License

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Beyond The Dreamer's Edge

Six Feet Under In Cyberspace

I didn't care how they split my assets, I simply wanted to be dead. I was six under in cyberspace, without a ladder to climb up and go back into the world of the real life.

The images on the screen fluctuated between images of Nordic people and plain text, with the occasional interspersing of UFO images in other give an otherwise mainly spiritual group a thin layer of ufology. From time to time we would meet on Sundays, and never would I have any kind of fun days.

"Why do you write fiction?" he would ask, then follow up with "But isn't that kind of a waste of time to study things besides the celestial father?"

"Why should I care what the celestial father thinks?" I asked.

He would be quite for a very short while, and then respond. "But you really should care, after all the celestial father is the entire truth." It took most of my energy just to not be overcome with self-doubt, do to looking back on it was a sign of paying to much thoughts to paranoid thinking. Most of my days were spent trying to write my next book.

But due to the constant barrage of instant messenger calls, that seemed to leap about in cyberspace like roaches crawling on sour kraut, I would occasional have to wait upwards of multiple hours to get the guy to shut his face. And at times he would want me to look at some document after meetings related to the celestial father.

He would at times give me said books for free, which looking back on it felt like an abuse of free culture. "You should really take the time to read this, it would completely change your life."

By the time he was done, I would usually be so socially drained that I had to go straight to bed, where I would have dreams of boogie men instead. Yet for me I came to appreciate the darkness in the real life, the only semblance of honesty. And yet I would dream of the celestial father's men coming to Earth on UFOs, and hobnobbing with the celestial father himself. I would at times also hallucinate anonymous silhouettes in front of my bed, and wake up with scratch marks.

This was before I even entertained the idea of becoming any sort of programmer, or even one who would work around specific web pages in order to background check friends of mine. I would dream about going to various web pages I didn't in real life, longing to create some other form of a peopled data sphere. The closest I ever came to a full fledge programmer was for simple "hello world" scripts. I simply couldn't maintained the concentration for anything else.

Even as I withdrew from the family of the celestial father, there were frequent reminders of times I could have experienced in that group. It was be far stranger groups as I would soon find out, that would wreck my identity as I knew it.

Part of me wishes I could have learned how to work around things much sooner. It would have saved a disability necessity.

But sometimes one needs a Splinter Cult covert evacuation expert.

My name is Sarah. We will meet again soon.

It wasn't every day you'd ask yourself to cease and desist, or be sued. But that was part of the new group I had belonged to. Although plenty of other people in that group somehow found it rational to extort thousands of dollars from one hand to the other, but I was left wondering how a lawyer would even try the case.

One lawyer I had met seemed to have been completely taken in by the cult, and managed to try to get me to believe how in theory could be multiple different people within the same body: twins sharing the same meat space avatar. At times I would see him at times talk to himself, with his voice gradually changing in different subtleties. The other brother, or he so imagined. "Why that's not true at all, how can you give this independent investigator that that intelligence."

This was simply to strange for me to handle, so I tried to leave as best as I could without a trace. Unfortunately it backfired.

As soon as I tried the leave the building, it was on total lock down. The leader of the cult of the twins wanted to capture me. I jumped over their portable spike traps, and poked the eyes of specific guards who identified as twins. One of them tried to grab my leg, but instead I shot his leg.

"Don't let the unidentified twin get away." one guard said.

However eventually I was able to make them argue amongst themselves. I triggered the unlocking of doors. And then eventually I was able to leave the building. The yard was covered of many fences, planned in such a way as to not let anyone out. And yet for me this was all part of the job.

I knocked out a guard, and put on his clothes.

I pretended to aim at the intruders, then snuck up on him and slit his throat. Eventually I used his coat as a parachute. And so I landed roughly, but not as roughly as I would have otherwise onto the snowy ground.

I walked into the forest.

I walked into the next county.

I walked and found a motel. And then swiftly left. I boarded a train to the next town over, careful to change my outfit.

Until eventually I was out of town.

I payed my $150 dollars for name change. And then asked friends and family to refer to me by this new handle except in private. I wasn't sure if anyone in my family had been part of the cult. But for now I was in the clear.

In case I wasn't, well ...

That's why I carry pepper spray in my purse.

The next week I heard gunshots, and saw dents by my new office. I called the police, and they took care of the case.

A rogue gunman. The only man left.

The lawyer that tried to make me a twin.

After The Celestial Father

There are many reasons you might pet a cat, but few reasons you might pet a woman. Unfortunately, I was the lucky bitch to find out just because she calls herself a cat girl, doesn't mean she's really a cat. She swatted my hand out of the way, and growled at me unleashing her claws. Her long blond curly locks, were almost as white as her ankle socks. Her belly popped out of her age play shirt. Nothing like putting a cat girl in a pair of diapers.

She got on her belly over my knees, and she clawed the bed requested for me to paddle her bottom. Instead of merely petted her long curly blond locks, that were dark enough to almost be called light brown. Then she rolled onto her back, and continued to be over my knee. "I want some marshmallows." she said. There hadn't been any marshmallow cream since much earlier in the century. I don't understand how she'd crave any of the corn fluff sugary garbage.

"Bombs away, into your mouth." I said, the gently popped a marshmallow into her mouth. "Now if you want me to read you a bed time story, you got to be a very good girl for 'pappa'."

Chelsy loved it when I referred to myself as pappa, even though I've had my gender changed for over a year. She loved how I tended to spoil her, and yet in actuality marshmallows was all she was willing to eat. I was beginning to grow concerned. "Tomorrow in your psychiatric appointment. You'll need to get to bed early, so you can be fully awake in the office."

She also liked the idea of being playing as her concerned parent, but at twenty three years old you're already to old to have bed times. But I was a poet, and didn't mind reading my nursery rhymes. Don't let her five foot three height full you, or her large puffy cheeks. If you kiss her on the wrong afternoon she'll chew you out for the next following week out of the year.

I sent her off to bed in the next room, and then continued to type on my keyboard after I read her her bedtime story. I had grown the habit of keeping a diary of my romantic affiliations, even though I am still unused to the idea of me dating anyone. It had been so long I went without really dating anyone, I'm not even sure how I would react to the idea of anyone loving me. But there was always a place in the house for young women that liked role playing.

The next morning, I gave her fifty dollars to reload her bus card. But Chelsy didn't want to leave. "Make me leave."

So I paddled her diaper, and she rolled up her jeans. She walked out of the place wearing her leather buckle clogs. "You can always come again next month." In order to make a little money on the side for my disability, I created an age play office. It was technically not therapy. And women according to our society tended to not rent out other women. Otherwise that would be prostitution.

But the girls were always great about tips.

After I spent time giving them tips, when they rolled their tongue down my belly, and made my whole body pulsate from sucking on my lady cock. That was simply a bonus. A bonus on the side for splinter cult investigation.

But splinter cult investigation was my main job.

The following night I found a news paper about a new cult startup, this was called the age play cult. It was a groupie of multiple ladies that liked having their diapers pulled down and be paddled. I assumed this was merely a regular kink club, and made an appointment to meet with the priest. And so that was how I shall spend of my days this week, having my bare bottom spanked like I was still in school.

Only it didn't work out like that. What seemed like a kink club, was ran by the guy that thought of himself as a chimeric twin. His idea was to have people be paddled by him, until he was able to be the chimera out of their butts. And so as it turned out, Chelsy got involved in this cult. She wasn't entirely happy to see me, but removed her jeans and diaper in order to be smacked.

"How did you get involved in this?" I asked.

"I didn't want you to know." she said.

"You don't need to be here. Let's go."

I called the cops for them have an investigation, and they apprehended the guy without a fight. But my little Chelsy gets a free ride for now on, and she uses her Jesus sandals to play with my shaft.

She lets me pet the girl now.

I was riding with my friends in a car, careful not to upset the cop that had just gotten off of work in the next car over, who was carrying home a family of poodles and a cat, along with a black colored lamb. Both of us had the windows open, which allowed us to flirt with the cop ladies. While I was doting on the poodle who peeked out the window specifically to see me. There wasn't any traffic at the time, so we could take as much time as we needed. Unfortunately they didn't notice how their owl colored cat hopped into our car. So we carefully followed them home, without them noticing. I knocked on their door, as the friends disposable friend, and I handed them back their cat.

The head of the family was in fact a computer scientist, and it was his graduated daughter and his wife that were cops, the daughter being trained as part of a family line of cops. The lamb was happy to see me, so I picked it up, pet it, and kissed it on the forehead. "And who is that little guy?" I asked.

"That's are baby lamb named peaches." the family head said.

Peaches! Peaches! Peaches! Some peaches are good, some peaches are awful. But what an absolutely precious name, the name peaches. The grandparents came out to visit, all four grandparents, and they were dressed as pilgrims. The whole family beside the head, which was suppose to be the real world intermediary, was largely dressed in black as pilgrims.

"Don't get used to having that lamb around, she'll be dinner soon." he said.

"You would eat a poor baby lamb?"

"Family has to eat somehow, veggies get expensive."

"Then why did you name it?"

"It allows us to become closer with it when we slaughter it, so my daughter can learn what it's like to lovingly kill it."

So we went away from the house, with the family obviously giving us the creeps. But I kept having it on the back of my mind that the family sounded vaguely cult like. As it turns out the family, although the cops would try to shush it up at times, were notoriously for purchasing live lambs from the farm, slaughtering it there, and having lamb pie the following evening.

So I went to go investigate, first setting up an appointment.

When I arrived at the house, I met with the man. Then I had dinner with him, they seemed like a mostly normal family, except that had peculiar religious scriptures at the table. By this point I had grown the skill in tolerating listening to religion from my previous experience as a spy against the cult of the Celestial Father.

And then in their scriptures, they were taught to slaughter the innocent live livestock. I left the house to visit my own friends to get some shut eye, and was followed by the girl who had told me she no longer had any desire to be a cop. "Why don't you want to be a cop?" I asked.

"I always wanted to be a prostitute." she said.

"Why do that when you can have sex with me for free. Besides did you know that I was a prostitute at one point."

"Didn't you earn a lot of money?"

"Nope, it was more of an art form. Specifically tailored to age play scenarios. You should try that art form yourself if you are into that."

I poked her nose, and left that night.

I heard that the family was apprehended for animal cruelty, but the the girl was considered a victim in the scenario and let off of the hook. She came to visit me on her eighteen birthday, about a year since I had met that cult.

"I thought I'd try some age play." she said.

"For your first time, it's free of charge."

"And if I want to come back inside?"

"We I operating on an organic sliding scale."

I introduced her to Chelsy, who had come to be a long term resident. And they bonded very quickly together.

I know who two bed mates. That's how I look at it.

From my understanding, the rest of the family were sent to a special prison. It locked based on a computer system that assumed every entrance inside was bedtime. It was a motel like room similar to the one I stay in now, except the inability to leave. But they were free to come and go within the rest of the facility provided they were back in their cell by eleven o'clock and they needed to go shopping within at normal business hours.

I picture the wife in the women's prison making vodka pot brownies with her friends, and exchanging instant messages across the different cells. She had learned hyper encryption to prevent reading of the messages by the generally lax guards. For the prison system would grow very lax over the next few decades, and we were seeing the beginning of the end of the prison industrial complex.

So I thought, maybe she could meet for an age play. Then I thought better of, the black haired girl would feel unnecessary triggers for what was possibly an abusive mother. I would have just sent them all besides their daughter to life in prison.

But maybe that's why I'm called communist. I believe in state non conversion therapy. They could still get it in the time they are there, though I'd wonder how effective it is. But my new friend wont have to worry about her anymore.

Just like I hope I never will worry about the Celestial Father.

The Last Dance Of Peaches

She goes a tap dancing, and then I put her over my knee. I put her bottom through occasional wakes of the cane. And then she circles her legs around me, rolling her tongue all o'er my chest. She tap dances, like all the best. When she doesn't like all o'er, all o'er my chest. It's not international broad way, yet with Chelsea we enjoy the city lights. In our own personal broad way nights. Where the many rooms darkened from the blown out candle lights.

The breath creates merely smoke for miles, with the whole district covered in a thick layer of smoke. She tugs me by the hand, and we shall walk along the smoky layer. And then circle about like some ice skating couple, orating couplets for the dance. So when gave the sky the chance, and let us float with our love holding us aloft. And as we fall, we fall into bed to the texture of the pillow so soft.

We live in a tiny loft that one may call home, where are daughter whom we now call Chelsea the second, which seems to make her really happy with the old name reminded her of her old mother, is sleeping in the next bedroom over. She reads o'er the many middle grade novels she missed.

I got to the couch, because I cannot sleep. I write poems about the old women who weep due to the deaths of relatives do to the black plague. I am visited by my daughter Chelsea, that's Chelsea B to you, and she is crying in my shoulder because she is unable to sleep.

"What's wrong Chelsea? Did your mother say something?" I asked.

"No, I had another night terror." she said.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

So we have a short conversation about night terrors, and I listened long enough that she asked me if I ever had night terrors. "Well every so often when I was younger, before I met your mother Chelsea, I would have dreams of things chasing me in the night. I would see indescribable things haunted petrified forests. And I would wake up with scratches on my chest."

"I have dreams like that too. Here let me show you my scars." my daughter Chelsea said, rolling up her nightgown sleeve. And there I saw gashes. I began to wonder if she experienced things similar to me.

"Who do you think did it Chelsea, that's not normal."

"The black shadow boogie man did Pappa."

I knew there was something she was not speaking about. I had tried finding a psychiatrist for her when I withdrew her away from the previous home. She would comment how she would here crying animal noises at night. And how she missed her baby lamb peaches every night. She leans into my shoulder and cries.

"It's OK Chelsy, there is no boogie man hurting peaches." I didn't want to say that peaches was in Heaven, because I knew this wasn't true. But I had to comfort my new daughter somehow. "I can read you a bed time story." So I picked the least depressing story I ever wrote, and sing it to lullaby note.

And so she had a pleasant sleeping night.

I feel somewhat happier now that the two Chelsy women had found some solace in each before they died. My first Chelsy died in a car crash, and the other threw herself out of the building from losing her new mother.

I grabbed whatever stuff I could, and took a bus over a thousand miles away from home. I didn't want to be with anybody, I considered offing myself. Because without them I have failed them as an investigator. I no longer felt like anybody. I was lost in my own scattered memories. And then in the darkness, came a room mate. Her name was Lilia Beth. She held out a hand to me, despite being aromatic. She was able to sort of personal problems that I had. And so that was how I came to live in this motel, of which causes me misery of a different isolated sort.

