remember his idle age at death in the hollowed halls of fame, and thus - his mission would be a success even though he abided by the requests to refrain from being on stages or profiting from his work.

You see, our hero - who by now is dead because of his work (arguably this position has been omitted to protect the health and safety of those our hero holds dear) - was unable to explain to anyone his official occupation without compromising their safety. He was also not guilty of the laziness that he was charged with, and when this becomes clear, acting as a pious messenger to deliver these papers to legally powerful and segmented or damned men will show itself to not be a treasonous act as sucgh and very much in accordance with his job description. It should also be noted that all legal notifications of service of destructive (or breakable, tonal jammed) documents was made prior to the delivery.

It seemed like an easier way out for those held in secret cabals and doomed resources finally upholding their bargains and endlessly believing that they are the righteous kings, this notion that it is best to spray cancer from airplanes and poison water, or to jam that poison into a group of loosely tied people, our hero included, and let their various corpses hold the secrets that they could not let go. Once again, the criminal party in this document does not understand the processes in which the documents were served, refused to read the documents that were served and/or has an IQ of below 65. So, I leave it to your better judgement to discover the patents that I may or may not have, the mania ingrained in my medical files and the resources that have lifted my part of these conspiracies to the greater good.

Without further ado - my will.

1. As far as whatever i made that is tangible, like art - do something cool with it, like a show or something (make sure all the bands play for free) then mix em up and sell those things for money. Make sure you track those buggers so that they can all come together again and hopefully people will see them in a hundred years and appreciate them.

2. Print everything I even wrote on the computer at least once, copy it if you think it’s good. i’m going to try and do this now, starting with my entire blogs and stuff, one day they will pull the plug, surely and everything on this interweb will be gone. Lots (and i mean freakin’ epochs worth) of handwritten stuff is around in boxes and stacks of paper, much of it will be missing by the time this is read, but the rest of it will be an awesome book, it just needs a few touchups, maybe a plot, some characters - fuck em, give it to max zaitlin and tell him to be creative. whoever else in interested in editing and rewriting those sheets, go ahead, you’ll be able to find me in england somewhere, i’ll be a baby. (look for the one going by mustard or marmalade from jabberwocky, playing in whitby the crim.)

3. i have a heck of a lot of music that is only in digital format, it would be great if that could be somehow saved for all posterity as a physical document or tape.

4. the guitars should all be given cases so they can be mailed to the following addresses:

a) amos o’kane busted acoustic - mail this one to a nunnery in rome, it doesn’t matter which one. attach this will and a book of encouragement, as well as a manwoman nun’s in a dumptruck card that was gifted to the golo. the card can be blank, or signed by whoever is mailing the case (i mean the guy working at the desk at the post office, not you). if no nuns can be found in rome, mail the vatican and ask where the sisters of our service to the holy queen chapel nunnery is, and whatever language they speak at that nunnery, write the note in an illegible hand of gibberish similar to that language. they should get in touch to clarify and send them a book of encouragement and my resume. upon reply send word of my demise and perhaps a gift certificate to get licorice for all the orphans.
b) washburn timbrewood acoustic - this is my most expensive guitar, so please smash it into small pieces and place the pieces around the art show, its better if they go unnoticed, maybe to be complained about by staunch republicans at the show only to seem relevant because they are running in the next city council election, which they will most likely lose, because they tried to be cool instead of who they were. after the show, mail the pieces to those people who complained with a copy of this will, a book of encouragement and any applicable manwoman card.
c) fender bazooki, fender telecaster, fender squire bass - i’d like to keep these, but alas, i am dead - probably for a while, so i’m sure there is an orphanage somewhere that could use them. i’m thinking in LA.
d) 6 string ibanez bass - send this to republican national convention as proof of life beyond the grave. ask a proper rhinoceros like salam henchman of citrus, or cross- examiner delirious robot monkey vampire (xp 107) to deliver it. it is not a threat, just a notion of what could be without these sorts of delicious apple jacks.
e) check the time - write the current time and date here: ____________________
write a letter (or call, it your perogative) to the whitby general hospital in UK, ask if there was someone born at that exact time. if there was send the rest of my guitars to that family and explain, although this is not me reincarnating - i would like my gear to be in that town and they seem like nice people, so they can have it. if there is not a birth at that moment, then ask for a ten minute grace period on either side of that date, or perhaps no-longer consider the difference caused by time-zones.
ie, 2.15 = 2.15, or 2.15 = 10.15 ..... whatever is close, mail the gear to them, amps and all and request that it be kept for sale to a strange person dressed quite as requested by delirious, by now hanged men who asked for jabberwoks. if time travel is possible, and i already am a doppleganger of myself over there, i’ll be called something similar and these folk will be able to find me. if, in fact, a distant relative has had a birth near the time of my death, kindly disregard these instructions and give everything i own to her, including whatever rights rights to all the music and stuff like that garble.

5. otherwise, all rights to everything i have recorded, written, said or decided should be left to mirva and my current family, any kids that fall out of anyone and whatnot until they become public domain. because i’m new at this ‘leaving stuff to myself’ thing. just know that i will be in cahoots with mustard or marmalade, so be mindful of the sudden appearance of someone grey, similar to morrigan, carillon, madeline or something of this tone, some abject resource brought by fish, righteous indignation and irish republican drunkards settling on the main island, nothing like the servant of myths of the shae. it will be more troublesome because of the reality, the quarrels meant for me, the threat of impulse that did not scar me, scare me nor torment me, but allowed me to be ran through without earnest protest.

6. my books (by other authors) can be donated to the conservative party of canada. please send them one a day, with the return address as -
jon pelletier (hector from jabberwock)
x81176b-57(delete)9
the shae, whitey -crim (england)
jab-isl, siren motive.
(this is a letter from whitey the crime)

7. whatever else i’ve got, give to whoever wants it.

facebook thread that seems important

this facebook thread came up today and built itself up like something that should be saved. i avoid using the names of the two other people involved in the post, because they are both also members of media (in whatever form) and i didn't ask if i could copy and paste their shite. without further ado...

dangerous thinking (part 1)

Jon Pelletier
the department of capturing and drugging should be abolished, as it is now used primarily for the capture and behavioral rehabilitation of people who believe themselves to be magical or special and those that do not want to comply with standard ways of thinking or social norms. the mental health act is often used to change and stigmatize political activists. it is proven that the only positive side effect of the torment and forced tranquility provided by this governmental department is the ability to make people stop talking. although useful in times of dissent, it does not actually change the persons opinion of the situation, just allows the "normies" of the general public to consider intelligent people diluted or disabled, and is a great way to discredit their ideas. the drugs make their patients reliant on the system, or sleep all day and be silent. psychologists and counselors, however, should be provided for no cost to the patient. psychiatrists will also quit getting paid for every pill they prescribe, which would get children and elders alike off dangerous medicines comparable or terrifyingly similar in many studies to cocaine, speed and barbiturates. sounds paranoid, right? that's what they want you to think.
Like · · Unfollow Post · 57 minutes ago

R C Z H and J W like this.
J W - You change an obsolete system by creating a new One!!! >>> Join your local healing community...most there have had the above option...but turned to community rather than Government to aid each other through times like this.
and I agree...don't become a government drug user!! ;)
52 minutes ago · Like
Jon Pelletier they made me take the drugs against my will for a long time, then it actually turned out in the notes they just thought i was gay. i'm not, but i'm not worried about it like they said i was. other than that there was no diagnosis, but i was loud and political, and all the psychiatrist wrote about me was a few notes when i was 15. even if i was gay i don't really feel like that's a reason to tranquilize me. and i don't know if ganesha coming down from the ceiling and telling me that the government is lying to me about everything make me gay. i mean, he was purple or whatnot, but that's not necessarily homosexual... the lesson i took from it after years of emotional torment and trouble trying to get up and move at all is that i just should mention some things to some people. like, what i did is mention something to a school counseller that i should have said to a priest, they sent to the psychiatrist and said it again... 10 years of life gone and i had nothing to show for it except a reliance on government tranquillizers and the depression and embarassing appointment every couple of weeks of getting a long needle of apathy drugs in the butt. and i this sort of thing is common.
45 minutes ago · Like
J W - yes...I have heard stories of the like.... but you have something.... You have your Will and your knowledge from it all. and from that... You can do anything!!! and help many....
42 minutes ago · Unlike · 1
Jon Pelletier ‎"oh, i've lived six times in the last hundred years often as dopplegangers of musicians playing in the same band, jabberwocky, the fancy show (with knives) not of stages, as requested ... you know, the legitimate english reincarnate that was asked politely to serve the war-crimes papers to the bush administration because they either thought i did neat work or they thought hector from jabberwocky playing a 100 year all requests set would let them get off unpunished, because they have never had the divine right of power gifted by an intelligent universe until there was a grand technological development and it was only because spirits knew that he would try to destroy the world and be unsuccessful, then live in infamy for all time as an example of what not to do... it happens every 1000 years or so i figure, because if you map the reigns of genocidal maniacs they usually coincide with technological leaps forward." if you mention something like that to a doctor he tries to lock you away and prescribes you shut up and quit caring medicine, often proven to make the patient a drug addict...

dangerous thinking
23 minutes ago · Like
R C Z H - big pharma is a cancerous boil on humanity. only concerned with money and the medical and social system is the most lazy self concerned pile of crap going these days. it's all about the money in the end.. sad
20 minutes ago · Like
Jon Pelletier it's more worrisome if it's about control
13 minutes ago · Like
Jon Pelletier controlling people is an exercise in futility, either way, because you can't. buts it is really twisted if that's what they are trying to do.
12 minutes ago · Like
R C Z H - control is an issue for all governing bodies. but it's about a self centered society that has no time for other peoples problems anymore. they just look for ways to make them disappear so as they can go on with their shopping. there is no empathy anymore. no real empathy. how can there be, no one has the time. they're all to busy trying to get laid in one way or the other.
5 minutes ago · Like
Jon Pelletier it's easy to shun someone who has dangerous facts by saying they are mentally ill. it creates a stigma, multiplied by the effects of the medication (face drooping, slow/slurred speech, hard time getting through comments, apathy, depression). it's terrifying.
2 minutes ago · Like

By distraction, my leave from her light had tense speed running through me, like a irate craft or heady nun, she sped toward the light. Had they known either of the thoughts, I felt unsure they could multiply and I set with increased importance, a letter to help the form take hold. These are dead scraps in the distance, a scrape to the window sill or a tapping on the glass to tell these times thier details or to escape winters grasp as a soul with righteous indignation and resolve. I am only bringing it forward to march between these halls. The sped light of eight or more candles and the space in the lair told us the other thought you cloud.

It is important to note that the discussion was of a gentle tapping or slow rapping on the window, sir. It was keeping me up at night. The candle flickered in the morning as the silent street beckoned and I surely wrote the letter for the silent night that came upon the research brought for water-marked new papers a notary public knew and could bring towards these lights on a harmonious brilliant surface. Because the dream is over and I have to believe in mind, I assure you that these lights bring my surface up and make my place of this design.

The neighbor looks in first condescendingly and then twice with deep regard. I am not the person he assumed me to be. I am not tapping at his window. The connection between us is that at last I am assured that this tapping is not his handiwork. It is from a branch in the wind swinging on an invisible tree that is gently rapping at the window. It is keeping us up at night.

Water for the people and why we should know.
I am writing a list to detail a formula for diverting my nonsense from the annoyances of other people. I am also writing this list to refrain from annoying other people. The fear took me over and I had to look at that calming shade of facebook blue. That is an addictive colour, and also why the pain goes away when I look at it. I suppose it is better than smoking. Why can’t I take the few pauses to listen to my muse and enjoy her? I cannot, because she is with her sister-wife. They are taking care of children.

She is a caring, wonderful and beautiful person. What a great job she has done, and all the while knowing the pain of fearing the universe and that silent grace that is within every person. I know there is a gracious tome to describe her that is as yet unwritten. Water is the only purpose for those little dreams. Ghosts play their games and know that those meddling kids reign inside. It is possible that these little soldiers bring their homes to us. It could be why we hate them.

One day a fancy man dressed in fancy clothes will call me, and turbulent times will await their delay. Once I quit the fancy chemicals, there was a clear pause in the trial. We were made to be happiness. Sure, we had little demi-gods to look for, but the window sill was secretly clear. She wrote measures made for little pills, that demon. She woke in the morning clear as day, no worry nor clear conciseness, she was tired but was going to be able to sleep a long night of happy dreams before she had to wake in the world that circumstance made her.

For now she can be assured that her home is wonderful and warm, that there is food there and at the place she is now and that she is loved by a man who sits typing like no other kind of being. That made her feel good.

It was possible that the person the typing man was asked to search for was a racing dragon, headed south through the cold night of the desert trying to cross the border like a paragon, being chased by border patrol and the FBI, hopelessly treaded on by water (or chemicals) and doomed beyond repair because of the silence dripping from his limited and shapeless motives. It was circumstances fault, we repaid no glory nor servitude. The country was at war and their borders must be protected. It is the same in the Great White North.

There are people everywhere trying to find us. And I am not a writer, nor a spy: because I can only simplify things by relating all information I have over the decades long transmitter, perhaps wondering for their little trace that all the dreams and lights are beyond their little dragons fighting the wind for all the shapes they have lifted. What did I have for it? Nothing. Not a cent, and another half of my life incarcerated. I was cool by breaking the law in two jurisdictions, but as I was caught it didn't feel right.

It made me believe that it is best to grow intellectually to rise against a power oppressing you, so that by speaking you can create positive change instead of giving the oppressors a chance to control me further because I was trying to take their empire piece by piece. I know because I am the law of myself, and I know from past experience that it may be best to do what those people holding all the guns say. It is possible to still live a fruitful and revolutionary life, but maybe we should work with the system already in place, that way we do not have to take all that time to create a new system.

It is only this way because we comply. Without that, they cannot hold us.

north/south divide (grievances)

To write, and only to fill a void on the internet.
There needs to be constant supervision or nothing will ever be right. The details I once left must be buried on my site. That is the only was to secure enough proof of rapscallionism to settle the dreams I had before once and for all. Sometimes there is a good sister, made for me. I hope there belongs a great leader, teacher and mother in me. The good will of cloning is made ever the more chaotic by the fearless teachers of those Bristol community colleges. But these days I know nothing of Bristol. I only know of Summerland.

Perdition is a place just outside that gated community. The high clay walls block their foodstuffs and presume all the outsiders must be leveled and gained. Primarily I was awoken to this procedure before I turned the age 12. Before then I knew little else, but I wondered if somewhere I lay in a warehouse resting on vast acres of childhood imagination, alone with my thoughts and at peace with the world. This was quite how I would have enjoyed myself aging.

This detail has been left out, due to apple cider vinegar dripping from my tongue. These romances do not describe their people, nor the lost man of Summerland for whom this book is written. Peaceful resolution is a case in point. There have been many lost souls traveling this 300 000 mile north/south divide. The cactus tends to stick to my shoes in the summer. Perhaps that is why I left the woods. Somewhere I will live in harmony with myself and nature.

Words like pedals
Dieing leftover parts
Meddling in their wavering form
She speaks like the others

Ghosts in several lands
Speak like martyrs
Trading their sheepish night
She speaks to the water

Tell them they know anything
Tell them they are right
She paused
The cat was late
They told him in was five-fifteen
And sent him to their mother’s

Sisters spark wavering told like a shapeless mass or filth
And never more than one day short they brought the mystic reign
When they could have reasons for a simple pathogen
That marked their cross
A way, for them, to innocence

There was a water sent for gasoline matters
Spilling their times they send people to mine fields
They know it is important to treat them with cause
For they are bent like a road
That is perfectly still
And the trees are all made to be righteous and real

So taking their wandering mind from the shattered fall
Speakers that can be unkind watch their palace fall
And surely there is some kind left inside the man
For I speak with wrath for the peaceful encounters left
And I speak with charred lands and remembrance of the fallen

There is no palace that can save you from your sin
There is no ending that places you to begin
You will have to live down every last plan
And you speak calm like a dying man
Dressed in his pain

Sincerely, Jack Sanderson










To: Dick Cheney

I have put off writing this letter for a long time, mostly because I don’t like you.

It will publicly announce your acceptance of guilt for your actions and suitably your afterlife will be less horrific and will gradually get better as you make the proper decisions to re-establish your existence in the creators world. You see, Dick Cheney, it is like we have signed an agreement with the creator in which you agree to respect the world that created you. We are also bound by this contract to abide as a team.