And that's how I came to imagine Lenora, who in the darkness of my mind, I found someone who could accept me for who I am.

I find the seeker in the light.

I had dated once previously before meeting the girls I had rescued from different sorts of cult like groups. I came from a motel, she came from afar. And yet she left my life ajar. She left my love and memories in scattered pieces, she went to college to write her thesis on human affairs. And our relationship ended just like that, like an unwritten thesis among nerds of the nerdiest kind. Like some flare that would soon burn out, she put it out early to end its misery. She was gone from my life, there she went. Like a butterfly moving on and getting a better tree. The flowers in that secret garden rotted and withered away. And now the tree is all along in the world.

She had been the first girlfriend I had met, and for a while we thought it would last forever. And yet in conversations on the phone, she found she could not accept someone who had issues such as what I had. I can't help it, most of the time these days I must ask for people to restate what they want to say. We had departed on the month of May, during my previous birthday. And then she left along her merry way. She gave me a ring, the one we shared together splitting funds to share as one. "Here take this, sell it and take the money yourself. I don't need the money where I'm going."

And then she was gone.

It hit me all of a sudden, her racing toward the finish line toward the end of life. I had heard that she was hit in a head on collision, throwing herself in front of a car. And she promised that we will meet again in the world beyond. And yet now I was unsure of whether to feel whether or not it was an abscond. For I am an atheist, I do not believe in the worlds beyond.

And yet there was some vague hopeless, something difficult to define, beyond the mere sadness of having her gone.

She had become my life.

We were the only one that could share dreams together, as we walked along the coast. We would glide along the inverted rainbows of crimson skies. And we would take strolls to search for source material for the latest stories about the worlds beyond.

Whenever I would have a night terror, she would be there to comfort me. And shush me to help me go back to sleep. I was there for her when she wept, and sung to her softly as she slept. And now the love of life was in the crypt.

I tried some way to rationalize my own guilt.

I remembered once when she told me, how she would not be around for much longer, and yet I was an idiot and ignored her sorrow. For there is the grim fact of becoming a perfect romance partner of the dead. For if she is dead then I may truly appreciate her when she is gone.

And yet I always appreciated her, I appreciated everything about her. Her existence consumed my very soul.

Yet here I am at the ledge of humanity.

Don't cry for me as I fall. And yet I was poor, and she was rich. And our promise to be together shall not be kept ever again.

And yet, I'm very afraid of heights.

I wait to be with her again, and yet I am unsure what to do with Chelsy. I love her but not like my first girlfriend. And yet I don't want to see her cry.

Because I don't want to cry.

Earlier in the day, the assistant manager seemed in a hurry. She quickly merely gave us our sheets, and went on with the rest of her day. So we slept for a bit longer, our schedule continuing to get further out of whack.

Then dinner came around.

"I think it's about time we had soup again." my room mate said. We've been having soup for about five months now, and yet for the last few weeks we've mainly been eating canned beans and rice. "I'm getting tired of beans and rice, how about you?"

I wasn't sure what to say to this question, I've never been broached about how I thought about her cooking since I lived with mom. "Oh it's excellent though." I said. Although I always said it was excellent and really meant it, I had grown to suspect she was getting tired of me saying anything at all. But I had grown up with a mom that required constant praise, so it always put me on edge. I felt at times like I was being pushed off a very high ledge.

"I'm ready for something different myself."

"But I said I liked it Lilia Beth."

"I do too, but I'm know you're getting tired of it. Or at least I am."

And that was that, from then on we had nothing but soup again. Part of me had mixed feelings, and wanted her to try refining her craft with beans and rice. After all, one gets better over time. Just like writing. But I never express, as someone who tends to ride along with the crowd.

My parents had called me yesterday to help me get on disability, but I'm still uncertain how long this will take. I feel someone's head is going to roll if I'm unable to get it by November. There is simply no reasons for someone like be with PTSD to be denied by the social security office, if I have a good lawyer for it. And yet according to a friend, most people who try to get on with PTSD get denied at first. There are many reasons why I have it, far to extensive to go into here.

But my life was going nowhere fast.

I wanted my life to start for real. You might find me boring for not wanting to pursue anything, but keep in mind when you have a parent that insisted on doing everything for you for the last twenty six years of your life, you get used to certain kinds of habits. Therefore it's impossible for life to really start.

That person should be in jail.

I remembered the lovely lamb peaches, the crying face of my daughter Chelsy. I could not never make eat meat again. From then on I could eat nothing but soup, beans, and rice.

The Elf Girl Lenora

I suppose one cannot ask a fellow tenant to wear a hairnet in their own house. Yet while Lenora is gone I am the one having to imbibe in the cooking of my room mate Lilia Beth, who once read the entirety of a fantasy series in the span of a week.

While I appreciate Lilia Beth's cooking, her hair is so thick some of it accidentally falls into the soup she makes. If it were not for the cheese we buy on food stamps, I suppose that would explain being blocked up. But today wasn't a day for jokes about fecal matter, instead it was a day of extreme tiredness. And so I begin a day enjoy the temporary break from Lilia Beth's cooking. And besides it is quite spicy, I needed some a little less acidic for the occasion.

The day had previously been spent making arrangements with my family regarding getting disability and eventually SSI, and I was scanning in documentation to secure the next stage of my life. I woke up that morning feeling extreme tiredness, and last night was a confusing mess of outrageous memories and dreams, among them the fear of not having the last twenty dollar bill. We had mainly been spending days eating cheap marshmallows, chocolate, and bread. A far cry from the soups I would have more frequently as I did in earlier months. I was on the boarder of having another mental breakdown, and it was a struggle to focus do to my constant insomnia.

The conversation with family was over, and finally I might be able to receive help with disability benefits. I suppose that kills whatever possibility of finding work for a while. It makes me wonder how many people in this state actually need to be on disability here just to live. You will find hardly anybody that can't pay for a bus ticket or drive to whatever place they are able to be employed. While I spend time on social media, watching reruns of Joy information commercials, of which one should almost always question the information presented in.

Most of the day in spent in isolation, do to the inability to even pay for smokes at the local roll your own tobacco shop. I had considered for a time attempted to try to smoke pipe tobacco in a cigarette, but apparently pipe tobacco is to wet. OK but I want whole leaves to roll into a cigarette. Yes I know, I realize I probably shouldn't be smoking. But sometimes cigarillos are the only way to cope with depression.

Even if that may cause an onset eyeball cancer.

Or throat cancer.

Beyond the dreamer's edge, a return to high school.

It was like some kind of personal joke. "Considering I just graduated like nine years ago, shouldn't I go ahead and leave? I'm like twenty seven."

One of those dreams where one imagines themselves in high school all over a again. The school life has many lessons, but none of it has to all the paperwork that needs to be filed when trying to get disability. The school girls are only in your head, and you can spend your entire day masturbating to college cheerleaders in Jesus sandals. I had recurring nightmares for a long time, but it wasn't until recently they began to take on a particular realistic tone to them.

I dream about Lenora bending over a desk, and having her bottom paddled with a board while raising up her sandals. My lady erection is largely left alone while I try to get some sleep again.

As I get up, I go into the kitchen.

Also unlike school, lunch is anytime you crave marshmallows. Sometimes you just need that sort of comfort food to ease your depression.

Marshmallow fluff dreams.

As it turned out the hotel I'm currently staying in withholds mail and trashes it if you don't claim it within a certain period of time. So here I am left to wait till my ability to get disability before I can get any sort of coffee drink. So that was how I spent my first disability check.

Of the times I've tried to write in the coffee shop, most of the time they were filled with noisy hipsters in Jesus sandals playing the latest metal jazz band. They would open their mouths wide, and deliberately yell in your ear until you move from the table even though you claimed the table first, and you end up moving to another table another tries to do the same shit.

So you punch them in the face to get them to shut up, then they continue the same sort of yelling they always did. So this ends up meaning hardly any writing time at all, most of which spent justify your existence to uncaring family that gives you anxiety attacks. However Lenora found a job, and an extra special decked out coffee shop card, and went along route 500 to check to see what the yelling what all about. So she bought us both coffees, and shut the whole world up by clapping her hands. And that's how you go around Milton doing errands and arriving in Federal Way just to see me.

We left to visit a "free to masturbate" theater, where I watched the imported fare of blonds in pigtails wearing wooden clogs, spreading their legs out, and doing little tap dances for their oral craving masters.

So she clapped her hands, we arrived at home.

I woke up and it was morning. Lenora knocked on the door. I went to go visit the door, and I told my room mate I was going to go take a trip with Lenora. Lenora started rubbing her right hand up and down my crotch, and so I swatted her hand away.

"I told you, I'm not some night time fucker. I like it daytime and public." she said.

"Well yes yes, but society doesn't." I said.

"Well fuck society."

"No fuck me instead." And we went inside, and took a shower together. Lenora started rubbing up and down my lady cock. And then gradually lowered herself down my nicely smooth torso.

And found a rubber ducky in the tub.

"You got a rubber ducky?"

"I'm a kid at heart."

She continued to pick up the rubber ducky, and played my with lady junk using the rubber ducky, and started deep throating me rolling her tongue around my shaft. And then as she withdrew, choke burped. And then all at once the feeling of being whole came into completion, with the whole room filling with light. And all of a sudden I became very light headed.

My room mate entered the shower room.

"Hey, you did inspection days?" Lilia Beth asked.

"No why do you ask?" I asked.

"Then why are you masturbating on inspection day."

Apparently a long time passed till she left the bath tub, and I never even got to see her leave and dance away. I received a text from Lenora. "You're not still masturbating in the tub are you?" she asked.

"Of course not."

We were dining in a local restaurant by the Japanese food store. I always had difficulty with the sound that's between an r and a d.

"But aren't you like Japanese?" asked Lenora, to a friend of mine. I had long grown past such weird social interactions, but there was something to the innocence of her approach that made me laugh.

"Well yes, but why is that important?" the friend said. He was going along for the ride so as to not be hammered down. "So aren't you really an elf girl?" he said, pointing to her puffed up cheek.

It wasn't everyday your girlfriend would explicitly ask something so rude, and finally seeing someone else get done in by impolite question was somewhat of a cathartic experience. She would go to gatherings carrying out a carved out instrument made from a castrated bag pipe, and blow through each hole using a reed and a place for which sound would come out. It was a multi-flute made from a bagpipe withouts its bag. "So Lenora, why you bring that confusing pipe garbage to the restaurant every day?" I asked, although I wasn't sure if my point was clear.

"I don't, don't you see." she said, and snapped her fingers.

Then the pipe instrument was gone. She wiped the Japanese guy's memory of the bizarre instrument, and simply remembered the time he was asked about what his nationality was.

So we went home, she wooden clog danced as she waltzed into the motel room.

I caned her bare bottom dispassionately for asking the Japanese man a rude question in short peppered strokes little more than hornet stings. But sometimes you need a cute nosy girlfriend, when she gives you head.

"No Lenora, I'm not Japanese! Remember that."

"Hey, I her that!"

Damn it, even Lenora can say it. But I never could. We went on like this till she had to take the bus home. She skips and clogs on home, shaking her booty on the way to the bus stop.

The homeless clinic was like a psychiatric hospital with sleeping arrangements, in the center was a community center hosting vending machines for candy bars and different kinds of coffee flavored sodas. I walked over to one of the vending machine, and purchased a drink brewed by a local chain, along with a caramel chocolate peanut bar for the morning dining.

A couple of blond acquaintances, in fact both were women, were dressed up as Queen Marie Antoinette and King Louie, reenacting their final descent into the darkness after the guillotine blade drops on their necks. The facial expression indicating a kind of suicidal joy where at last they can meet their maker while their decapitated heads are turned to each other to kiss. In actuality, they are simply standing, caressing each other in a slow embrace. They were lesbians that had moved to the state from an abusive father, who had strangled them both. In a sense me and the ladies were drawn together in to threesome among psychiatric twins.

The nights after the doctors office were often lonely, having a mandatory lights out session for the next few hours. As someone who is unable to sleep, I find that I spend most of my days reporting on things from my life, as my own perceptions begin to change as my illness becomes worse. Sometimes the illness and dreams stagnant and I can dream in normal colors. But at other times the dreams end up becoming more vivid and surreal as the nights seem to become longer.

I hunger for normal nights.

Instead I get insomnia.

There are multiple theories for insomnia, although in my case because the nature of my dream world, reality and the resulting nightmares make it impossible to become completely thoughtless. I wake up and think that at times there is somebody in the room, and they are sent by the government to spy on me. Instead I look in the bathroom and, and find nobody is there.

I tried to tell the doctors about the dreams.

But he said they were all in my head.

So now I generally avoid discussing these, and mainly discuss things related to my back story instead of how I am now. The doctor seems to have incredible patience and understanding, although I still fear that they were try to induce another mental health breakdown again.

Then I have to start all over again.

And have other melt down inducements.

The skyscrapers along the edge of tomorrow, grow over the pastoral landscape like carnivorous grass. Windows shine in the rooms bringing the false light of corn oil powered lamps.

On the bed I was left in a tired state as if waking up from a dream. The dream was much like the reality is now, except slightly off kilter. The world was upside down, and it was always night. The moon sang its nightly tune over the horizon. I feel as if falling up into the sky. The clouds in the night sky formed into a kind of fog the more I fell up. Then all at once I woke up, and was in bed again. I remembered feeling a presence in my room. Something in my bathroom in the motel by the psychiatric hospital. I then woke up again, as if from another dream. The cycle of dreams repeats its cycle again. The whispers of dialogue fill my head.

I don't want to here those voice again.

No those voices in my head.

The standard breakfast was standard boxed cereal, a Clementine, and a class of orange juice. The ambiance in the air was largely silent. For once in my life things were truly silent.

The lamps were hanging from the floor that became the ceiling. Then I realized I was hanging by my bed clothes from my back. And somehow it did not occur to me the fact that it was me who was completely upside, because indeed my entire world is upside ... down; down, down, down I went to the ground, and the floor came to greet me in the face. I need a nose brace, but it hugged my nose to much. The voices in my head were fading for now, at least for the time being.

"Aren't you going to eat your breakfast?" asked the nurse.

"Yes, with an extra glass of orange juice." I said.

I had grown tired of watching television, as someone who circularly grew tired of television because I grew tired of television. I have no explanation for exactly why, it just slipped away from my mind.

And so I find other things to do.

Other things that make me unwind. And spring forth like a death's head ... lady bug crawling along the bed sheets.

I'm not sure if orange is good for lady bugs.

She bugs the hell out of me.

The Empty Shell Of Sarah

Last night was a boring evening, mostly spent eating peanut butter of "toast." Now if you lived with me, you might realize toast isn't really toast, rather it's simply microwaved rye bread with "true" Irish butter and chunky natural peanut butter evened out on its matrix. Although I'm a foodie, you'd never guess. I mostly spend time eating rice. However I'm beginning to get tired of eating rice.

I want a hamburger instead.

And now I'm left thinking of hamburgers.

It had been many months since I had a good hamburger, although at the time I used to take them for granted. I now live in a world not so enchanted except for the occasional ladies in Jesus sandals that are enchanting in their own good bad ugly shoe way. I took a bus trip to the local money center, and got some rent. I'm trying to get disability money, but for most of the day I was spent.

The bus ride wait was long. Although in my mind I always imagined pretty black haired anime girls sitting by me on the bench. But then wasn't the time to get a lady boner. Yes, some ladies get boners. But don't tell that to transphobic people. Eventually the bus arrived after the one I missed, and I was able to take the bus ride back home.

We had been living without money for the laundry for a long time, and yet I can't seem to make my room mate wash our clothes. These days she mostly spends time playing video games instead. I reminded her about applying for the superstore with the money center, but really I'd prefer to get a bank. I used to watch movies about how it be good to sign up for the bank after all. Although that definitely wasn't true to the book. I got drunk for the first time in ever, and all I remember about the time between trying to get drunk and being sober is the silly social media posts I posted.

I fell asleep again, like a dog.

I woke up in a very different world from the one I knew. It was a world where people were being hung by the neck or beheaded by the ax depending on which social class your were.

I walked up to an elf girl standing in the pillory. I know what you're probably thinking, but I must remind myself "reminded to keep it television friendly." Even though I don't actually believe that garbage. Instead I poked her nose instead.

I took out my guillotine gun, that's a guillotine blade projectile shooter. Originally invented at the turn of the century, the guillotine became increasingly refined. After the seventies it went into disuse, until states began to want more efficient and instantaneous methods of executions on the spot. Built like knife gun, the gun is built specifically for mechanized beheading and not combat.

"So what are you in for?" I asked, standing beside her.

"Stealing a loaf of bread." she said.

"There doesn't seem to be any guards here."

"Don't even try breaking me out, I won't be your wife."

"Now now there bitch, who said--"

I was awoken as the time had gone past afternoon, my room mate reminded me to call for my therapist.

I'll meet with the elven bitch later.

She was blond.

Beyond the dreamer's edge where hopes may die, come to where the promise lies. In distant lands beyond the hills, beyond where con men become shills. Come to the inner life. Come to your inner desires.

It was a calling voice I never heard before, a voice that called from within. Where hopes and dreams loop all over again. As I woke in a motel on the inner edge of Purgatory road, I found the blond elf girl dining on toad at a local restaurant that served fine wines and exotic dinners. The girl, of long straight thick blond hair, wore two wooden shoes but no cotton cap. "You show your face to me." she said me, as she looked to the sky imagining freedom.

"Look all I did was stand beside you." I said.

"You stood beside me?" she asked, she asked assuming I would try to deny it.

While I wasn't exactly in the mood to argue, I couldn't deny I had the feeling. I felt like my tender skin was peeling from the rough touch of millions of knives. The world where fancy diners were considered dives. "I only came to enjoy my inner life." I said, and yet she stilled stared that stare. ... Like she wanted me to be her wife, the love, the star-crossed of her life.

And yet I come here from a world beyond, where ones hopes are doomed to die. The end of Purgatory road had not reached its finality, the malcontents still broke the laws like they always did. I would have liked to think of myself as far to broken, to be broken anymore. And yet there is that look I can't ignore, that look of that long yard stare of the lost elf girl name Lenora. "So where is your Raven." I asked, trying to make conversation out of nothing, no sounds beyond the inner rainbow's edge.

"I had a Raven once." she said.

"What happened to them." I asked.

"Nevermore." she said, then snapped her fingers.

Now I'm back in my personal life.

Sometimes life has unanswered questions, and yet many times it feels like the inquisition. And yea my life was something far different, far more subtle. Far more finite. My dreams were on the edge of disaster, ruled by tyrannical bastards. These bastards called themselves the mighty three.

And yet as I wake beyond the dream land, I'm back to nothing.

My nothing is nothing all o'er again. And yet I heard that voice, of distant anguish. Where the demons lost to time have not been vanquished from the mind. And to this day I still hear that poetic voice, calling, and mocking my name for something that I may never have again. That beyond the dreamer's edge where hopes may die, come to where the promise lies. In distant land beyond the hills, beyond where con men become shills. Come to the inner life. Come to your inner desires.

Beyond the mortal life.

The life of the non-fallen.

My inner soul of non.

It is currently a struggle to find disability, do they think I will give them a disability? Or do they have some other purpose for me.

And I am simply part of their game.

The game of life, without winners. Without losers. It constantly recycles life fictional reincarnation, if you are of a certain sensibility. But I'd rather belong to personal dependability.

Something beyond my inner doubt.

My fragile mind.

In this world of mine was counting minutes, till the universal intelligent phone operating communication system lost of the crucial data to perpetual this make believe world call reality. My reality is not as yours, as yours isn't to mine. And yet we spend most of our lives dictating to each other what reality is, and yet I wonder to myself what option do some people have. Well don't ask this chav, whose mind has been split in half literally in metaphorical visuals. My mind had felt like a bullet fired to my skull, leaving half my brains splattered on the floor spreading themselves across the carpeted artificial floor within our reality.

And I live as nobody by what I know of myself. What I know of myself. I know of myself ... nothing. Only dreams as visual reality at the edge the nightmare rainbow where giant cockroaches crawl out of it in droves. Where cockroaches in my life, fly upon the drones of a new reality.

The manufactured life.

Where I have no life. I only have myself.

I have an empty shell.

The Eclipse Of The Joyful, The Edge Of Dreams

Even still when the lights are out, I crave the night light and I shout. I shout to all my memories and fears, and want everything to go away forever.

The crazy old cat lady who walks in a circle, finds her solace in cosmic sense. The universe gives me tuppence. The circle of life. The nursery rhymes of non existence play their harps and banjos to disjointed mocking rhymes. But this should be my time, for me to sleep. Where I go beyond the dreamer's edge and start counting sheep.

And yet their sheep noises shall not fill the night's almost twilight nightmare, in the joy's eclipse.

The little girls wooden shoes without an owner, hops about being worn by 19th century ghosts. If one may refer to themselves as a little girl, despite being old enough to make a toast. The knight of night calls forth my fright with his mushroom head crave my inner life force instead of blood. The old cat lady falls to the floor to brood. She picks up the wooden shoes with her mouth, and places them on my bed beside me. This is my cat lady, who always lives beside me.

She is no stranger in this house of mine.

My personal haven of the non divine. I fall into the world of non divine, longing for another life of mine, for as I write my story I dream of dreams I cannot dream or have dreamed before. For my dreams are merely dreams of replays of old life events, and imagined events that family could conceivably do if things have progressed in that particular direction.

Instead my reality had a bisection.

The section of dream and reality blurring gradually, slightly, and in innumerable detail. The dream was of the blond woman again, who pulls me from my waking dream, dragging me into a changed real world. A world where memories are not my own, implanted with societal expectations, expectations of working long hours with very little pay.

So I suppose one may eat a candy bar another day.

Or rather in my case, another night.

Sometimes the nature of freedom is hard to define, like being at once in the presence of the divine. For me there was the divine realization of no meaning, no worth, and lack of comprehension which plays back and forth in my mind like rewinding tapes about memories that should have been my own. After all they were not image manipulated, so therefore they must be true.

That's the detail that paddles you with a wooden shoe. Smack! Smack! There goes the wooden shoe on the butt of time, the object of jokes till the end of eternity. The blond woman showed me many things, like fairies with torn apart wings bleeding as they as for a longing caress of tenderness.

And yet I am my own tenderness.

One others cannot see, as I constantly imagine myself drowning along oceans at the edge of the bleed through.

The district of blurred memories.

The district of my memories of the sea.

Yet for me life is filled with mundane scattered images lacking details, despite the endless world of my mind. And I hear things more subtly as the days become longer and longer allowing me not to hear god awful country music tunes, where I long for my personal dream world with ancient rune landscapes.

The fairies craft themselves guillotine guns to chase after the idealistic dreamer. The original of my personal doubts.

I wake up screaming, I wake up still dreaming.

As memories are merely a dream.

I long for a reset button.

I was walking in the opposite direction, with the bus going toward a town called Smyrna, Washington. The landmarks were a mix of my old hometown, and some of the general feel of the are heading toward Tacoma.

I had my room mate waiting for me at home, and had just missed the Mormons that were visiting the house. I had previously tried getting disability, but the office said I was more than just able to jobs. They said I was hyper qualified to work in the office, where I would work as a Janitor till the end of time. I suppose that was inevitable. But that meant are taking the time to sue the office for a fake terminology (someone can't ruled be overly qualified by the SSI), or dealing with what I had at time I didn't want to do with the world of anything else.

As I drifted off to sleep at the bus stop, I found myself in a jail of crystals, guarded by deranged lizard knights. And their queen was a blue skinned white haired woman. She stared at me blankly as I tried to push the crystals out of the way. From time to time I was in and out of consciousness, trying to figure out a waking solution. But instead I almost missed my bus, so I waited for home.

At home I felt exhausted.

I never wanted to lose it all it as much in my life.

I woke back up in the world of crystals, a very cold world, and yet somehow could not feel anything. I could hear and taste in this dreams, and found that I tasted of the blood of roasted lizard men. The woman offered one of her lizard women as a peace offering. So why not? I roasted one and ate a piece out of her. Sometimes that's all you can do, in dream that make marginal sense.

I woke up and found myself in Smyrna, Washington. But wasn't right, and then I woke up again.

I was back in Milton, Washington. I felt I was put through a random content generator, and one can't explain to their psychologist how their own entire world is crumbling apart. And at times Milton began to mirror the crystals world, filled with shapes and creatures far strange than the lizard men.

I found my inner self.

My hunger for the self.

The rice with butter and brown sugar that had been a consistent staple gave way to finally getting our food stamps card refilled. We got quite a bit more money than what we had gotten last time, but I still have no idea how much longer it would last. For the card was only good for three months if we were determined able to work, and somehow this was apparently better than NashChat. We being on the second month, only just now figured out we could be the pizza at the local supermarket. For one of our neighbors had never went around to tell us with certainty.

Don't be to hard on her though, she gave me some weed. Frankly that's all I can really ask a stranger in Seatak, and normally you'll find people up here most of the time have a stick up their ass. I'm unsure if this is due to it being a hipster heavy area, or if people here are just dicks. I heard New York was bad as well. But when you right in the midst of societal cruelty, you don't care much if another state is more cruel. You only want the cruelty to end here.

And that's the thing about our society, the state like to focus on how much worse other parts of the world have it, and how much our culture must come over there and save it. And yet none of them have solved their shit here.

And they really need to solve their shit here.

Like under-qualified staffing at the "do you live in a motel or an actual address, come and find out today if you are deemed qualified to receive $250 dollars a month" scamming booth.

I've seen people get blood drawn there.

But for me it's simply a scam.

Of Mormons And Satanism

Three Mormons and a Satanist meet at our motel room, the Satanist explains to them the Bible as she actually read it. But sense when have Mormons ever read the actual "book of God."

The meeting was tipped by large black cane, for when my room mate had an aching leg not faked. The Mormon's spoke of regular generic reasons all missionaries give, but sometimes you got to take these ladies out and do missionary with them. And maybe dog style. And other temptations, while giving them Jesus sandals to take the lords name outside their veins. I always wanted to imagine anime girls in Jesus sandals being corrupted into Satanism. But I suppose giving them hot chocolate to go would be good for now, after leave and I can drink as close to from a cow as I can with the milk in the refrigerator. The morning cold, I wait for lunch.

Sometimes you can't reason with people, although sometimes people can have their opinions changed. I always wanted to change the minds of religious girls. And watch the horror in their eyes, as their world view changes. And making them want to watch the world burn.

And I can do missionary style with them in Jesus sandals forever.

Because I dig corrupted Jesus sandals.

But the thing about Satanists and Atheists, with the except of some sects of Satanism I am familiar with, they have quite comes to terms with the idea that there is an inner world beyond the superficial, although it is not an afterlife. Where elf women place their necks on headman's blocks, and we watch their heads roll away after the crescent shaped chops through their neck. I find myself becoming lady erect, and all at once I had to keep from titillating myself in front of Mormons. Because in your mind you only see beheaded elf girls and no Christians.

Luckily there is nothing like losing the lady boner from talking about the merits or no merits of human faith. I'd rather spend time watching boy bands on television, while drinking all the wine. And watch cute Dutch girls tap dancing to the Tulip time. Stripping them down to belly dancers.

I masturbate to blond tap dancers.

Among other things.

The nature of lust requires that humans indulge in their wildest and most extreme of fantasies. My friend has already blogged about this, but for me I was spending time sprawled out on my laptop in bed. In my head beyond a dreamer's edge, I wander through an endless forest under caverns where no forest should be, and find myself indulging in pleasures of the flesh with elf and fairy girls giving me Jesus sandal jobs and taking the board of education.

After all life spanks you sometimes.

At other time you get ... really bored. For I always refused quests of personal obligation, and preferred to follow my own path in life.

The life of the fallen angel.

I barely knew who I was, imagining multiple different identities. That feeling complete isolation even in the largest of crowds, and the clouds are like long draping shrouds. My anxiety, my fears; all my sorrows personifying into persona of completely mental breakdown. In life I find I live in two different worlds, the world of dream and the world of reality.

In the world of reality I live life the best I can, but sometimes people don't understand I pun out of anxiety and less liking to make fun of bad situations. Although at times this has gotten me into trouble, and my dad would at times comment on certain jokes being one hundred percent stupid. Technically shitty, but when you become used to that sort of thing it becomes difficult to look at it as anything else besides normal. One tries to accommodate as they become made more passive. Therefore one could have friends run over them with car they just roll over and take it. And yet there is something that keeps you holding on, something that makes you realize "Hey this will hurt."

The lack of state insurance. I would say friends, but considering my anxiety issues I've always had trouble making and keeping friends. It left me with self-esteem issues except for things one may only life about in retrospect. This was my life, my prospects; my own self elimination from the game of life.