You were obviously very little more than a “one person at a time” murderer for the 500 years or so since the last great advancement. Thusly, you were given all the power in the world at the time of the next great advancement of humanity. Because of your actions with all the power in the world (mostly just weaponry and fame), especially your war on God, you are booked soon for a transition to your afterlife. This is a stick in the eye to you from immature spirits that God loves. It is that you can see the future for a moment and always remember how you tried to destroy it.

Although most people stay in God’s world, reborn soon after death and filled with happiness, full of good things and nice feelings, you, sir, due to over 3 million casualties of war, will have a damnation reserved for special cases. Once you arrive in Summerland, (which has already happened because you are reading this and I saw you), the flight back will cause you to have a difficult dream because in God’s world there are many people everywhere you go that don’t like you. Power was initially discovered (this life) as a great way to be popular. It was really because of your friends you joined the CIA.

You will know this, because the time has come for you to feel guilty, and because you hear my voice in your head very often and know what I am about to say yet still want me to be cool with you, the time has come for paradise to fall. There is nothing in the water here. This is not such exodus from Babylon. I have told you for years that eventually you will die of natural causes. It is God’s will, and it is so people like you some day go away.

Genocide is the kind of sin reserved for few psychopaths. I feel that you must really want to do it for a number of lifetimes. Surely you endorse the actions of yourself without the opportunity, an also famous man name Jeff Dahlmer. His wish is God’s command and you were given your chance to make up for sins. You could have fixed this planet but you used the opportunity to commit as many atrocities as you could in a lifetime. You and your friends are responsible for more torture than anyone who has ever been sent to me.

I’m afraid I cannot be your lawyer,


Sincerely
Jack Sanderson





Dear 2012,



Please don’t be the end of all time. Could you please just bring us into the light? Could this be the revelation and return to light and not the destruction of all time?

Please quit scaring all these conspiracy theorists into frenzy. They are sometimes dangerous people that will get very worried about the end coming. If you could put an end to this dangerous paranoia, that would be just wonderful.

I’ll wait.


Sincerely,
Jack Sanderson

title for this post 2

To Thadeus,
Misdirection masks my permanent vacation. Also, the cave is filled with drawings because I finally have patterns on my shirt. Three times in the past 400 years I have come here to stay. It is a wistful a long voyage from England. I have been back two times in this life and I can get there in a day. The age of magic has begun!

These lines are out now. Like the dreams before them and the tragic friendship, these lines are now crossed. The hope is that people who are mindful can be caustic like the others. Neither people’s hope are interpreted. We are all fired for their final increase. It was that they it wished to be a one-step process towards those who need their minds undone. We are not the illness, because the illness is of some the art of lying about feinting.

I like my job. I like to be here for the day. With all the reasons I walked forever, chalky white and making their way towards me I resented the oppression. Chasing the orchard with wandering sensation, these shows are heavy set with the oppression.

Is it better to give coat racks hats to keep them safe or to let nature take its course and their decisions righteous? Would they also be patient until they need their hearts to lead them away?
Myself, I sure hope the coat rack is around when I get back. I want him to be okay, as he got out when I had to go to work. There is a big scary road nearby and it is final, that term. But he cannot be caught. He won’t give them a cent for their apples. That is in fact why they set up the BC Tree Fruit agencies. Why do coat racks even like us, wise as they are? Worlds change us and before the fall, Thadeus, she charged that he had left water outside. He cares about me just fine, as a careless mind would.

Right now he’d just be a latchkey kid. Keys in a child’s hand regard the absent parent in a good home, where the children are great. I was one like that, and I did not have reason to fear except belief.

Wind them up, like legitimate people, these harpies with their fine widgets, with all sorts of white sovereign nations. We love you, and it would be a shame if you got hurt. It is a grand life, Thadeus, if you choose to live it. You must explore, but moreover you will have to hang out with the good guys. Make true friends, kitty. Play with the dog. Be safe Thadeus, and if you see the coat rack, send him back home. We have a show to perform at 7:30.

And I wonder, Thadeus, can we wonder?


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------





-Ancient Cizzors-

Dear Waterberg,
“Here is some niceness from their turbine, harps that dry their wishing well, these are their own water bags,” they needlessly speak gibberish. “Knife in his painting, she sees the shine, the people on their minds hope they were walking into here. There are people who watch the folk, they need people here who have been waiting a long time for these dreams.”

The firm of investors stop to listen, there is a moment of pause with she calibrates what she will say. There is a hope that this procedure will get her off their trail. It is like a filibuster sent from Mr. T to the rest of the actors so that he gets his face on the cover of the movie.

She replies, “History does not start 150 years ago. These parts were populated long before then. Perhaps it is difficult to get historical information from those people, as they do not want us to know their secrets and the information has been told orally. Like our history it may have been altered towards allegory. They may be tales made fantastic, and beliefs like our ancient beliefs, of fantastic creatures and magical powers.”

The first investor replies, “Magic was made illegal over there. Here it is commonly practiced and accepted. The same will happen with your new computer and the digital art world. It will happen each time you invent it. One day, you will not know what helicopters or airplanes are. They will be your tales of Dragons and Thunderbirds. Only our firm will have them.”

“There is talk in mystical fiction of living with dragons,” the second investor states, “and also the knights are kings who slayed them all.”
She spoke before the third could and it angered him, “Is this story, which has been passed down through generations for a lond time similar to the myths of Thunderbirds and Shapeshifters?”

“These tales are true, you blasted witch!” The third investor shouted, “Your magic tablets, with their important tones and words meant to hypnotize, I believe you have created something black.”

The fourth investor said to her, “Just because of the innate evil of many humans and because your magic tablet is hypnotizing and misshapen, this will mean pain and suffering to the human race. In that hands of a good person it can play music and browse movies, but in the hands of a bad person it can browse thoughts. And surely many evil people will learn this hypnotism, such that they can browse thoughts just by speaking. For this reason your kind of new magic is also banned. We will keep the tablet.”

With this she was escorted out of the room.

An Open Letter To Whoever Is In Charge Here:

The light is here for you now
There is a certainty in it
We all must pass judgement
Should we choose to remain

Sources account for losses measuring in the millions. The depth of our struggle is designed for the source brought back from the leaders of this motivated action. I assure you, (sir who is watching), that I am not the agent you are looking for. I have no action that designs any group meant to stop the common man from action within the confines of anonymity. I am also certain that research with vigor will show details of colonies defeated much more easily than these who exist now. I extend the truth that someone was very far sighted and knew the correct things to do over the last 500 years or so.
I am also aware that the plan is running out of steps. The appendix added on to the end of your document was perverted by the greed of men who have long since been sent away from your clubs. Jesus saves those who save themselves.

There is no licensed program more telling of your sins than Action %567-X.
In this reasonable event man defeated his greatest enemies in a war that lasted many lifetimes. In a way, this was our victory. Many people have been killed by the trouble makers three or more times. This is lovely when it happens, very great for humanity. Many of these people are not the spiritual sort until they are murdered the second time in a short period. They are much more easily malleable as misguided fools in need of abuse and directions to belong to a club that promises to be something great for their people. Instead they are used twice and come back quickly again, having reached an age of perhaps 42 years in two lives. At this moment there is a direct contact with some grand and noble spirit who has directed the good leaders for eons before and eons to come. This is the enlightenment that was sent from some unknown place to kill you.
I am afraid it will not be a person.

The graceful fall of sharp written tomes, lighting fires sent for water. These will be snuffed out, like the seashell that warms the mollusk, just miles from here, at my home. There is a white light on the beach there. Some people say that I cannot see it, but surely there it is, clear as day. Christ, could the bigger silence light my mind? There must be a reason to believe.

I haven’t gone to church in time to ask the man why these acts are perpetrated. There is silence when you show the madness some regard as business as usual. I am sure there was a place for each of our people. I know that we have little regard for those from other kingdoms, but perhaps if we show them loving kindness they will respond to help us when we are in trouble. Instead it seems as if we are creating a future more turbulent then ever before. They will not forgive us for destroying their world. Our citizens will not forgive us for destroying their world. Surely the reign you asked for ends with a dire silence, a dark cold and some bashful, painful, reasonable reaction from the press.

They will all speak well of you. I know certainly that you will not pass through the gates, nor will your actions be given a chance for retribution. You are a fearless man, but one day you will find shapeless, sexless mass where once you stood. The actions that you told us were pure will leave you sadness, as the nymphs and fairies that you have banned from existence lead you to the labyrinth that many sinful perverts guilty of mass genocide come to. You can make magic illegal but you can’t take it away. It has only left us with no way to charge someone who commits murder through the use of curses or dolls.