The life of ratty splat.

The thing about attempted suicide, it isn't what you think. The world largely remains the same, nobody stops to check to make sure you are OK. Even after poisoning myself once, I still tried to do it again. I was willing to walk to far, and hurt the hell out of my shins causing splints. Yet in the imagination one finds themselves running with abilities one only wished they had.

One can imagine themselves as a hacker, a speed racer, or anything you want. Although in my case this was mainly an undercover narrative reporter. Not a traditional one, but a sub-cultural journalism of the slice of life of the average motel resident who has been there for over five months. On the bring of homelessness, one finds themselves with fewer friends even as people begin to reach out.

Because you don't feel like reaching out, not to anybody.

Because the world is a very unsafe place. A planet where despite cleaning and shower every day one has mud on their face.

The world treats you as faceless.

Beyond the dreamer's edge there is the solace of silence not quite silence, where one hears sounds that aren't really there. And yet one sees many times and places at once, stressing you out and making you pull out your hair. There are monsters and innocent decapitated women everywhere, murdered by monsters and executioners in the night. Don't go beyond the moonlight glare, or you would be national razor ensnared. And off, off, off goes your head rolling, rolling, rolling across the dream world web into it falls bleeding into an endless void.

The dreams of floating decapitated heads are everywhere.

The compulsion of madness. The compulsions of desire. The compulsion and cutting oneself everywhere with the fetish of self-injury. Then your breath becomes fainter and fainter as you sleep.

You see monsters in the close, or so you think.

Then there is nothing there.

Silhouettes In The Night

It took many months to determine what my reality is for myself, and how I would come to terms with my issues. At the time, and in many ways is still an issue, that fact that I would avoid certain things that brought back memories.

Many of my nightmares began to happen and bleed through in my personal life when I was dating my ex boyfriend, although technically it was an unofficial date. The thing about dating guys is sometimes you want to fix them. For me, I had just recovered from the experience of being rejected passive aggressively by a high school friend, and still had negative association with certain colors in my mind. The cult was about blond aliens often called Nordics. I had grown my interest in certain shoes and sandals at the time, and therefore would fantasize about blond women in that way. My life became a kind of mental compartmentalized dichotomy: like human blonds in Jesus sandals, but only "respect" blond aliens as gods.

I had images of my mind of my ex best friends second girlfriend, how she would be in provocative positions wearing those sandals, and how I would avoid these fantasies avoiding the trigger of my ex boyfriend telling me what clothes were right to wear and how I should wear them. I new I didn't want to be like him, and he would treat me like I was a she-him. It became apparent over time that he was self-hating and gay. Others aspects of his beliefs indicated neo-nazism. I would do anything to push the memories of him away, even watching hyper political talking heads. All the while pictures older blond aliens with pigtails on their heads, wearing Jesus sandals. And all my mind could think of was my own telepathic fears; how one day he said he cold teach me how to read others minds. How he could go inside my mind in dreams if he wanted to. So I lived in constant fear with somebody knocking on my inner door.

I wanted be his raven.

Nevermore.

Sometimes even those you life with that you can't trust are the only ones that you can trust, at those times them being the only ones to keep you from becoming a full member of that electronic cult. I wanted to slam my inner door, and keep it shut with a bolt. Because on some level I wanted him to not touch me there, even though he had never touched me. Because after a point he asked me why I wipe my butt, and suggested new kinds of toilets for me to use. He wanted me to engage in caloric restriction, and consume hyper laxatives. That's when I made the decision.

I'm going to leave this relationship.

I had a mind trick that enables me to live the inner workings of his mind; I pretended to an undercover agent, who dreamed of becoming part of beauty pageants. And so I looked up how to stealthily avoid cults.

I eventually got rid of them all.

Transitioning to the new life was difficult; it become impossible to keep up with cleaning myself, and at times I chose to cut myself. A lot of my writing changed to increasingly dystopian in nature. I tried to rationalize how he was, whether it was nurture or nature.

But eventually I began to forget.

Mind mind saved itself.

Beyond the dreamer's edge there are strange men in armored suits, who wear big black combat boots. Who spy on survivors of imaginary cults in my mind, and I would role play as a dark messiah. This was more I had converted to Satanism reluctantly, and I still find myself wondering, will I need to withdraw silently.

And recede into the darkness of my mind. Where I no longer know who I am, wear dreams bleed with reality. The reality of made of pasts, or are they? I can never be sure.

So be your own dark messiah.

Find your on individual Satanic mark.

Sometimes one second guesses themselves, at least it was merely a dream. The question is why to dream the wrong ending at all. I thought I had it all, I thought I knew everything. And then she, the blond woman in the dark, come into my inner life and showed up. Almost as if to mock me.

There are no words to convey my sorrows, the feeling of blood draining my very marrows. In the world beyond the dreamer's edge, in the world of sparrows, crows, and ravens, there was her. It was a rough start to a love beyond love, a connection beyond time and space. For it made me understand my own issue and blond women, and my own inner struggles. The romance of mortals cannot comprehend it, for I had avoided brainwashing and came to associate blond with brainwashing. At first I had met her avoiding her gaze. There was something about the nature of being blond that scared me, and made me alone again to feel like my inner child. The wild life of the nocturne abyss. And yet as I dreamed a kidnapping by my own desires, I began to regret watching her rolling, rolling, and rolling away into night in the cart of steel tires.

It was execution day. The day she would lose her head. My mind split into different directions, with the image of her forming a kind of duality. She would appear as a demon in the night, take away deservedly by inner knights. And yet part of made had a kind of sympathy for the demonic. For the demon in wooden shoes was just like me, and me like her. For something had hinted about her lack of trust, as I arrived and they exposed her bare bust. Her chest shook as her neck was placed on the block. I was split between different choice, tormented by cackling angelic voices. Yet the angels were no angels at all, and the demons were no demons at all. And the storm clouds covered the inner skies. Farewell to the world of cherry pies.

And thus the choice was taken. I was my mind given into personal lies.

The ax touched her neck, and then raised as high as it could go. The thing about crescent shapes is they crush through neck and bone, for that demonic elf girl who did not atone. And yet part of me felt as her, dying on the headman's block.

The ax fell, the beheading was botched.

It took one more stroke, and her head finally fell into the basket. I saw briefly the image of her convulsing body, exposed and lifeless.

And then I was jolted from the nightmare,

The elf girl was myself, and what I hated.

I wanted to cut it all away.

There was a time when I could not dream, for me who could tear reality at the seam. The few times I could dream, I dreamed of chasing midnight Knights singing to do to me far worse things than losing my head. To become one of them, the serial killers of the night. But I was different.

I was a dreamer.

I could change the world. And in this world beyond the dreamer's edge, there was a faint promise, a promise that I could make to myself. That I would respect myself, and my own mind. To never dream again.

To never live again. I woke up seeing a spider, it was the size of a toy poodle. It would come at me and strangle me in the night. And I would scream and wake up my parents I lived with at the time. It was the point in time when I began to have night terrors nightly, and began withdraw subtly and slightly. For the soldiers so knightly, stalk me in my own torn reality become real things in and of themselves.

They were the silhouettes they torn the night.

They night they came to take me home.

The Drop Of An Elf Girl's Head

Life became increasingly dangerous at the drop of a head. The subtle sinking feeling, the sudden realization of your head being in the basket. You can see your blond locks over your face, as you blink and blink for the last remaining thirty seconds. That was what I had imagined for her, and yet I never got to ask her her name. I'm not sure if that's even possible in a dream.

Being with the blond elf was something of ironic desire. There wasn't anything like the desire for hate fucking, and yet somehow I knew that I wasn't the type to do this. And again, not sure if that's possible in a dream. And cisgendered women were worth far more than to hate fuck. As I began to dream again, I found myself in consistent petrified forests where I felt like something sinister was chasing me.

That feeling hasn't gone away now. And yet I must face this fear before I can make myself dream again, to face my own issues head on. I waited, turned around. And found that, it was ... myself.

I had neglected my own self for so long and for so many years, and yet within myself I found that I didn't know who I was. I know that the memories of her neck stump haunted my dreams, haunted my life, and make me unable to write again. And yet there was some merit in the desire for self-destruction. Rather than giving in to alien abduction, the alien aspect of the self. And yet there are many aspect of the self that are changing, one may look at earlier versions of themselves with shame. I wanted to burn away the fears, burn away the feelings. Burn it all away.

There are still many aspects of the self I know not.

And yet by waking point I then forgot. And yet part of the blond woman was somebody else that I had known, and there was no explanation for the fact the she would look subtly different every time I went beyond the dreamer's edge. Ever sense I saw her beheaded, my mind would replay the same images over and over again. I became a fourth dimensional dream hacker, hopping to different scenes from my dream world. I could pop anywhere I want, pop out of the dream world into the waking world. And I thought I could control my own destiny.

And yet my own destiny is beyond my control.

Especially when the dream-scanners came.

Beyond the hillside and the meadows, there is a hope no in the lifetime. And yet this hope is far away, into a million lifetimes in the future. Listen to my personal rhyming stories, and listen to how I came to dream again.

There was an old man who sang through his flute, and spanked zombies with his military edition boot. And yet the old man was neither military or dream swatters. The man was another writer, who said he robs ancient temples from many nations from far away into the night. You never really could tell whether what he said was really true, but he clung to you like super glue.

While spanking zombies with his boots. And her sang insane Holiday carols from obscure religions on the atheist direction against Mormonism. He said, "I can give you this bag of Kingly treasures."

And yet I knew he had to fence with his saber to get them. And so I politely declined, and hoped to never see him again. And yet I suspected, my story didn't end with the blond girl's beheading. As I could still feel her voice in the world.

The world inside my head.

I couldn't get in touch with the therapist until later, found out at the last minute she only does part time, and then I get directed to Valley Cities which is all the way in Seattle.

It would be cheaper to pay for one way and live in a shelter, instead of let money completely run out, in order to prevent getting kicked out which getting SSI was suppose to prevent. All because I live in a motel about over an hour away, where here there are mostly therapists who don't take Apple Health Care.

The management is already hostel to new tenants, with routine "inspections" were they literally make up anything each time to keep you on edge. They didn't have INTERNET for the first five months I was here. Otherwise I could have gotten SSI earlier. I think anyone else besides me would have gone insane through this ordeal. And I'm not totally sure if I'm sane.

That's if you don't include how hard it is to get a job. That's what they don't say when Seattle acts like its a mystery why people are homeless. We only just started job hunting (I can't work do to borderline mobility issues, partial deafness, and PTSD) when family told us at the last minute our rent was about to run out. All the while I'm apparently suppose to act civil to people here.

Ah yes, an absolute mystery why Washington residents are homeless.

I'm so glad the state is a competent private detective. They seem to care more about busting up prostitution rings than solving mental health and poverty issues that cause it to begin with.

The cops are constantly racially profiling, associating black and trans people with things that would never pass in a court of law.

Meanwhile in New York, there was a recent shooting. Possibly by cops racially profiling people, although I don't know about the whole issue without a working television for months as well.

It's not like I watch television, but when you're reliant on social media things tend to appear out of context and tossed at your out of the blue. So it's not like I don't care, I simply haven't enough context. I'll save what I really think is going on for another time, as I still have people on social media that stalk me. You don't have to have paranoia to realize our country is going to shit.

So here I am waiting for the next opportunity to off myself

Because I don't know myself anymore. And I simply feel like my life is becoming to much to comprehend.

Yet beyond that dreamer's edge, there are other forms of darkness. Where soldiers in the night form into the faces of the racist men, who stalk people different from they. Who find themselves superior to they. And they chase after men and women with pitch folks for the color of their hair.

Beyond the morning light, where blood fills the streets, in distorted medieval urban landscapes.

Beyond the our time, beyond our future.

Beyond the life. I find that in my fantasy world it distorts into the image of my own reality, exaggerated and almost like futuristic projections. I find that those who want me dead know what I can do for the world.

Because the elves rely on me.

Because they don't know how unreliable I am.

The headsman's ax is sharpened from the botched ordeal, while the original block is burned for firewood. One can see the body language of men, who while they say nothing smile widely at scoring a mark, the elf woman's decapitated body having been soiled by its own juices. The tendency the body to clean itself only matters if you are alive, otherwise the body begins its slow rot.

What remains is only the impact of how the elf woman lived. Sounds of laughter, sounds a roaring. Sounds of deranged men ready to start snoring. The small crowd is indifferent villagers, who had known her to be a petty thief. And yet I met with a woman in another dream who had known her. Until she made that ultimate mistake, that was to disown her.

Into the waking world the trance was broken from by the sound of the local room mate parrot. Who had a thing for the word chocolate chips. I would have rather not associated urinated soil associated with chocolate chips, and I'm sorry but those aren't really chocolate chips. Which is a shame because I really love chocolate muffins with cream cheese sour cream filling with chocolate chops.

My life was that exact kind of mixture between delicious and nasty that kept my eating routines erratic. Such dreams of the nasty were not an unusual occurrence to me, although due to the nature of the realism of dreams they tended to gross me out for a while.

So I hopped back to an earlier lifetime.

It was a normal evening back then, and I would spend a lot of time doing sketches of different kinds of monsters, and found that I had not interest in traditional fantasy monsters, for I want to to create my own kind of monsters. Such as the many arms of the snake, a snake with many heads that had different mouths with different taste buds for different sorts of things. My imagination struggled with different impractical monsters for a while, and I would sketch these until my fingers became raw and numb.

And then my interests began to change.

I began to read about serial killers and their inner desires.

I was so filled with shame and self-hate that I refused to go outside of my room do to kink shaming that I used to experience. But in actuality it was simply emotional abuse, and a lot of my issue had to do with self-hate. I found my solace in the draw of true crime novels, and would watch different serial killer documentaries, trying to see how it was they got caught. And yet over time I became bored of this.

The thing about kink shaming and gas lighting is that it is a process over time, and is highly sociopathic in nature. The perpetrator would make you question your own memories and perceptions of reality. For a long time I began to wonder what of my many different memories were true.

I had memories from when I was in my mother's wound, remembering it being rather pink inside. That would be one of the main memories my wanted to break out of me wanting me to only remember what they wanted me to remember. Across many months of December, this would take place.

And yet now that image of a post beheading, something I would have rather forgotten, played endlessly in my head for the following months. Although at the time it felt like forever.

Beyond The Suicide Edge

Beyond the dreamer's edge, I explore various ruins. I explore various temples with ancient artifact. I fought against many monsters both weak and strong. Yet I keep finding myself reminded of the lost elf girl named Lenora. I visited her tombstone, and there I am greeted by her angelic statue.

I had at times been iffy at the possibility of visiting graveyard, and yet as of late I keep visiting the lost Lenora. And I remain beside her side, longing for the lost Lenora. However part of me realizes she is gone forever, and she will never come back ever. And yet I long, long, and long for the lost Lenora. I see creatures in the night, who call me names, and mock at me with phrases quite profane. And yet I no longer care about my inner world, and would just as soon let it rot so I can finally be with the lost Lenora. Perhaps I have said her name to much, the lost Lenora.

Well that's Lenora for you.

I no longer have anything desire for the worlds beyond the dreamer's edge, and find my solace wandering across Purgatory Road to find some place to off myself and die. And descend into the dreamer's edge beyond the dreamer's edge. And hope that I may reincarnate no longer obsessing about the lost Lenore. I hold in my hand a white night flower, and wait for the midnight showers.

So I wait for a long time in the cold.

Hopping across time and space beyond the dreamer's edge, I relive old memories of previous vacation trips. Where I would purchase different level of heat for different Hot Sauces along the coast. There is also a bookstore, where I would hang out at time and look at books other authors have written. And I try as I might to try to picture myself living their lives. And yet their lives are not mine. For the logical divine has chosen t to live my own life as I am however I am. And it expect me to do whatever I can to be me. Because that is all I am.

And yet at time I want to be someone else.

At times I want to be the president of the United States and rule the nation with an iron fist, and other times I hop into the bodies of other people across time and space. Because at time I've felt that my reality is not my own. For I wish to experience other people's sins and see what they feel they must atone for, or if perhaps they feel no need to atone at all.

This is my life's ambition, my personal call.

The call to understand my own emotions.

And to understand others.

The inspector came for their morning roost, who long to give us our morning roast. And after they leave I shall have a morning toast to my own life, and for others. As I live one more day if I don't die of alcohol poisoning. I suppose that there are worse fates for those who empathize to much, as they live others lives among earlier centuries among the Dutch and futuristic conglomerate nations. In world where people eat upon military rations, or eat among fine caviar. I had once tried caviar, and yet it is to salty. Yet perhaps I shall treat myself, as I descend yet again beyond the dreamer's edge, longing to go back to the world beyond.

I vanish into appear in the new life.

My new life, my new story.

Beyond the dreamer's edge the imprint of memories fades by the sunlight, forming vague impression in how one views their own life.

It is often unpredictable whether inspections will be merely giving one sheets and towels, or more rigorous ones where the manager bitches about at least something every time you enter the motel. At a point in time when we might be losing money soon, you might think they are losing money as well. But then suddenly that revenue stream from them will be all gone.

My room mate is considering becoming a voice actor, although I find it doubtful she will be motivated to do anything. But if she can get the INTERNET, I may motivate her to try to figure out how to get an voice acting career. The uncertainty is in whether she will have to go somewhere or perhaps will be able to do it from home. Although she knows my kinks, and I generally try to only masturbate under the blanket, I get tired of having to censor what I do even though the only reason I do is do to psychological issues regarding whether I even should do to my psychologically abusive family. For my family was narcissistic about certain kinds of things, and would always insist on me not being fit to be a parent, regardless of what my own views were on the matter.

And they put me in a mental state where I constantly felt like a kid, and therefore became psychologically dependent on others to make money on my behalf, when reliant on someone who is hardly motivated to do anything, this therefore has the tendency to set negative things in motion for my life.

But there is an SSI station in Seatak in King County.

Maybe I can see whether that is fruitful.

I will ride on the bus toward the King County Seatak side, and look at various landscapes toward the edge of forever, hoping for some sort of change in my life. Or I may decide to kill myself in the following weeks, only time will tell. I'm entirely uncertain how the shelter is going to go, and a lot of my uncertain is how I tend to value my own privacy, and in general in cities you pretty much almost never get any privacy. There is also exposure to the elements. And even if it is indoors there is still the issue of someone just waltzing int your room without asking.

That's largely why I would have liked to actually get disability before we were in this mess, but this motel in Milton with abusive motel inspectors had ruined my life without having INTERNET for a long time. I still fill like that place owes me damages, but you just try suing somebody when you are as destitute as we are. And so our life moves forward with a kind of uncertainty.

Beyond the dreamer's edge, one finds themselves in various prisons of the flesh, engaging in various BDSM affairs, from paddling maids, beheading slaves, and other mixes of pleasure and pain. I live a life of the profane, the financially dying, and one lost in their own personal Purgatory. The place where all night terrors and good dreams come to end gotten rid of for the same crime of existing, and one simply waits to put a noose over their neck.

And then dangled forever.

But sometimes things change subtly at first.

And sometimes things you thought would be the worst end up actually being better for your mental health in the long run.

So no need to put mouth to gun.

Reality Merely A Dream

Life is like a painting that appears differently to each viewer, each one manifesting as an image of rayism. The individual feels temporarily out of time and space, only later coming to grips with their new reality.

And yet they explain their revelation to others, each one experiencing different conflicting images. To ease the conflict, people simply go back to their old realistic painting of life. Beyond the dreamer's edge, one can appear in any world they want, and can influences reality how they want to if they are of a sensibility to do so. And so I find that I have the power to make new friends, and to bring back old friends from the dead. Having them hear with me now.

I am a kind of dream necromancer, manipulating and learning how the dead work seeing why it is one cannot resurrect the imagination.

My life has filled me with great frustrations. Life is one great childhood adventure, running along long treks of the dream world, only stopping to me et with different beings with different lengths of ears and varying sharpness of talons. At times one imagines themselves confined in meshes of framework prisons, having their legs smashed by unseen hammers in the dark. And your screams are not heard in that personal cell. Where one eventually hallucinates and sees strange things.

Among such strange things, I saw the image of the elf girl Lenora pointing at me, and directed me my way through the light, and she would tap her little wooden clogs, allowing me to hear where the right direction, lest I fall into some hidden put of the mind. And if I get six right in a row, she would have a complete tap dance. Then rub her booty against my my inner thigh. With her head still attached of course, as she is a hallucination of the elf girl I once knew.

And yet on some level I knew.

I had the power of the mind. And so I reach out my hand into the darkness, hoping I could resurrect the dead.

At times one wish for things one might think they might not wish for. Sometimes one imagines themselves wishing for things that are wildly different from their own desires, and yet at other times they may not even know what they really wish for until it is to late. And they can't change a thing. Yet for me I find I can control the nature of my dreams and inner wishes, and will allow for things to happen as they will. And then change differently at other times for different results. And yet I cannot master my own life in the same, as many things in ones life is outside of their control.

Thus as one becomes a prisoner in life, they may become freeman in the mind and if you so believe the spirit. One can change the world of their inner mind.

They can master the dream.

Thus I wait for things to change in my life.

I hope that my life can catch up with my imaginations. For I am my own master of dreams, and no master of my life.

I am observing things in real life many planes of reality along with the Lenora, watching many three dimensional screens of writers who came before a person like myself. And there I saw many classic writers, who wrote things long before I. And discarded many things before publishing before I. And yet some of them could not find any more encouragement in themselves to continue onward, switching completely writing poetry and verse.

I had always supposed my writing was a curse. Sometimes I see things in the night watching me, mocking me, calling my name. And yet with Lenora by my side I can not try to sleep, even if it gives me trouble; gives me dreams. And the stars above cannot separate me from the darling Lenora Lee. Because between me and the universe, she is not inside my mind forever. My darling Lenora Lee. You may find me quite pretentious, others may find me quite audacious. And yet the tenacity of the human mind endures all obstacles, in the eternity of time. For I exist for nobody else, but my darling Lenora Lee. Who appeared as if from a dream.

We explore the ruins.

We explore the kingdoms.

We explore the graveyard at night. And yet nobody, not even the demons on Earth can forever separate me from my darling, my Lenora Lee. Because I can control the nature of my own reality.

I am a master of my own dreams.

I can overcome night terrors.

Sometimes one might get stage fright, without ever being up at the podium. And yet when it comes to being on pod casts, and other means of performance they find they are among the best of friends. And yet for me I exist alone inside my mind, longing for the beautiful Lenora Lee. And yet I cannot have her in my real life, for life is much more than merely a dream. I have no mastery of my own life, and yet I act as my own personal shrink in my head.

I who once longed to be dead. Who once wished to be among the dead. Who once watched the removal of an elf girl's head. And yet for me instead, I exist without knowing what to do with my life still. The singing voice of the muse of life is rather shrill, with reality's country song singing the song of depressed clients bringing up the tabs, barely having money for the grocery store. And yet I sense a presence behind me, and I'm not sure who touches my shoulder. I think of the worst.

I think of ... yet that is no he.

For it is a she. It is my darling Lenora Lee, as she shows me how to play poker. And then connect the dots along the stars. For they have aligned just right for me to be with her at least one more time. And yet as the night closes, I feel that recurring feeling of dread.

That reality is merely a dream.

Lenora Like Catherine Howard

It was a case of extravagant misery.

The bigger the house you own the more room you have to walk inside and not have to go outside. Yet with the smaller houses there came a kind of comfort, one didn't have to walk three miles to explore the living room and kitchen squawking like a decapitated chicken. One could dance upon in smaller space, until you eventually fall over dead. Although unfortunately none of those I knew did, I probably would have come out substantially better with that.

For me I had been living in my old family house for some time, but had avoided certain rooms do to negative associations that those rooms give me. Such as the times I would sleep with my parents in the same bed, and dreams of things in the closet that will come to take me away. The period of dreaming was constantly streaming, and the very natural of how I perceived the real began to crack.

The thing about imagination, when you allow it to run wild, at times it makes you perceive reality when outside of the dream in a different way than you otherwise would. And for me, as someone who had family that would never strongly emphasize that things I experienced were dreams, and more immediately family that made me question my own natural memories, this led to me questioning my own sense of self. And after a point, I only had myself. Then not even that.

I had only my fractured mind. This was a mind that had a kind of impractical creativity I had initial difficulty applying to tangible projects.

And then I began sketching.

I had urinated in my bed from an early age, and my psychiatrists attributed this to depression. So when an early age onward, something that apparently goes against the science of today, I was taking anti-depressants up to the point I turned eighteen. So the way I perceived things were adventures I could have had at a time when I had difficulty expression my own inner sorrows. I feel like a glass bottle that would constantly be filled with water, and all the world's tears would flow inside, without having some means of an exit.

And so I came to understand holding back feelings.

I would hold back feelings when family turned over the tables, I would hold back feelings when I scraped by knees falling over my bike. And I would hold back feelings whenever my jokes were referred to as stupid. It took many years just getting to the point were I could make puns without reliving negative memories.

So after a point I withdrew to my room.

And after that I mostly drew. And yet most of what I drew came to mirror my own nightmares and inner frustrations with myself. And that's how you will come to find drawings of beheaded girls, girls kneeling on headsman's blocks, and masked executions getting ready for the chop.

My psychiatrists were concerned about my mental health, and yet mom would at times take me different psychiatrists. So my whole childhood was spent trying to find the right psychiatrist for me, or in older years my mom constantly nagging at me about what kind of future I would end up having.

That's a laugh, they think I actually have a future. If you call it a future, I suppose it is. But sometimes you make the best of what you have.

Even if it's nothing.

The thing about writing what you know, sometimes the individual nuance is complicated. Take for example the difference between being someone who is pregnant, and observing someone who is pregnant. But whenever you write about a woman who is pregnant, the assumption always seems to be you've been pregnant before rather than merely observing someone who is.

I had just gotten back from outside my house to visit more with the trans support group, and among them was a small woman in a brown pony tail, and several other friends from support group were there to greet me on stools. I was in my old house in NashChat, right in SmyrMurf. We were having support group right in the dining room, which had now been carpeted by the original color of carpet to bring back a sense of my old childhood to allow me to relive certain memories. Such as remembering when I used to be read picture books and played with wooden trains. And so I was able, at least briefly, to explore further the nature of my own memories.

And yet these memories blended with other memories, of when I visited yet another hotel room on a rainy night, and how I had once tried writing a new novel. Although I am uncertain as to whether this was a memory or a dream, my computer had decided to eat my novel once it ran out of batteries. I was attempting to write about specific experiences in my life, and to add various science fiction and fantasy elements to it. On that particular night it all was for naught.

And there was no care about this from the support groupies.

In fact that assumed that most of my childhood I was expanding the memories of my own childhood inside in my mind.

But it's not up to them to decide what I remember.

I shall remember what I want.

I hopped between different time periods and dreams, and imagined myself in the crowd of Lenora's execution, which was similar to Catherine Of Arragon's beheading by the ax.

"I am able to die very easily if you will it." she said, handing him a small bit of change to ensure her quick demise.

And so to explain the people the true nature of reality as I see, it almost on some level has to be expanded in my mind, and embellish as a work of fiction. For the nature of how I remember things is blurry and murky and nightmarish and needlessly complicated mazes and puzzles I may well forget about in the morning. Because for me, it is easy for me to merely wake up under the awning, and sit on the childhood porch rail merely observing the raining sky.

Until a lightning bolt falls down.

And makes me fall to the grown below.

The life of a dream and memory blender.

The Elf Girl I Never Thought I'd Love

Beyond the dreamers edge, I find myself in a different room from the homeless shelter of which I thought I resided. For while the room was similar, there was something ever so slightly different about it. I got out of my bed, and notice that some things were in a different location than I had previously experienced, and wondered if like how it's bad to change things up on a blind person, the nurses had decided to transfer me in my sleep to the other side of the building.

I had very much of a different kind of illness from the Antoinette sisters, something difficult to articulate in words. It's like all at once you realize you are different from other people, who have normal interest in regular human sexual affairs. And yet for me I had known of my own sexual deviance from an early age. It wasn't like I was proud to have this particular issue. And yet the most I'm told I seem to others in someone who is easily startled by those around her. For I have many memories of that time, of which I had gotten to the point where I confused them for dreams do to the nature of my relationship with my female guardian.

The world was a constantly changing place, but not this much. I could some items in the room begin to float without explanation, and I've had memories of conversation with nurses that I would never meet. For my mind is like a demented programmer's program in Ruby syntax, the random images in my part of a larger scheme of non-sequitur based on things I could actually experience.

My life was an array further random array with further random arrays of deliberately tailored non-sequiter faces. I see in these strange room, me being transported to many places similar yet different from what I know. The trek between the laws are like an under toned surrealist painting, with the truly strange just being beyond the doors of the numbered room, with the ones on the left even and the one on the right very odd indeed. And you'll never know what you may find beyond those doors.