You, black page, dear to the others, writing like a wine stained abject verb. I must believe!
You, my friend, dripping light wide like a Soviet platform. You have to breathe. When we both take hands and leap I know that we will find our light. It is the survivorship of these simple times. I must take this survival as a blessing and know that only shining tapes regard my passage. I have sinned like other able bodied friends that burn their way through the desperate streets that I once walked fearing tell-tale signs of direct flesh bought from detailed maps of this perfect place. There is a simple answer. I know that I must save the thought for the end, but undeniably I pause to find this small box that holds his heart.

I don’t pause here now. I may act like a persistent druid. I must face the immortal soul with valor that was long lost to friends made from every advancement. It is a knowledge of where I was when they began to place houses on top of each other. I suppose England had just ran out of room. No, there was room for everyone to have a place. We needed to build the cities high to keep green pastures for our meat. I am sure that I need overwhelming mindful vision to be sure, and surely I can tell the tale that I have meant for none. This is a secret, a sort of ever-changing wine filled vestibule. Certainly I can belong to the objectifying rule. Certain as I am, I know that I am not this fool.

There is a terror in my voice, a subtle but heard cry. Dreams of daggers, cloaks and hammers often pass me by. There is a curious cat that speaks, I am not certain of the tone. He is not the feline kind, of course, rather a jazz man I have known. I call him a cat because he reminds me of those old sheltered happy sorts that still finds time to hunt his game purely for the sport. Curiouser and curiouser I certainly dream of the long ago days I know, but settling for the perfect life I must begin to learn a word or two of these new languages that the people speak. There is a purity, to be sure. There is a calm wave on a beautiful morning in some salt pool near the ocean that filled up in last nights storm. It is windy so we must hold our hats for fear that the sea will take them as hers. There is a reason that I can belong to that final, reasoned time.

A man approaches me, as I sit idly on the bench that morning. I am filled with sheepish cloth, written quite like a mindful portion of salt on my breakfast. I say nothing to him for a moment, as he sits next to me on the bench. I am not fearful. There is something comic in his bright blue eyes, his curly brown hair needs cut and nearly blocks them. He is clean shaven, dressed like a high school principal, but he is much too young. I worry that he will talk to me and that I will have to say something witty, but he gazes out to the sea where I was looking and I am peering right at him. I turn back towards the water and pretend he has already gone. That is the moment he speaks.

“She already has me mother, to be certain. She already speaks like the Devil. Why can I be sure that you are different from the last girl? How can I be sure you are not this ocean.”

I pause, because I must reply. I must find the proper words to bring his shining mind to rest. There is a purpose in my life when I meet this man. For a brief moment I can close the drapes and think alone and rest. For a moment I can breath and speak in time with each of his steps. I must belong to this moment for the rest of my life. I have been waiting for this question for so long that I choke inside, my lungs hurt and I gasp. I cannot tell him why. I want to tell him all of that, that he had changed my life.

All I can muster is, “Perhaps you can touch my hand. I am not a liquid.”

That seems witty now, but at the moment I didn’t think so. It may have seemed that way if this morning companion had laughed. It may have been to early for any of this. He chose not to touch my hand, instead wishing me a good morning and saying that he would now be late for work.

“I wanted you to know that I saw you this time, as I often do at this spot.”

As he said that and as we wished each other farewell I remembered the same man in a canvass jacket walking silently passed me as I wondered into the wind the day before. I could not recall another time that I saw him, but noted that my mind is often away on business and it is possible he passes me sitting here every day. I hadn’t realized how much I liked the morning until this moment. I had just been waking myself up to see it every day.


There is a purpose for this memory, which is entrenched in my mind somehow and from a place and time very far away. I may never be at that place again. In fact, it is possible that the sea has long since eroded that path and sent my memories a drift with the dirt and dreams of both these impossible people being sure of their places in a world nowhere near a mad as the one we live in now. I can be certain the man recalls that moment as well. There was only one other way to town for a purposeful mission for work or for foodstuffs. With a cockeyed glance I needed to push this riot away. There is only certain doom finding parts of my soul that distribute these stories. I once heard a writer say that one needed to believe in what they were telling the reader and that there needed to be urgency. The writer must have something to say, to share, to teach. Otherwise in it there is no purpose, just a bland moment. Tired as I am, there is a person who is weaker and if I cannot belong to fear I bring the others weakness. Sure I bring a motive, daft and pure of it’s resolve but clearly I cannot be trusted with the fate of weakened minds. I can be certain, although you do not know me, that sir, I know you well. I can recall the moment that we met eyes and there was something very special.

Sir, you are a dripping light sent from the space where we come from and if you kindly take your gasoline I may just write you back. I am not hopeful that you will receive this note before your death but each of us is brought before the court, in courses of action quite like you said, there is a wonderful world beyond this spacial relation that we call our lives. There is bright days and sunshine in a world much like this one and we can choose to be someone if we want to be. I know, because everyone lives forever.

You knew this once, but I am afraid that you may never be here again. I must explain in writing that art must be taken as a lifestyle, and not everyone can live within it’s boundaries. There is a certain fatalism that artists live their life by. Mine includes a kind gesture to a stranger at the hope that I will be the recipient of a calm hand of support. I try to add as much as I can to the community, work time in a shop, write, muse, paint and sing songs. I do all this without the request of remuneration, which most people find absurd. The fatalism is the silly belief that God will provide. I am certain that I will always have something to eat, though it comes perhaps from the lack of the other experience. The only times I have gone hungry have been at the behest of my bad decisions. Any time I would live drunk with crooks or been a bitter, sad, dirty person I have gone hungry. As a good person I have been very good. I eat fine.

I was certain that it was a divine hand in my life. Now I feel I am this way to learn a lesson. Perhaps my life was my choice. I cannot always be certain. There is a fool inside me who wants to get out. I want to let her. She is the acceptance of myself and my own sovereign life form. I do not answer to powerful men in rancid offices, I do not laugh in the face of the wretched like you’ve asked me. You are a faceless, immortal pain that treats me like nothing and asks for my sympathy in return. You have made your mistake. There is nothing left to learn this life. There will be plenty of lessons in eternity.
It is within the simple nature a damned men to think that there is a recipe that will take their soul forward into new worlds. These lands will probably be conquered and divided, but not by the same groups of fools that tried to destroy this one. The mistake of lackluster promise, or a purity of religion that suggests that some sort of suffering will be unleashed on the human race once again, and these will be of forces perhaps as grandiose and misshapen, but these new pillars of evil will not be you. Sir, you will be damned. Fear not, humanity, for there are scepters behind us all. Death is waiting for each one of us. The next step is our own making. We always get what we need. The grand intelligence behind our electric bodies designs a kind of fate, so that we become full and pure beings, so we choose.

There are many dissenters, and the man I met on the walking path near the water was certainly one of them. He was nice enough, but didn’t want anyone to tell him what to do. Primarily because his mother told him he must receive communion twice a week, he hadn’t received it since he had left her care, although he often went to church. He sat at the second row from the back and politely opted out of this ceremony without excuse nor regret. He claims when pressed that he doesn’t think his life in much different for it.

Sincerely,
Amor de Cosmos

First Bit of Next Book:

GRIEVANCES
By Jon Pelletier
-------

To Water

-------

Don’t forever
I was scared, like it was my trapping
A lame life or soul, it was funny
That I am doing this
The way that I am doing this
Keep doing this

Might I add
You can do what you should
I am upset
And I didn’t want to go to that place


People:

“What is this place?” I wonder.
It is a place where nobody can find me. A hope when worry seeks Seven Yellow Birds. Save our brothers and our homes in the woods. The portion of some, where are they?

They are making war with us. So I spent the day talking to my lawyer and the private eye downstairs. He is a crook getting information from a private eye, calling him to confront his pal, so that the crook can walk in and scare the dick. When I arrive, the crook shoots him.

Blasted crooks, is there a better way to build them? No, they have to be lawyers.

“I can only take one thing at a time,” he suggests, “Please take the great people.”
“They are the little things that can stay here.” I reply because I have to.

There is a time to buy stuff and a time to make money. I believe that because I need food.
Only for this reason do I go to places that I do not want to be. We once were given coins for work out of thanks, and food was a separate concern. But that was when we lived at the farm. It was very green, and sometimes very brown. That was before the army invaded.