And for me, I may never wish to find out. I heard the giggling of the Lenora behind one of those doors, and wondered if it was merely a trick of my mind. Or if perhaps it was merely the two sisters who found themselves the reincarnation of the lesbians during the French revolution.

My life played many images images back and forth in my mind, and tends to become further refined in detail as my life flashes forward. I hope you don't find my assumption untoward, but I'd rather not meet any new images in my mind. I'd rather go toward a brand new happier life.

And yet sometimes this ability to move on is not an option: the nearest contact with friends is all the way in Milton in the Seatak area. I've been in Seattle of the Seatak area for so long. I never go outside, I never sleep for I fear my dreams, and I never get any peace. Because I am like a lost adventurer, having never succeeded in retrieving the golden fleece. And as punishment by the king of tomorrow my wife is beheaded and I am forced to live in her absence long for her to be by my side.

I hope things change for the better.

The bus ride wasn't the hardest part of going to the superstore, the hardest part was walking up the hill. Leg pain had become increasingly worst over the best few months, and the only ease on ones mind is a Jesus proselytizer holding up a sign when your room mate says "Ave Satanas."

It had been many months since I had been released from the homeless center for mental patients. My own reality is become normal and mundane again, but I still have memories of the elf girl. From the time to time I would still see here bleed through into my own reality, and she would be sitting in a bus seat headed out of town. At times she would volunteer for the local rainbow center. I hadn't had the money lately to go check to verify. Sometimes she would give me text messages, and I'd have to text her to tell I will talk in the morning.

Life isn't all bad, mostly it is a head ache. The main issue at the moment is having money for the bus, and yet just today mom had refilled the money on my bus card. That doesn't stop me from cursing out the bus while running to make sure I am able to catch up with it. And then I get transfer credit, and sit in the bus seat with my legs still aching, and making sure my room mate is aware she need to pull the wire to make sure we are able to stop at the motel. The motel on the other hand, was where we used to leave to go get some smokes at the local smoke shop. But lately we hadn't had money for smokes, and I'm really trying to save up the last cigarillos--which I prefer more than cigarettes--for extremely special occasions.

I had a vaporing rig a while back called an electronic cigarette. But I had began to use that so much that often I started using it like a Breathalyzer, always inhaling even in the most inconvenient of time. The thing is, when my parents arrived, my friend had to explain to them you don't get tar in your lungs. I think what it was really was was a matter of power of me rather than the vaporing itself. Fortunately the elf girl never saw me vapor, although for many months this made sense. At the the time she was still merely a hallucination beyond the dreamer's edge.

And as my dreams became reality, thing changed.

I realized my whole perception of reality was a lie.

And that's how I am still here today, having survived two suicide attempts by poison, and living mostly on food stamps waiting for the time I can get disability for my PTSD. I may well have to ask family for my medical records.

I hope Laminae is OK. I'm not sure how she'd feel with my conversation with my blond elven dream girl.

The girl I never thought I'd love.

I Owe It For Lenora

Beyond the dreamer's edge, there are near possible places just past the reality of places to visit. Such as the called Venice, Tennessee. Where the roads are flooded, and new roads are built above the land.

One can take a double boat across different sectors of NashChat. I was riding on a boat with Lenora, who wearing was wearing Jesus sandals at the time. She would be smoking pot, while observing me stare out beyond the front of the boat as we drifted into the tunnel of the mind. In this tunnel there are unseen things, one no mind was meant to observe. As we road along the boat, we eventually docked on what seemed to be almost a Neo Victorian underground city; it had technology of various types from the Victorian era, and somehow they had made their way to the United States. The whole facility was covered in gears.

The city of gears we would call it.

The city would rise every ten years above the flooding planes. Although I have heard that the city would eventually no longer have to float was the water was sinking. I've never been sure whether those stores were true, and wondered myself what it would look like seeing the building so high up in the sky, and watching the birds fly along where the surface I had known once was. Although I had only heard these rumors from disreputable people.

Yet still on my mind I picture the water slowly sinking.

And then the doors along the building would eventually rise above into the heavens, as the land now covered in dirt and dust comes into view exposing a barren planet when dying fish. I wanted not to see this.

My dying wish as I drowned myself.

And I sunk into the muddy waters. I leave behind my girlfriend, who as I observe her eventually stabs the person who pushed me off. One of the original guards that wanted me dead.

She was taken to the square to have her head taken off in town, she trembled in her brown and orange patterned dress as she observed the delicately ankled blade that would kill her. Tied to the main board in her Jesus sandals, the grooved soles of the sandals exposed for the onlookers behind the guillotine admiring her non bony bare feet, whose ankles matched her thin swan like looks. She was lowered and her neck placed between two board.

The tears in he eyes begin to well up.

The sound of skin and bone cut through by a loud thunk, swiftly the beheading machine showed no mercy cutting through her long swan like neck the executioner was caressing. Her blond haired head falls into the basket in slow motion. The basket and the blade are covered in blood. Her soft blue eyes fade. Consciousness remained in her head for the next few seconds.

Her head was picked up and shown to the crowd.

The executioner slaps her face. Cackles fill the crowd.

The rats in the morgue ravage her Jesus sandals, nibbling at the leather straps. And then gradually nibble closer to her dress.

I wake up, and prepare for another writing day.

In the waking world, I find that my reality is all to mundane. I live in the world of the possible, even overly possible cities. Cities where people go to work every day, and pay whatever bills they can.

So they can live their lives. Whatever life they follow. Yet for me I am unable to work due to my own delusions.

I live a dreamer's lover's life in sleep.

There was once a calliope, that played to the tune of ancient myths. The fare was one held in the town every year, though few times have I ever personally gotten to go to any of them, despite the money to do so.

I had always wanted to try my hand at winning a teddy bear. It wasn't until later I found out second hand, so take the salt for what it's worth, as being rigged in favor of the game engineer. Engineers of taking money from the poor. One of the few fares I got to visit was the renaissance fare.

While I've had certain issue with medieval fantasy for some time, there was some kind of fascination with the fare. There was something different about a fare that allowed me to buy swords of whatever I desired, although asking for ID was a constant nuisance.

At the end of the day, it always seemed to amount to "little boys shouldn't play with swords", although as I've gotten older I wondered why they didn't know that they were meant to be decorative, and frankly whether anybody should be playing with swords. Plus I'm a girl, not a boy.

I had grown quite a prolific sword collection in my closet. This was before the time that I had grown the issues of self-hate and resentment for those more beautiful than I. And so because I never got to buy a dress, for I considered myself a girl you see, I could never touch the back of my flowered hat straw hat, and stare to the sky. And as I stared at other girls far prettier than I, my family would always ask me if I had some vested interest in the footwear they wore.

Even if I was, keep in mind I was seventeen, and I mainly looked at other seventeen year old girls. Sometimes sixteen, but in either case, my family had not real good reason to really be interested in that information, and I certainly wasn't about to give that to them. It was bad enough not being able to buy clothes of my desired gender. Of course the family member in question would always misconstrue it as catering to my own personal sexual fetishes.

Clearly she had no idea about my gender issues.

Like I was going to tell them that.

At home various memories played in my head about the fare, and built up certain kinds of resentments and associations, although some of which only bother me to this day. I only bring this up because recently I had tried getting back into playing JRPGs, and get into reading fantasy novels to begin with.

Combined with the fact I still had weird issues about sword shops, wanting to see more gore in fantasy in the west, and having resentment of certain characters due to finding it petty one could still hold onto their ex if clearly they broke up with them. It may be judgmental on my end, but when you throw someone who doesn't even want to be a hero under the bus like that, particularly if it were me I would have said good luck rescuing your planet on your own, you split from my party and lets go our separate ways.

Unfortunately most of the 90s era games coming from Japan had not multiple ending or narrative options, so I was mainly stuck with what the game me. I think that was one of the first grains of why I wanted to become a storyteller.

I wanted to create my own narrative.

I wanted to tell my own story.

In many ways I was largely raised by the video games I grew up with, from Platformers, JRPGs, action rpgs, you name it. One game was the one that allowed me to have a childhood I never grew up with.

Even with fantasy it was a world so different from my own I could give it's crap sack world kind of a pass. But I withdrew into the world of the video game largely as a way of ignoring issues I had with other people as well as other mediums of expression. And yet the thing that always bugged me about this one game was at times it had a bit of a subtle western aesthetic I didn't care for.

The most immediate example is Westerns. Now I recently heard that westerns were not originally macho, being more reflective of the actual wild west. All fine and good but anyone who has payed attention to American film making over the last century will notice how macho western movies tend to be. If these were advertisements for western novels, I would pay one look at a western novel. Those novels would lose money, and the other would be on Food Stamps like I am now.

For example, in Western they had hanging by the neck instead of the guillotine. Apparently the reason behind it was it was cheap and if done right was swift and relatively painless. Let's put arguments pro and anti-death penalty aside (I'm very anti-death penalty if you haven't noticed.) I once had a conversation with a guy on here that hanging wasn't suppose to be either quick or painless. So I have two different people with wildly different ideas of what makes a western, largely thanks to Spaghetti Westerns. So he had this condescending attitude about guillotines in a Western novel.

That is if you don't include how it seems like on some level in American films it was somehow the expectation that women wore very female clothes, even though there isn't anything inherently wrong with women wearing pants and--and yes these existed at the time, though you probably had to have them imported--Birkenstock sandals. Nope they wore basically the same clothes women were expected to wear in the 1950s and 1960s. And that's ignoring the larger culture of female victims needing to be rescued, god forbid a woman actually needed a good hanging herself.

I really really hate comedic relief characters. It didn't totally take away from the games experience for me, but it left a permanent mark for me. It seemed like her entire purpose was to be rescued by the male hero.

Maybe it was self-hate, maybe it was hate for others. But I can't explain it, it was simply me. Your darling the pacer. Imagination is a powerful thing. And I realized I had the power of love and not hate.

I could be with Lenora again.

Make her smile. And so I listen to the song, of the JRPG I used to play as a kid. And try to relive the powerful positive memories I can.

I owe it for Lenora.

Lets Fix The Broken

I was a young upstart with a job and a life, before I lost my girlfriend and my soon to be wife. Instead my new life came to be filled with uncertainty.

I mostly spent time in my room in despair. I had no interest in western programming, yet found myself watching said films out of sheer mental exhaustion and boredom. And there was nothing more nothing more fast and definite than a quick drop of the noose. How ever what I liked about hanging was not the neck breaks, but rather the slow strangulation of thief girls on the wire. They danced around in the air with their little sandaled feet, and sheer ejaculation followed. On some level as long as thief girls were hanged, I could tolerate outdated clothing.

I got a phone call my my lady friend Jan, who lost her pet bunny rabbit named Fran. I used to imagine adventure with Jan and Fran, hopping along in magical worlds fighting various giant apes. Instead I gave her an ill advised platitude do to mental exhaustion, and gave her quick mocking kiss and hung up the phone. I suppose that wasn't the way to maintain friendships.

As strange as it sounds, the Netherlands didn't have beheading. Instead for most crimes punishable by death there was only hanging. So I imagine thief girls dangling their wooden shoes on the wire. I imagined one giving my clog jobs and stomping on my junk for kicks.

I turned off the computer monitor, and imagined my own future as a writer. I had given up the idea of writing children's fantasy. The thing about me was that I tended to be far to cynical for writing children's fiction. I am also a bit of a horn dog for dutch women, Swedish women, and German women. There wasn't anything like imagining them playing with my junk with a pair of Jesus sandals, a pair of Swedish brown leather clogs, and wooden clogs. I spent a large portion of my time looking at shoe play on the wire, a different wire than the one used to hang dutch girls.

I took out my hologram watch I had obtained from an unknown secret agent, who want by a different handle than what their actual name was. And so me and her would talk very occasionally about life and the pursuit of technology. I made sure not to ever talk to her about my kinks. The thing about government agents, as they'll always find you somewhere. They are like stalkers. Only they are legal, and rampant. And the thing about stalking is it's only illegal of someone outside of the government does it. In fact, that's how a lot of crimes tend to be.

Of course they'll never call it stalking.

They are to smooth for that.

So I found myself typing up my new manuscript about something for once outside of my own particular kinks. I found that there was something freeing about going to another world outside of yourself. I find it easier to write middle grade in third person, so I'm not sure how I would revise books that tends to cross over generations. And here I am talking to you about writing rather than actually writing. After all you don't see text on the screen, and I'm not really writing anything. I took a break for the night, and imagined myself having my junk played with my college age German women, and imagined them being paddled by ruthless head masters.

I suppose you call them ... master bait. So the secret agent called me up on the phone, and she asked what I was up to.

"Just finishing up for the night with my new manuscript." I said, quickly popping my junk back into my cargo pants.

"A work of science fiction?" she asked.

"Nope, fantasy."

"For adults?"

"Asking a lot of questions."

"Are you writing for kids?"

"Yes yes yes, yes I am."

"It's just a conversation, be more patient."

She hung up the phone.

Sometimes one gets visceral feelings they can't explain, at others times the reason is one that while other people have become filled with passivity by it, one still holds those extreme feelings by it out of traumas one doesn't explain to other people for fear of being declared an outcast and shamed by it. Worse yet people would attempt to outclass them by going into yelling matches without trying to understand the core reason for someone's feeling.

Hence the problem with social media. Originally not even conceptualized by people in earlier time periods, who were used to sending things by mail, the current networking world makes it easy to sound an asshole. Most of the time it is unclear when people are joking. They attempt to solve the problem by blocking each other, yet often this runs the risk of blocking someone who is joking. And there are other cultures that thrive against this universe of ambiguity, people who hate follow other people and vague blog about them in order to provoke a reaction. We live in a world where people thrive on confusing shock value and art.

I had originally had no intention of publishing my work, I merely wanted to write for myself. I wanted to write about stories that were partially memoirs of real life experiences at fantasy emulations of secondary worlds. All at once when I went to some events, I would feel as if I were lost in a short moment of time. Often my parents would try to take me out of this writing zone. It is to much to describe to some people what this writing zone is. Certainly if I am being honest I barely understand it myself. The most I can describe is as being a meditative zone. And yet when we go on the networking sites, it almost requires a different kind of mindset than what I'm used to as an introvert. And at times if you have something to say that is more than a paragraph, people take you as someone who is ranting about things.