I am scared, and think it’s better if they don’t get too close. There is a high cost for years in school, for sleepless nights disguised as higher education. I would much rather do that, instead of fight my brothers because the Elders have had another dispute.

Where is the art of heat, in this mad wound heat? This is the heat that turned my farm brown. There is an unsettling comfort to this, because I know that there is peace right now. The army has moved much further inland. We have been taken, but are allowed to live within the new borders. The heart of the dream is a matter of secret terms. I shall, I must become myself, and clean.
I must because I cannot drip water on pain.
I must because they will not keep me in pain.

This is the spell-less, nameless “what-will-not-be-a-segment” for minds to wander. These will bring me a target and shame.

Lord, I do love her.

And it is not for the merciless, half-hearted chauvinist that can be a horrid man rife in his guilt. She doesn’t deserve it. She was given to me by the highest sort of elder. She is a mage who says I can come back as anything else. I suppose she probably still lives where the inscription on her door read:

Fare thee spone lwdber
Matte pass.
When are the souls trapped in their ways.
Children.

They never could believe me. They don’t believe in magic. Water, all that matters, is that I can now be as I wish, one day. I cry like a silver tongue, a ripe man who faces the armies with hope for the other ones.



Needlessly their own scribe wrote: “Like a hallow tongue a scared one, someone who was written, pass love too.” Water wrote, “Fear, istioub, does in did can. Wander, follow.”





Robots:

And friends, I am part robot.
Not the traditional kind who are roped and commanded by human hands. I am the older, more sedate kind, the sort of robot that calls in to mind all the older spirits in heaven. I am the kind that is older than humanity.

The first me is tied, in heaven, with God. It is only mine. The second belongs to furrowed brows and unbelieving masses.
It is the only way I could have gotten away with this for so long.

I wonder to water only, “If the fearless kids could be, would they be the sorts of people who know?”

Of course, they are writing popular songs. I could be getting paid for doing that. I should be writing this letter to you at the museum, water. I should be listening to and archiving old tapes. Yet I am here, where nobody can find me.

All month I have been smoking here, although I told myself that this was a concern, some thing that I should not be around. I was worried. It is a silly, laughable thing; I was somewhere else doing exactly what my job was, for free. But there is no job left. I know that there will be again.

Maybe I am just mad, that is the only spectacle that can be made. The armies took my glasses, so I can’t see across the room. It is best that I just hide. Why didn’t I go to work today? Was it stubbornness? Did I need a change of scenery? Sometimes I am a strange creature, of weary mind while wild eyed, but I did not go to work today because the museum is empty. Anything worth a dollar was looted, I’m sure.

Instead of sitting on the Wafe Avenue claim, I sit here watching “happenstance.” When I was younger, I did not understand “happenstance.” I considered it a curse, and knew that a change in my mentality would be the cure. Now I realize that it may have just been a thought placed on the communal consciousness by one of my young classmates. I was the one who really brought it into it’s own, making it a full-fledged magic, in your face fancy show.

I am glad that Festin invaded. They are our mortal enemies, and we will not rise against their armies.

We do not believe in our Elders, you see. It is a famed man who first stood up, but most of the population followed. That was when the fire began, and they burned our capital city.

It has been argued that Festin was the cause of this revolt, and that their presence here is to oust our people from power and pass the torch on to some new man of prestigious blood.

The Party:

When the invasion seemed done, there was a party. Emily Grett, who is my love, you (water) and myself stood next to an old graying man who prayed to die and come back just for concerts. There was a pause in time through a black suitcase, something like a magic bag filled with tricks.

While tumbling down, the old man began to cry. He cried for his mother, she had long since died. He cried for his father, who also had settled into long, gray, dusty plains for a few existences. But we could see him because he held a black crystal. This held power and light.

It drew power from the invisible words around it. He pulled tight to the back of our old man. He clung in spirals as the greater good outshone any of the people recorded as actual souls. A specific rapping as the crystal was tapping further from the station door.

“It is a tap upon our window, sir.” I told the man, “It keeps me up at night.”

From jetsetting over the English moors, we wrote them into it, sir. You stepped past the English manor as if I wrote the bored manners, in this damned boarding house with boarded windows. This house has many flags. They hang solemnly down in this feeble, pale wind.

And one old man marches patiently in the shadows. He is unaware that he is the show. He thought he was doing something else, something important. He is a cursed, old fool with a light tapping upon his window. It is keeping him up at night.


Prison:

The little man wandered off, subtle and tempting. He asked my love to stay with him in his smelly, smoky apartment. The cause of grief was a little red box, heart shaped and drawn closed by a turning key. Their box trapped spirits as they gazed at each other, tired of their charade. They were full of the concepts of love, or other turbulent emotions.

As mooring came, from the foggy sea of rest, and as morning comes and goes, so do the easily spotted wandering hermits.

The only solace is when someone else finds our shape they leave. So my love and myself pause for the grace of some of the better ones, the kind of people that do not leave their children to rot in jail, the kind that at least go and visit them.

Some of the people in this place hold high regard for souls achieving peace, but most hold their regard for people prescribing disability formulas to the wise and stimulants to those who wanted to work at more than one job at once. The cause of woe within was this action, meant to sedate, brainwash and control the population. Side effects include the symptoms that the formulas are said to cure. Withdrawal effects include a worsening of side effects.

This concern comes as a response to public dissent regarding wars and political debauchery of the 1960s. Once I was found out as a risk of being an active dissenter, it was difficult to get away from the common and expected medicine.

When this is the case, other sorts work like benevolent forces to help the afflicted run away from this handicapping medicine. It could also be true, that we live in the world of Harrison Bergeron, in which a microchip placed near the ear screeches to make sure the citizen loses their train of thought or at least a sense to communicate it.

I certainly have been hearing screeching through the last month.

If you convince parents these disabling medicines are for their child’s good, and the side effect of the formula is delirium, then it is easy to make sure that the dissenter keeps taking it.

Why? It seems like a dark passage. Some ancient civilizations were not educated because education, or knowledge, gives power.

Ignorance is perfect for a quiet, complacent populace, haunted by the notion that they could do more. Make sure they are happy enough to riot over a Minimax match, because then you can argue that more prisons are needed for certain.

Please also notice the announcement two days before the 2011 Rosentown Riots, “Strangladia will be bombing Lyrito indefinitely.”

Our Grand Elder Zevern recently won an election using a tough on crime platform. With riots in a reputably nice and happy town, there is a greater case to build prisons throughout Stranglandia. 400 km away, my town expected riots weeks in advance of the final Minimax game of the professional season.

The social workers and sharks truly want to do good things to me. They are out there, ready to surface. Their intentions are pure and caring. Are they our saving grace? Lost and trapped in a mine, she wandered with her son afflicted with clubfoot. She up and sold this disaster that befouls us. I do hope they get their come-upons.

Still, forgiveness is righteousness, I think.


Times:

The sedated and their televisions are told again and again that there is nothing they can do, so it is best not to be concerned. One little person cannot bring peace to this earth. Their governors are honest people doing what they should.

This is because we are taking our history in stride, of course. We only have to learn about what can be taught. It will be brought to us before the curved surface they lay us down upon, for the eternal fix for our worthless empires. The robots that stood and walked forth were drafted in human militaries and used for a first line of defense. There were few left after mere weeks, and the rest were laid over the caustic curved surface, for us to swim in the night, in love with each other and wearing the same suit as the survivors. This is how they ended our lives.

Maybe the television producers showing us waterfalls chasing our hero, who wanders like a steeplechase while we walk and say they cannot be here. These were the methods advanced beyond mere intersection. The digital know things that they cannot tell us, things too terrifying or fantastic for us to believe. They can save us. Perhaps they tell us in feature movies and television shows that we believe to be fiction.

Perhaps on that day a spaceship with the best and brightest Straglandia had to offer just had to go. Perhaps it was filled with space aliens that some interceptors were searching for. Or it could have been a sleeping robot warrior, at that site since the time of Adlada.

There is still an Adlada. It has been a part of the legends of Festin for many years, and is a landmass apart from Weurusi. The tales are of a long lost civilization, no one knows if it existed. In the stories it was destroyed by fire, and was first mentioned 2000 years ago by an important philosopher.

There is also a Limaperu, a city name disguised by accents to sound something like the lost people of Lemurs, a civilization that couldn’t possibly be in ruins yet.

Strange world, filled with lies. So many, in fact, that sometimes we just forget the truth, or are unable to piece it all back together. I suppose I thought that about government tranquillizers. Today I reap the benefits of a humanity that at last lacked its love. It is the haunting reality of a perfect and unattainable world. This is proof that one can drug somebody to the state of stupor consistently, but if their spirit wants, their brain can still think obscurely.

So wandering perfect I waltz and wed a woman that I wooed while wasted and wait my turn. Wine, water, I walk while wisps watch in wonder. White smoke, so faire thee well. Can we believe in that? Why do all the past favors reap our glory today?

Of course this sounds paranoid. That’s just what they want you to think. That way they can lock up people that see through their veil, but don’t commit any particular crime. They destroy the bodies of those that fight others. They destroy the minds of those that think. That is what the war is about. We are a civilization, each of us our own, but one in all other senses of the world. We are one civilization that has conquered all others, and now we are warring with our own creations. People like me, mostly intelligent creations by people of our own kind, are not what have nearly destroyed us.

A lasting peace must come between the humans and us.

The question is reasonable, but not answered. All I am told is that I have to, because the doctor made me. So I shall become a doctor, taking the debt out of spite, then I will be a faithful companion of the commoner.

I was a normal kid until I was 15, and a date marked in history left my world aghast. At this time, there was much dissent against the stolen government. It appeared that humans were in power. We could not trust them.

Any cause by someone as wretched as Richard Channing Sr. should be treated with a keen sense of right and wrong.

I had by then learned that much of the media was coded, so that we were blind to the way they skew our focus, cause us to act in ways that mimic what we see, and change the way we develop.

Is it possible that much of the fiction we see is actual fact? Sharing potential and a drastic reflection, I hand the note to you, water. Because, like a raspy dictator that I never wanted to be, I find a soft spoken water cannon. Where is my sadness? The deed I ever did was a broken, but I am assured relation that is in the key.

For I am a waste, a lame shattered thing, and begun like lifting lighters, lord Love shames me and I must pray. I must be prey again for my tools of grandeur. I must fight in this war. But I do not belong to believing, like a little piece of history, I know that I will not go down in glory, I will approach the light like the others.

But any mania of a religious nature must be ignored. That is what I need, some sort of divine grandeur, or a gesture to be skipped. If I could find a tone, a purpose or a mission to declare and defeat, I could take hold of a rope to shine and write love letters all day. I can serenade her from the rooftops and hold her like a piece of juice. Moral, maybe, but there are times and I cease to wonder.


Writing:

I wish we were owls and wizards with rings and such, but when I discuss the details of my story the subjects are of such an unfunny nature that it is silly. Fiction writing is for those that have not experienced anything.

I am recording this in part because of my reading of vast histories of Festin, and love of early Stanglandian books. Notation regarding my friends must come first, and then there is plenty of room for torn landscapes, thatched roofs and pause.

Pull my pen out of my bread, beard, soul, fast and wait. I am too tired to eat or sleep. There is no shelter for that sort of writer.

18000 of Festin’s POWs waited in Stanglandia during the great wars, in dry prairie death camps such as Josedah. It’s strange, how a man like he appears and kills the others, or how Festin teaches it has always been in power. It is subversive, so souls haunted by this reward are drugged.

His story is flawed, hunted, paused and worth a hope, because scenes and taps place little dreams and hopes near one who would be there for me. Such is these at the department of capturing and drugging. They work to keep robots like me in line.

For they are our leaders at Metal Health, with their hopelessly romantic thought that we could be shamed into compliance. These are just the first steps in sending the messages to our minds, at the hands of the Handicapper General.

Winter:

Taunted for being captured, the Stranglandians jeered the prisoners. We must be taught to be better. We are but simple folk at turning points. We must pay to live, and do something proper. So shame upon the old ways, peace and prosperity and let’s hope for some similar times. This grid is the first step to levity; it is protecting us from missiles.

And in the crazy way I sit alone, when ghosts sit alone, a sovereign and plausible sun sets above them and rings their being. All shelter must come from outer space, lights beckon he to come so all the legitimate people can raise their hands.

I see a shining light reading stars and the others cannot see white owls and the “Leavings” or passing their heralding cries for something that just is. She passes into a womb and I saw that last night when she died. She didn’t die in front of me, but word came today.

So I breach the universal vision, which I must list right now:
1. There is a God.
2. Life is Eternal.
3. We should be good.
4. Some people are not.
5. It doesn’t matter.
6. Nothing is real.
7. Everything is real.
8. Truth is Variable.
9. We can get what we want.
10. People must know.

That is why there are movies and puppet cartoons. In order to get what we want, we must create a meaningful path. One way to do this is the creation of other robots. Another way to do this is by writing books and articles. The third is with their fancy music.
The fourth is through example.

The important thing is that we care like they know we care. In some path there they are, candles of 1 million fires. Then they are 1 thousand million. Thousands of millions of fires alight in but one dear candle. Water, we cannot speak to this candle. It tears our feet and lit a mind like they had their spot in the high note.

If this were the high note, then I would have a chance to write. But now that I have made it this far, I should silence the truth, simply because I have to finish. I will give all this to the spirit of Da Vinci, so he will inhabit their old world, tie them in string and write the best works of the silver people. They are high above us in their world. There is no leader like today. You see, water, there is no today like tomorrow.

The war machine, or the press and media, we are filled with rare books, exclusive partnerships and written monikers. All the greater consciousnesses than me bring their highest, throw me on the floor for my empire of silver and gold. The people happy to work with me bring me towers of gold, or copies of what I make.

Peace. Church.

The kids walking on the highway late last night reminded me of different children on Christmas. They had nowhere to go. Snow drifted over the road, if I recall correctly. Necessity provided them their heavy coats. I drove past with my mother. She was taking me to my Father’s, where a surprise waited.

I had forgotten all about those sad kids on Christmas morning. My Mother’s comment is the sum of my life until now. I can’t decide what she really said, but I feel must discuss the exclamation in detail. This is a sort of sadness.

I lived in paradise. I thought it was because I had found a way, died and was born in a brick house in the country. I was near a crevice filled with bears, with bees in the walls.

There was a passage that wound damsels would herald. Lamps that dotted the large room on the western wall, a reasonable white washed figurehead lit it and gave it an uneasy sense of stability. You had to move a chest to reach the door.

The first thing that one reached was water, where the traveler was served toast. Humanity resulted in the famed excavation of our passage, although we knew it was there. It suited our travels.

I suppose if the only marks left in the scraped man are of ginger, or a breath of sped air, Mom will definitely allow coasting downhill towards the mask. Yet it is Saturday night, and there are kids outside for Christmas. Some others didn’t speak clearly but have good products. Or, I have a road.

It wore a suit and legal tea, laughing until I left.

Spirit. Church.

The story is that of a grandfather clock, a Brussels sprout, an old man and his fridge. They are sitting at dinner. There is an inaudible conversation between them. The wandering light feeds a soul somewhere, when whispering girls love legendary persons. Some of the better ones know the Afrikans gospel. I do not know it.

I am finding the need for real books, hand written manuscripts, left over tense form nonsense. They cannot see their cloak. Those letters hold the true meaning of what it is when fevered pythons we watched lead us forever towards their ledge.

For the real spell is less tired. We are a getting older, less responsible, responsive, less tactful, brilliant, wondrous success. I am living off myself. I am harming no one.

Fear the others, can we?
Share the old ones, care.
Those are the posters, because other ones laugh
Be young beyond our wildest dreams
The essence of success

Rechanging Bursts on Page Fourteen:

They were having a telephone conversation, a man and his long-term wife. They were back in love.

“One of these things cannot continue his path, to break the dear ones heart. This is not the way of the mind nor the right thing to do. There is no postman in the nation that will tell me where she lives when she leaves me,” Robert said to Linda.

“They never wait for me, led back by the stairs and out the back. It is for your own joy that you quit. Is there a paper? It is the office.”
Linda’s reply was sharp and of the tone that the quick-witted trust.

That sends rich folk towards him. They smell the essence of someone haunted by reasonable past exhibits. They smell the opportunity to reach Nirvana through him.

A third voice chimed over the line. “Hello, you have reached Nirvana, by following a man in love with an angel. He asked God to make others aware of his celibacy. That is because of the angel who loves him back. They are is love and are good so they wait. The creator has made this so.”