When I was discussing with my secret agent about technology, she wanted me to communicate some of my points in a single sentence, to try to find some way of pitching these into something concise. The term she used was something short into to pitch to people in government office. Suppose I were to go somewhere to get disability, and I needed to tell a psychiatrist what was wrong with me. For me I would often pause and stumble in what I wanted to say. I would often take more time trying to figure out what I want to say rather than figure out whether it makes sense. It had been this way since the beginning of my life.

That's just for disability. Imagine if I were trying to pitch concepts about technology. I have to come up with something short and sweet:

I want psychological profile generator.

I don't mean novel generator, I find it disingenuous for anyone to even propose such a concept, as the implication is almost always a money making scheme. Eliminate the writers, get most of the money for yourself. I want a machine that is able to find patterns inside the human mind. Find what it is that causes triggers inside people, and brings back this impulses in the form of psychiatric imagery in real life using virtual worlds to describe the terrors that fill people's lives. In this way, only through this, can we find out what it is that makes people tick.

But having this technology requires responsibility. I don't necessarily want this technology used in such a way as to justify the government tracking that generally happens in the real world.

Learn to live with kinks if it isn't harming you.

Kinksters certainly aren't harming you. In this way one can truly learn to understand and love each other, rather than focus on war and torment. And yet most of the innovations come through more efficient ways killing each other or brainwashing people. I don't believe this will happen in my lifetime, but there is always hope.

I have my own personal nightmare world, where I constantly relive surviving various types of religious cults, although your own nightmare world is unique to you. But let's create a world where we don't obsess about own miseries except through psychiatric appointments.

Let's create a world where we understand other.

Understanding is a great thing. Sometimes you might find yourself alone in the woods and abandoned roadsides, where monsters come out at night to take away your innocence and idealism. And yet there is a better life, although something side life feel at times unreachable. Somewhere in the dark, there is a flashlight held by some warm and loving person that wants to remove you from the rain. They wan to give you a new life, and remove the profane. And in this rant book one may call life, one can settle down and have a wife.

Your story, my story. Everyone's stories of their lives. Where one can have a warm meal of baked potato and chives. Because there is someone out there who loves you, even if at times it seems like nobody loves you at all. That may not be me, but there is somebody out there for you. And while the psychiatrists may be payed, in many ways psychology is a kind of arcane art form, often unappreciated. While a new science, like the art of fiction before it, often has new innovation in order to improve people's lives. At least fiction used to be this way in the nineteenth century.

Lets create a new world.

Lets fix the broken.

Lenora The Lamb

She hopped about in her little wooden clogs, avoiding the ladders falling in her direction. Her feet hurt just a tad, and would sometimes slip her foot out to rub it do to the ache. Then carefully slid it back in the shoe. Rhonda had been walking all day in her shoes, and was becoming very tired. She arrived at home, and went to her bedroom to let the girls out.

The girls have been locked inside the room of stiff cloth all morning and afternoon, and therefore she figured they needed some air. She then popped open a book to read, but could not stay awake long enough to finish it. Instead she drifted into a long slumber where she dreamed of airships and female sky captains that greeted her. With her upper cloth on of course, for the dream world alway put a shirt on, and in a way it didn't matter whether it was hot or cold in the real world, as it would always be a pleasant temperature that particular night.

The thing about the nature of dream girls sleeping, they show up in our world to exist in the real world. They show up as avatars of their masters fantasies, although some have lost them and they wander in the world searching for new girlfriends. Every now and then some would be totally lost without their masters, and would do something highly illegal that gets their necks locked in a stock, and a sharpened angled blade coming down to slice through their necks. Their locks falling into a basket, the blade sprayed with dark crimson color. Luckily dream girls are unable to die, so beheading is like serving a day in prison for them. Rhonda on the other hand always feared she could die by beheading in the dream world, and kept her nose clean when she could help it. Because she was not a dream girl, for she showed up in the dream world when she slept. And people that were not dream girls do not have infinite lives indeed.

There was once two dream girls that were named after two different species of daffodil, and they were once beheaded multiple times. And so their heads flew into the sky at the tune of nursery rhymes. And other tunes of classical musical, and they would sing to these if only they had vocal chords at the time. Such is the life of darling beautiful dream girls.

The dream world and the waking world were two side of the same reality. The only difference is where women that liked to have fun with their girlfriends on cold winter nights, where they would allow their lovers to pet the girl. They have a special friend they would pat and rub on the head that growled in purring motion whenever you petted her. Rhonda would sometimes meet some of these girls, that would always cause a full body vibration with their purr, and then her whole body would dampen in the rain of the dream world.

Rhonda found one she liked, and stomped her wooden clog on the girl. And that's how she met Lina. So came to be the team who would be known as Rhonda and Lina. Or so my new origin stories for my heroes go.

As soon as I finished the story I wrote, I finished up the night with a good masturbation session to dutch girls dangling from a rope. And then got out my pipe and smoked some dope.

I always had trouble writing children's fiction, even though I preferred it over writing adult fiction. But I would always make my protagonist way to old, among other obvious issues. I would sometimes have to revise it several times just to get it right. But tonight I was ready for a break, and on nights when I wasn't constantly called by the secret agent, I would actually at times get actual rest. Rest for me was something hard to come by. I would often only get five hours of sleep at most, so most of the time I could use the extra bit of rest.

Yet tonight would be at my behest.

I was called by the secret agent again. Always be civil of course, it prevents lawsuits in the long run, and lawsuits are never a good thing.

Not a thing indeed.

The thing about writing fiction, is it changes you. Sometimes that change is for the best, certainly it provides new ways of looking at the world around you. And yet at other times it makes you wish you were never born. It many ways it has made life far to complicated to deal with. For starters, let's go back to when I had first started to write fiction. Mainly for myself.

For the longest time I had weird ideas about fiction for youth. I spent my entire day in my thoughts longing for my lost youth. I always had trouble finding romance, and on some level I never believed finding a date would be possible. It wasn't a matter of not being romantic, to the contrary I am romantic to a fault. In my early twenties I spent my hours when home alone writing poetry while consume wine. I was unsure of what to do with my life, as up to that point I had lied to myself even about my own gender issues. Combined with the fact that I felt I could love to much, my fear had always been that they would feel it was happening to fast.

I withdrew into the fantasy world of my flesh. I consumed porn, many kinds one may thing about among people my age. And yet part of me felt it was some sort of accommodation for not finding love in high school. I started developing an addiction to head ache powders. I need some way to withdraw from my life, and live someone else's life instead. I had previously way to emotionally involved in a video game. It was a science fantasy video game, among many in the series. While my family would always encourage me to turn away from the draw of the game, I found on some level I could withdraw into the lives of treasure hunters and dreamers. Where pretty boys always got the girl, even if the girl died in the process. On some level I found myself romanticizing the idea of the scenario.

And yet it was a time when I went through constant night terrors nightly, and would constantly be effected nightly. I withdrew into fantasy worlds of my own creation, at first trying to make them into video games. If not a pink bow in the hair, I could give her delightful brown hair.

Yet over time my desire to make games was becoming thinner and thinner over time, my own desires to go to poetry and rhyme. I started out as a kind of poet, who longed for the tendency for no love and the tendency to be alone. As I felt that ignoring my own desires could make me feel whole again. I felt that I could maintain some image in my mind of what I found nostalgic, the only hope in my life for entertainment. I lost my interest in watching television, and soon after my desire to play video games. I began to drink two beers a night, double the amount of head ache powder. I wanted to transcend my own body.

I wanted a prosthetic leg. I wanted to be bionic.

I wanted to my mother mind of my own destruction.

At first when I began to write, it was stories about serial killers in space. Then I began to watch stories of alien abductions, having tears on my face. I began to project myself into the lives of characters on the screen. Something that I constantly had trouble with even in real life, except for my own selfishness. I fantasized about the image of the wine class, while taking my G.E.D. class. I found motivation in trying to improve myself, simply for the fact I could finally be out of there I have time to write.

So to the old world I said goodnight.

Yet now here I was living the life of laziness and gluttony, consuming cheap porn and and badly rashing after shave. I began to personify my own destruction.

My own downfall. I still have yet to climb back up.

The thing about the nature of imprinted realities with greater abilities than you, often you'll be in a situation where you can't exactly ask them to stop what they are doing at the moment. Lenora knew that my and hers is life trying to steer a star cruiser away from the sun, most of the crew are men who are sexist, and they find out the last minute the only competent driver is a woman. You exactly take her outside and beheaded like in periods of ancient history, and somehow I doubt even though history actually played out exactly like the movies.

And considered the situation, I was just happy to see Lenora out and about doing her own thing in the world. After all as my brain child I feel it's my responsibility to let her live her life how she wishes to. I had to say child, cause let's be honest, every now and then Lenora would kneel on the floor and give me head. I don't know about you, but I'd rather avoiding thinking about my offspring giving me blowjobs. So Lenora explained to me how she decided to become a secret agent. This may make plans to become a cult investigator all the more precarious.

See you guys later. I hop about, and shout to the world because finally found I went off the social wagon again. Hey, that's how life is you know.

It comes with the territory, as I scout for more adventures.

Adventure in Splinter Cult space.

There is a kind of social stigma, for the men of great enigma. The widow plays her deck of cards, dropping down its giant shard to do more than choke the chickens.

For a homeless person, death row with the widow at the end is merely shelter with a slightly accelerated life expectancy. If there was really was such as social stigma, for the headsmen of great enigma, one wonders why they don't strike fear in the urban dislocated. For indeed, the indentured to life often longs for no life at all. And the great long drop to meet the lady is to long to stay unmarried. For the Lenora, the lady who was once a widow, and found her love at last. At yet if Lenora meets the lady, then what else. Perhaps eternal life of misery and solitude.

This is what I wonder when I meet Lenora, who without my assistance, is attempted to break open the secret of The Widow cult. The cult of lost women, often LGBT, find that together only death shall they achieve true happiness in the night. Lenora felt a slight trickle down her day blouse of baby blue, her bare feet sweating in her Jesus sandals. And she felt a kind of vibration all o'er her body. Lenora wanted to find personal safety and trust in me. Lenora did not want to die all alone. And despite the knowledge that the death of death cancels itself out and she is reborn into a new her, I find myself allowing her to sob tenderly and openly on my shoulder.

"Would you touch me, or are to do scared to touch death?" Lenora asked, taunting me with her sweet smile, hiding the tears of loneliness.

"Where would like to me to be touched?" I asked.

"All o'er my body, down below my belly button. Gradually ripping open my blouse of middle grade fantasy. I want to be somebody besides death, I have found you. You reminded me of what it means to be humans."

And yet I touched death, and lived to tell the tale.

Lenora is no burden to the living, she travels abroad to earn her Shillings and tuppence. She is now boundless, who once came from my own reality. She tap dances to the edge of the Earth.

Lenora can now be Lenora.

Lenora the lamb.

Different Colors Of Bow

PART ONE The Gamer Girl Of Red Bank

It's easy to hate, just lean back; masturbate, think of nothing; just enjoy the show of moving tongues. Easier still, is to judge those, who are unable to trust another enough to love.

Its easier, if all the girls in the world were merely sex dolls; subservient, docile, other words that mean the same thing. Just lean forward, gown down on the Bastille scaffold; wait for that angular blade to take your breath away. But life isn't suicide victim, who paradoxically is also a murderer. We no longer live in a world of wooden clogs, horses pulling plows, and women losing their heads on guillotines. Instead is a world of neon lights, street fights, and night club Saturday nights. It's also easy to give into the flow of intoxicating substances, drowning in memories gone by. But I was not one to go parties, no matter the context. Whether that be for a carnival, a festival, or a fare; all technically different. All essentially words for the same thing. Instead what remains is complete unadulterated fetish, not filtered by beautiful girls from earlier time periods, moving into the present, nor the beautiful flawless cybernetic girl, covered in silicon and fiberglass.

Or the flow of French kisses upon on an Irish girls by Dutch Latinos.

Her words for the French, as for a long time, despite having lived right in the border between, she never could quiet admit to loving French girls. And when she could, it was a different sort of love; a different sort of life. A life not caught up in browsing animation porn. Her personal favorite was different variation of Gore Porn, for the girl the world seems to scorn. The flow of blood from severed necks, flowing like musical notes from a deranged dub step rendition of Bach's Funeral Marches. Or Katana blades swinging aimlessly, without an actual body controlling the blade, likely not knowing a digital rendition of a girl in a pair of wooden shoes and a cotton cap, was even in front it, simply using its sharpness to cut away whatever was in the way.

Pulsation, masturbation. Vibration, nirvana rave. Gothic pornography, haunted cassette tapes. The flow of paintings from another era, representing various methods of decapitation, which was her personal favorite method of execution, like the headless horseman from Sleepy Hollow. Butchered flawless cybernetic princess peaches, sliced open and bled.

There goes her head. There goes another missed rave.

There goes a missing date.

It's easy to imagine humans having difficulty blurring the order in which events happen. A different thing when historical cultures throughout thousands of years of human development, have confused the order in which Creation and the exodus from some fictional Garden Of Eden happened.

In actuality, there was a Bison, that belonged with its own family, among other begot verbiage within the animal kingdom. Humans, in actuality, were as sentient as the animals, with the only advantage being what they could do with their hands. They would create sprawling underground sports stadiums, at times blurring with genetic laboratories. Often the objects of bread and circus would be kidnapped animals from the "old god's kingdom."

However this isn't the story of a world gone by.

This is the story of computer hacker, whom lives in the next generation of humanity's destruction.

My grandmother had lived in an era, in which you could find portable information storage mediums, in the same period in which one may find Japanese samurai. When she would bring different graphics novels for herself to read, back when she was a teenager, often that Asian island would be unsure of what the books were. And yet, simultaneously, would find many readers within the same nation could never never imagine life without the little books. I had a portable storage medium that had went down in size to the level of something one could plug in their smart phone, and she would sometimes get in trouble for taking encrypted versions of pirated music to her classmates. Compare this to the old cartridges that seem to barely fit inside a suitcase.

But there wasn't anything that my principle or teachers could do. My superiors could not break it, and often it was just before my family would go the Beach that Summer. They decided it was a waste of time to send me to Summer school, as my family never made me attend anyway, so they mainly crammed me full of information during the main semesters, so that I could get as good as grades as I could.

At times I would read historical novels, and not historical text books. The difference was in the matter of approach: with textbooks one would merely receive information fed to them, while in a historical novel, one would experience the information first hand, through different people one would meet, in periods I could never visit. Gin never understood why my teachers chose to only assign textbooks.