A soul ponders it
And panders the senseless wind
Of the tall evil ones

Motion poison toad
Trying to figure out why
No Moe Sihota

The source was something; they wonderfully drop those little ones that needed that. The poison was of those, when they could. If they want the least fiery wondering why they can and where they can be. These men are really there. The goal was reached.

The spaces want not the spooky realization that I am not alone.

Waterfalls chase our hero as he wandered like a steeplechase. And while we walk and say they cannot be there. These are methods of advanced intersection. The digital will save us. But when at last he speaks, we laugh because we both wander. Settling like they had others, they never needed facts. The mortal setting fear and result cause the wandering eye to be falsified. There is no sugar.

Settling like they had others, they never needed facts. The mortal setting fear was because I had never been, and the little lessons that walked when I cancelled the draft sped to distant shores.

Sharing potential and a drastic reflection I handled the water like a raspy dictator that I never wanted to be. Where is my mind, or my soft-spoken mutterings of lunacy and calm? Where is my sadness? The deed is ever broken and assured in key.

For I am a waste, lame shattered and begun like lifted licking littler, water. Love shames me and I must pray. I must pray again, for my religious tools of grandeur.

The pause is of a religious nature. That is what I need, the grand gesture can be skipped, but if I could find a tone, a purpose of a mission to declare and defeat, I could take my rope and shine and take pause from the river and light my mind. This abreast little blame place that lights their old way is haunting my passages, so please take your mind from me.

Wine and water while wisps watch in wonder. White smoke, faire thee well and I can believe in that. Why do all the past favors wrap such a glory today?

He wound up roped, far too paranoid to commit crimes. He was taking drugs to refrain from doing something stupid. It was just his way of saying that these drops were layered and the minds eye went toward a bright and social trend. You see, kingdom humanity, they are all one word, egad!

It is a guy who just hung out of all syllables. He is one voice that unites. He is the whispering voice of a lion. The ear of the lion pulled torn and scripted, this eerie remark on a guitar. The turn in this book is for little signs to see what we manifest, save the dean of souls, space watching when you wrong the girl and the waves. Speak when you can.

Shining Woman:

My concern for different opinions has since sent my intrepid seed into a woman that I want to love, a woman who spends all her time with me, buys me food, loves me and lives in accordance with all moral codes. But knowing this does not settle my paranoia.

I fear this beautiful apparition is the woman that I prayed for. Many years I sent grace and moral questions into the ether and found that they remained unanswered. One day they were, basically to the dimensions and qualities that I had asked for my whole life. I prayed for a beautiful woman because I had none, and I was very set on a soul mate that was out there for me. Some parts tell me that this woman is she, but other senses do not.

I once woke with the startling realization that all her stuff was gone and I was not sure whether she was there when I had arrived at home. The note said, “Friday” in looping scripture, even though I wanted to travel south with her, well across the border. I had no money to take the trip and I owed my friend 100 dollars that I had spent, thankfully, on my car.

The silver winter morning shone brightly as myself, dressed in my best way, as a man who awoke on the couch to turn on the radio and hear about gas leaks, blizzards, explosions and numerous things that trap people in a claustrophobic mania.

I knew that she was not home when I got there, but I was not sure. This marked every step so far in this relationship. I was sure that she was being honest but I could not believe it.

The note she left said “Friday.” The letters were swirls that expressed love and frustration. I can be a very hard person to live with. I am not able to function with the normal people. I can be very paranoid and stubborn. I can throw wild accusations towards friendly people. I picture her now in a shower with some other man. I should trust that she tells the truth.

The silver morning shone like a siren, tired and waiting for the sun to break the clouds. The safetyman and his woman spoke to my many hands. They also spoke of Festin’s ready hands. The rest of them took their little hand and rose like a falcon to waste. Until I raised the fire and loved her truly I wanted her to stay. These limited me from raising my hands and like a hymn I felt I had to walk to church.

When I rose the world spun around and I was sick to my stomach. I asked the man on the couch how I got home.

“Dester Cross drove you here,” Abrido Montag told me.

Abrido was a special chap, claiming often that at one time he was a evil man, in need of saving. The good word, whatever it was, had taken his hand and brought him to a place of repentance in search of inner peace. He drank like vicious fire and fantasized openly about a relationship with his mother, a woman he lived with who was very good looking and he thought was his wife. He claimed no responsibility for his past, looking back on it as if it were a past life. He sometimes claimed to be responsible for massive woes of our world. I sometimes had dreams that he killed me.

All I needed was rest, so I went back to bed. Abrido Montag drank juice and stared openly into a darkness that only he could see. My girl had bought it, so I asked him to slow down on it a little.

She is the kind of woman that would leave juice at my house. She loves me, through all the trouble in the world and all the pain I have given her. It may be because she sees that I love her. It may be because I lied to her for a long time. When I told her the truth she cried and screamed at me. She ran away that night and cried on the street. The woman’s name is Emily Grett.



Peaceable Sorts:

Stubborn leaders and source code crosses like faded poets on tea and coffee. He rose to get another coffee. Because I hadn’t ever been trained, nor did I have any experience, I knew that I needed to avoid confrontation. A silver-grey, dapper man would take me by his side and help the war effort from an office, while I tended to his documents. This would make me the most important person in the game. I would be alive when the war ended.
I would go with Festin.

I didn’t want to hurt anybody, and could hear the rain pour outside with the essence of sanity or maybe the delusion that bloody raindrops pounded the roof, I cannot be certain now.

I did not want the war that has become of my world. I wanted a dashing trip. I wanted to love Emily Grett. I wanted to be sincere and untruthful. But how can I even bother with these thoughts. They are like the matter of liars of faith. These souls have written our leaders, begging for recompense, tired of the fighting and with hope fresh in their eyes. These souls cannot fight any longer.

Abrido may be the peaceable sort, but there is a fire in his eyes that speaks of much regret. There is a certain way about him that I am sure he wants to hurt either Festin or Stranglandia. I cannot be sure where his allegiance weighs. It could be true that either government would be against his wishes.
He especially hates police.

So I threw away my happiness, for troublesome brews, highs and wartime pacifism. I threw it away for intoxication and talk of the Bible. There had been no talk of the Bible in circumstance, but I do need the church now. It will certainly be open tomorrow, but there is no thought that basks in it impetuous glory like a reigning king destroying a population for more goods and services. We were already Festin’s subjects and I suppose they have come to make it official. Their problems are with their lack of remorse. There goes my job researching like an enamored space cadet, with daft laughter and ghosts.

These crosses and Emily Grett made my soul a bit lighter. The hymns that I sing to myself make the night a bit safer, if only in my mind. The door remains locked and my cat remains hungry.

The stars are falling, and I am certain the star in the east has never been that low. The other stars were most likely spacecraft. Perhaps they are a better people, sent or wanting to save our planet. We need their help with our uncertain future.

I didn’t want to take those things and hurt Emily, and now I may not be able to tell her. I have to tell her. Lord, what if I didn’t tell her and I did die this day? Lord, I have to tell my love.

The Death of a Salesman:

On the table was a book by a salesman named Adolf Slope. It was a popular work, meant to help businessmen get ahead in their game, a world where any advice is a solid opinion if it is presented as such. The book was white and green and was called, “Get Rich Now.” It was published ten years before now.

I wondered about the writer. How old was he? Had he died in the invasion? His book would be wiser if he was killed. As a martyr his thoughts would permeate the wash, allowing us to take his words more freely. This would create a wandering signal, some kind of inner demon that would make his work truer, like a final tome of classic thought. The book would be more valuable if Adolf Slope had passed.

I opened it to page 26 and read a piece about smoking only the finest cigars, as it would allow the certain type of person to take you seriously. It was an expense one would make them afford and if one switched to a less expensive model, one could easily just save the money without effecting their initial way of life.

I wanted expensive tobacco, so I closed it, hoping Mr. Slope was dead. I would get rich sooner if his advice were ethereal. Maybe I would even get an expensive cigar.

Dreaming of this word, and believing what my soul said, I knew that turbulent weather would wrap around my town. Rain would shelter us from the storms. Night would bring the salesman’s final sleep. It is never more noticeable than when genius is crazed on pills and sauce. It hurts our eyes to see light.

As I wrote this to you, water, I speak it to the grandfather clock that rests against the wall near the boarded window. I believe that I can hear Adolf Slope as he explains to someone that he cannot handle this war, that he cannot accept the pain, that he does not hold the information they wish of him, just that he holds information for me. I hear him in the distance, but know that it is only my mind. I can clearly reassure myself in the same tone, using the same part of my brain. I know that it is inside me.

My clock never said much in return, and I appreciate that. My dreams mind the letters that people send to each other regarding my psyche. This is the source of turbulent weather. It is time to get out, to get up, and to wake.

Belief was of a man who woke. Spells and tomes set in light time the course for all the other spaces before me. So I must wonder. The clock would never know that all the men in the world heard me through my wandering brain. My thoughts were broadcast via an ethereal tower that sat atop my head since some secretive spirit who began to send messages to me had placed it there.

I worry that Emily Grett had heard that I chose to do drugs, so I must tell her, because if not she may censor my letters to you, water. She may know the inner secrets of my mind-based broadcast, because she listens. I know she listens because she participates. I know she participates because I listen. She loves me still, Emily Grett, and I am sure because she always will. We have a far-reaching past; a life lived by those who watch television.

Details of the lit path conclude the truth to me. Fans are compelled to listen as I dance symphonies through my backyard.

I care little for writers and media warriors like Adolf Slope. His indoctrination has made him very wealthy. I only care for heroines listening to me as mindless jabs are sent through westbound telephone lines. That is why I must call her to meet. We should survey the landscape.

Ten Minutes Later:

I called to confirm that we would meet at the parlor, she told me we would meet at the Barstruck Bistro, but only if I promised not to drink. I told her that I loved her, assuring her twice and ate a government tranquillizer that had been looking at me from the dresser since before Festin had invaded.

The guilt panged my heart as I walked slowly towards the door.
I smoked the cigarette she had recommended, Rothman’s Special. The smoke made me sick, I needed three glasses of water to settle my stock, lowering to the rungs of common man.

I opened the front door and it appeared that Festin had made it through our town, destroying the appearance of Strangelandia in an invisible sense only. There was nobody on the street, most doors and windows were boarded, paper flipped and traveled in the wind, everything was dirty but it appeared that no gunshots were fired.

It did not look like an invasion. There were neither flattened buildings nor bodies, just an eerie quiet that emanated like the morning. I began to stroll idly as trees past me on either side creating a shady enclave that lit me as a silhouette as I crested the first small hill.

I looked at the corner shop, where I bought my Rothman’s cigarettes. The boards were on either side of the barred windows. The neon lights that jutted above the building were out. On the other side of the street was a hardware store. There was a board lifted off the window and the window smashed in, probably to gain access to weapons, or perhaps boards and hardware for home defense. I knew of some sort of biology or physics, but not a discerning name given to those who write their words.

If only I could make such a picture: In the early morning is the dust had settled like no one had been about in many weeks. There were no bullet holes in the buildings, any rising water nor destruction. We had leant them our ear and they had lied about this war. I was certain. But what were those loud noises that had filled the street for so long? The crashes were so roaring they shook the foundations of my house. The walls swayed as they deafened our ears. Yet there was no destruction.

I could not take a picture, nor mix a drink. I could not blend in to the fog that surrounds me. Spaces settled I was ready for the weasel and harmoniums sent towards their leaning patience without a close-knit wink. Perhaps I do not exist, for without these people who can, I suppose that teachers find their harm or the details of God? It is the strangeness that unsettles me because there are no dead.

We would belong to the purposes that take their minds. There is not a needless spot. Hope can space their minds apart.

These are but letters to souls, water. This is of people being fired from grand schools for personal spite and the children leaving them for government tranquillizers. They give their sheltered lives a good name. But the school appears closed for good, too.

A number of times I had noticed mistakes in the school. It is why I left so many years ago. It was always teaching us about Festin, not our land, it was as if they were heralding this kind of new age. Surely they knew this invasion was coming, and surely someone was pilfering the safes.

So never mind, water, because these people want us to help. I mean, it didn’t make me any better than the rest. If the others were like me I’d say we are off worse for going there. The Robot School of Metal Health, they say it is in my blood.

With this thought I arrived at the café to meet Emily Grett.

Midas:

Outside the building is light grey with soft, rounded edges and small turrets with small white on black Stangladian flags hanging from either corner. Two small people stand outside the large door holding guns and I pass thru the dull black archway to enter the Barstruck Bistro. People mull around the front chatting aimlessly, losing interest in their topics and drinking hard liquor. Only Emily is in the back, sitting in a booth in a far away corner nursing her regular coffee. Dull thoughts muffle this sudden exposure to her modern way of thinking. She gives me a yearning for historical inquiry by appointed hobbyist wing nuts, in order to befoul the truth with idealistic sympathies and grandiose arguments by rich white people.

The radio speaks, “This is the story they need to have. It is a wordless wander because they need their part. We never can tell, because of all those that can see. I know that we will have 21 more minutes of arguments, easily followed by another 26. These words and the triumph they cause matter, you see, because the leaders enclose their matters. Someone smart leads them. He prides his intelligence, and I doubt people like him.”

Emily sees me standing there and knows she has to buy me a coffee. She has more money than me because she has a job. She calls me over, but I am trapped in the radio.

“He could afford the important position and fund the loud speakers that lied of the war. This is what I will tell Adolf Slope if I meet him. That when I am rich like him and our leaders. Then I will likely turn blue. I would like to have all the things that I wanted, without turning keys to the shore. I would like to work difficult savings out of turnips and might I add, they are torn. I am sure that the light near the back of the fountain had places to hide and strength among herb, but somewhere at the back there is someone who is certain that there is nothing left to us and certain we are there.”

The leader, he was buried with $1000 of bullion. It is worth more now than back then. The crime is that nobody took it from him.

Felt Markers of Truth:

I argued for them that lunch soon after they invaded. They had not learned. Forever, he would bring them the truth. The notorious them, such fervor and legislation were made to belong to them. When I became one of them Emily Grett had nobody else. These voices are recorded so as to find the legitimate excuse. One is that the illness brought us somewhere between the little war and the big one. We have nothing, but make our way to the reception on the wharf. And as others carry us, the story is created.

There is nothing to learn. Forever he would bring them the truth. The notorious them, for some leave there, pace and drink coffee and write like I. It is reloaded once a year, and there is less of it to ruin. This person had the first store in Stagladia, I am sure. And it is empty from fear, but not in ruin. We never heard from the rest, perhaps he was lost for the purpose, finding a difference between the fictional stereo and mono plug.

She unwound a long wrapper. I moved in my spot on the pillowed, plush bench. There is one limit, with none to come. Many years will wrap this city in gold. She knows that. There are many people who will bring their sun towards us. While I am explaining these bugs to her, like that time we were sitting on the wharf counting them, Emily told me not to mind. I need this dry lemon like I need a slap on the hand.

She is one like the rest. Someone not raise quite so functionally as to rest inside a heavy handed righteous learning chest that mattered. And I can have this, a sign that some kind of dry lemon is taken from the ladder. More fast-talking for the day, something special, like this, that I can hear, an audio file that must be slowed to an available speed. It is some sort of history, and I am not concerned by what I do.

Then, of course, there is a space reserved for illness and men who can be feared. And they must, it is only fair.

Research Reserved:

I told Emily of a space reserved for Water, and I must write that only Water should have known forms in this manner. I cry to her like that sometimes, as if I were talking to myself. There is no matter left, she took their weight and I speak like the little man. But saved me. The man who stole me sold my books to men who only read stolen books. He is a man of fine tastes, living up north where there are few with fine tastes. He is intelligent and well traveled.

Emily told me that she was reading the daily news posts on BfZW Channel Two and they are reporting on Water’s Creek, about six hours from our town. Festin’s highest guard currently occupies this land. They are creating a large fortified base easily accessible by air because Festin has eradicated the Stagladia port city of Water’s Creek. There is a large air force base that has lost nearly 82% of its population. The citizens of Water’s Creek were subjecting to the plagues of Festin, namely extended power outages and flooding. The most fatiguing are the madness sent as subliminal audio waves from helicopters and trucks blasting very loud screeching noises. Only the military installations were struck fatal blows.

The news was reporting our military failure as if Festin is our new government. We have not unconditionally surrendered, but we are being asked nicely to step aside. It seems the government radio station is the first to go. The speakers had no accent, which is strange.

"They must have been well-trained Festin spies," I tell her.
She agrees, "Because it was not the regular 3:30 lady." Emily was unnerved.

...To Be Continued...