But I wasn't a teacher.

I preferred computers.

Abuse is one of those things its hard to come to grips with, if you weren't aware of the extent of it at the time. People calling your diaries rant books doesn't generally help. Suppressing your feelings generally does more harm than good. So consider this the diary of me and my inner madness.

I never knew any other way; it was easy, it was life. I hoped to keep my brother's knife, as the blood fell down the floor from the sword to the tiles below the amber lights. Masturbating to mystical fairy gore; severed heads, paddled bottoms, the works. Swords cutting bone and tissue, hearing fairy screams from a megaphone; a sound like crying in one's sleep.

I held up the fairy's head. "Where is my frozen bean and rice burrito." Cage lattes were all the rage, another painfully long age playing the matching game. I was matched with a trophy noggin.

I long time before another latte; I wilted, I shed no tears. Yet I was still crying inside. The fairy girl was quite the hotshot, haughty like all the others. But just a simulation inside of the artificial simulated world, where purple slime was more common than monsoons; the plague the only escape from total misery of the flesh. It was one of those days I did not feel like doing much; I logged out, and cooked me a frozen burrito, or as the Spanish put it, fucking tiny donkeys. Then logged back in. The game was a turn based tactical RPG, with medieval fantasy elements; everything from early firearms to out of place guillotines, the flow of blood coming through my veins like electricity for Edison.

The artificial world had reached a stage of development, where it began to rival people's experiences in the real world. When your father chooses immediate comforts over personal riches, it gets to this point. Most people prefer to pretend to be knights in shining armor, even if the combat mechanics were nothing like using an actual blade. Twirling maniacally, scoring a hit as much out of luck than through sheer skill, comparatively better than watching Russia baiting and porn stars on network television; it's easy to lose yourself when you can be anyone that you want to be. Easy to follow some arbitrary hero's framework engineered by corporate puppeteers. The American empire in decline.

The alien invasion felt like it was yesterday, but now the aliens have used humanity's addiction to their own advantage. The overlords preferring blind obedience than to questioning authority.

I fell into a coma of radioactive screenplays.

Rewinding backwards in time.

The scientist placed me on his examination table, prodding my with his magnifying glass like a mad doctor whose license had been revoked. I tried looking around. Other prisoners were also locked in their cages like animals, and sleeping like dogs. The scientist wondered why I had not yet been conked out as well; Slowly he filled up his needle with some unknown fluid, my arms strapped tightly on the table, as if it were a gurney for those sentenced to death by guillotine; convulsing, shivering; I felt a cold sensation riding down the tube of my spine, mixed with the chill air.

"I've been watching you for some time, I remember your brother, as I felt him slowly dying in my palms." His laugh was closer to the sound of a sawtooth on a tin plate, rather than anything a normal human would make. My vision blacked out slowly, like a blind person staring at bright lights for to long. Visions became dreams, and dreams became nightmares, the tubes of ones heart inadequately pumping blood to the rest of my body. I woke up with a helmet over my head, affixed with wires to the ceiling. Inside the game, I was inside of a cavern. The sounds of rats and bats engaging in their midnight hunt. My body felt heavy, could only move my neck. A fellow player, a rogue with a bow and arrow, along with cigarette papers and a quill pen held out her hand, and escorted me to the palace.

Exhausted, feeling like a mass of lead bowling balls. Self doubt rushing in like a beta reader commenting on a your life being a collection of micro cliche. The plot of unplanned setbacks. I wanted to kill the scientist, but instead I was stuck in a maze of masturbating elf girls, free sex inside the castle walls, which were decorated with solid gold. Any reasonable person knew that if any amount of lightning struck, everyone in the room would be fried. Once the rogue dragged me to the queen, she pushed me down abruptly.

I knew I was stuck in the game.

I didn't need to be executed.

I could be beheaded multiple times at each game over screen, a bloody serrated ax meeting skin and bone.

But now there was no game over.

The game had only begun.

The scientist installed the game software inside of a local area network, so dream-scanners couldn't snoop inside, unless they were using his specific CPU models, and got himself multi-ports with female connections, the players could wander within multiple levels without an escape. Like mental orbital velocity while smoking a joint and swallowing pure LSD. It took many years to create this network of stages, so the legend goes. He used a specialized portable network on a thumb drive, that he could use to determine on my behalf where I would progress to next. If a certain computer is not connected, then that stages would not be available, until Molokai turned on the Ruby script.

Until this, I was stuck inside of an endless loop, gathering experience points from battling monsters many levels below my current strength. Not available to move onto the next boss. While I played, I managed to learn the game's code inside and out, analyzing characters in detail. I had had experience reprogramming old artificial intelligence scripts, and it was tiresome having to replay through the same levels meeting the same old queen. The background music a sad rendition of "I don't want to wait", the Queen having similar damsel in distress fetishes and Princess Peach in the Mario games.

Every AI, at least in Ruby language, always contained within a class: in this case it was a dialogue class with a rogue like skin of cheap @ signs. But do to the nature of virtual reality, instead of an @ sign, it was a remodeling featuring a three dimensional matrix of fake skin and bone, rendered in a home brew variants of open source human anatomy, with limited sets of clothing. Apparently the scientist had no time for specific tailored outfits. Although apparently the current fashion culture was also as if the twentieth century. But I was fairly positive that these characters were different coloration variants of the same crowd in the castle and town. I had no major experience in three dimensional rendering, having mostly drawn old stupid web comics using Charcoal.

When the scientist wasn't looking, I took off my headset. I didn't want him to know I found a way to take it off.

I needed a way to copy over the servers.

Or be caught in the same old loop.

A loop of three dimensional @ signs.

Carefully I took one of the unused wires, used it to snatch a thumb drive off the scientists desk.

I wasn't sure why the scientist would be so stupid as to just leave his thumb drives hanging around. For all I knew, this was all part of his plan. Perhaps he wanted me to evolve at my own pace, but something in me wondered whether he really thought that through, or whether it was another mindless game, like playing reruns of the music video "I don't want to wait". If I was one of the other prisoners, perhaps there wouldn't be a major risk of evolving to quickly, and by that point the scientist himself would have gathered enough experience points to become something like a god in his own mind.

I hated music before.

I hated it even more now.

Placing the game inside my helmet, I transferred all my levels and equipment over to the next series of plot lines. However something was different this time. I had forgotten to wipe out some of the old MC as per the instructions. I met the rogue girl after I had exited the castle after the last quest, who was still wanting to follow along.

But she didn't repeat the same old lines.

"Boring game huh?" she said.

"What makes you say that? And..." I began to ask, wondering to finish my other question about how she knew how I felt.

"At least with you, you're still not converted. There is still a part of you that is still human, despite the tortures of the flesh. And yet for me, I was not always an AI."

I wasn't sure what she was implying.

But for now I wanted to act as if nothing changed.

Day came and went, nightfall.

As I played the game, outside the game, I could hear the sounds of some chained up creature inside of the halls. It sounded like no animal that I was familiar with. I wondered if it was one of the alien invaders that the military was able to capture, feeding it some of their malcontents. The scientist, I could hear him speaking, almost in a chant, but I wasn't quite sure what the specific words were. The creatures words were in a tongue I also could not recognize. The rogue girl snapped me back to attention, and reminded me were were being surrounded by a group of giant spiders.

She shot the one behind me with a crossbow, while I attacked the remaining forces forces with a falx. The falx was a special type of two handed sword, the Eastern European equivalent to the Japanese Katana, except this one predated it by a matter of centuries, back when the Roman Empire was still barely clinging to life. The Romans had to double the size of their helmets in order to properly protect themselves from the onslaught. It carried most of its power in the weight of the inward curved blade. In contrast, the Japanese Katana was much lighter, and designed to bend rather than snap in half. A sword could easily be bent back into shape, but fixing a snapped blade was much harder. But Spiders armor was nothing like Roman armor, having more in common with Arachnids, with an external skeletons. They crawled about in a kind of hive mind. The skeleton was almost metallic looking, unlike the spiders that I had seen in the flesh.

The arrows the rogue girl kept firing would only bounce off the armor, despite the crossbow being many times more powerful than a longbow, having more in common with early firearms, but with significantly more accuracy than the hand canon that were given out to infantry men during various medieval wars. I had the chance to try out some of the head canons, but it just wasn't the same as trying to fire multiple arrows at once. So I kept to mainly chopping off limbs of different attacking creatures until I reached th boss.

Nightfall looms.

It was a distant memory.

I embedded the steganography key inside a .jpg file. The image, located inside a specially created folder, keeping the key used to encrypt and decrypt the message completely secret. But this wasn't a venture into using one time material, as it was a different kind of cipher. One that's reciprocal with the correct user name, but a regular Caesar cipher to those uninitiated. Consider the rot13 cipher, completely insecure to those who know how it's encrypted, but really not even encrypted at all. The true major problem was not being able to encrypt the same cipher text more than once.

On the other hand, if you created a special kind of rot13 assigned to a specific user name, then you can give your friend your user name rot13 modification, and they can give you theirs. This was as much as she could socially manage, she had her reasons.

When I go through life feeling like a bad comedy skit on Argentinian television programming, the only foreigner in the room, the only way to cope with it is to lash out in self-defense. When all the world's humor was directed at one's personal expense, like opening a twelve gauge shotgun, loading it with arsenic laced pellet bullets. Shooting it a oneself in all directions, aiming toward one's central essence, scattering into millions of pieces.

It was when my last friend who entered into the television business, where there was a sense of cultural acceptability of discussing subjects related to murder of a political figure.

Generally under the guise of a school boy's fart joke. Do to Spain being their conquerors, the target was generally the Spanish Queen. But I supposed this was much better than being cooped up in a lodge just outside of Chattanooga, purchasing old fashioned android smart phone shades. I had thoughts of myself as an extreme anarchist, but tended to quickly buckle under pressure. But the way I tend to buckle under pressure, is slicing open a rival's cheek with a serrated and slightly blunted falx blade.

It didn't help that most people I know here didn't speak a word of French, and I had wanted to stop speaking English as soon as I moved out of Trump's America. Truth be told, I hated conflict. Leaving behind years of unwritten history in my wake. Wanting each page from my own past completely wiped. Being apprehended by a Totalitarian government was not much of a deterrent.

If felt like you didn't have a life at all.

I was an alien in my own skin, for more reasons than just being trans female. Life was a flavor of cheap ass Comet cleaner, carefully vomited out by drinking lots of bottled water. Unsure how much of the poison still flowed inside my veins, I didn't feel like discussing the matter with my extended relationships across the United States. It was difficult enough for me to get them to accept my moving to another state without any prior warning, swallowing what felt like a bottle of anti-depressants to mask the feelings of my own dysphoria. My own personal circumstances were different from most, with what seemed like most of my old friends from my old life participating mindlessly in protest movement the state wants on to pay attention to. But she was another minority.

Growing up, it wasn't simply a matter of being sensitive to light, staying up long past midnight. Carefully combing my long black hair. Spending most days wandering through endlessly looping mazes in my VR cardboard headset, I found it as a way to distract from my endless supply of apparently false memories. There was much of her life she still didn't want to write about, but some of it would accidentally get leaked out do to authorial carelessness.

But sometimes it feels like ones life isn't there.

Like it wasn't even real.

Revealing some of my own inner desires, attracting the attention of the audience that I never wanted, if not outright dreaded: teenagers that liked to pretend to belong to the Gothic sub culture. For my own self-worth, it wasn't a matter of being or dressing goth.

It was sexual attraction to blood. The blood flowing through one's veins. Yet here I was now, masturbating to flying princess heads like it's going out of style, just another way to pass the time like playing football, or solving Sudoku puzzles. I cut through human bone like it was nothing. Mirages splitting into human jigsaws, blue and green blood spilling on my face like cheap fireworks.

It was as if I never was good at all.

My life, my fall.

My oblivion.

That estranged life.

The midnight forest songbirds singing, hear the raindrop pinging. Hear the sounds of crying crickets, within the woods and thicket. That long for night to never end. Even as one glides through darkness, invisible, one remains seen as a silhouette through life. The little rain droplets in the air, pouring. The old bedtime stories, with grandmother's snoring. If only the old fairy tales remained, and the superstitions of fairies remained. Yet the technology we know and consider dear, has removed much of this mystery, yet what remains behind are remnants of their old society.

They are waiting.

They long for blood. Ghost stories hidden within wires of encoded text, scrawled on encrypted web pages using public key cryptography, waiting for one bug, exploited by the invisibles in society, in order to steal people's financial data. They commit crimes for attention, because they don't want to admit to themselves they nobody cares about them anymore.

Their way of crying out.

Their way to know they're not dead. I could have become one of the lost ones, yet found that the very nature of her fragile friendships, made it such that she always narrowly avoided a life of crime and homelessness. It was a fragile and superficial veneer, one that could break into millions of little pieces at any moment. She dreams of vampires following her, yet by day it is as if they aren't there. Yet they speak in riddles to her, calling her name. And at times she considered sending herself to a ward.

Yet her visions were like a perpetual early condition of psychic tumors, never showing up for the radiation treatment. But always on the verge of perpetual migraines.

I felt out of place in society.

Yet even more in myself.

It was as if I didn't exist.

Adulthood is only an age, if one defined it as by the time one reached eighteen. Yet for so many often people still struggle to find themselves long after high school. If they represented society, the US would raise the age to drink to age thirty five, the match the current issue of people living with their parents for a longer period of time.

That's not to say that more government is a good thing.

Bare in mind, in this same world, often political activities would be pummeled by maces, among other instruments of misery and masochism. Mixed with a certain level of ubiquitous neo-Nazism, one could assume the only person worth governing anything about their lives is themselves, and when one can't even trust that, it leads to a degree of morbid appreciation for the control in complete chaos and disarray. For Gin, she was this disarray, she was the virus that could bring order to society. By first helping herself.

But tonight was different.

I was helpless.

I was fatigued.

Nightly river flow flowing along winter snow. Rain drops falling. The mountain snow falls, falling falling slow. Cherry trees burning hot. Since midnight, chimney hot. Farewell to midnight. The elves knocking down the chimney, falling. Demons from river sticks. The gremlins carve the girls wooden shoes, while humming supernatural midnight blues. Some say its a reward for a season. Yet in truth, we may not know the reason. For the clogs by the chimney bricks dusted by tools so ancient and rusted dusting the clogging, have burn marks in a spiral. Some say it matches a galactic design.

Yet in truth it may be stranger than divine. For though the children play, they are not working. For the Winter Season disables exiting lodging. Night terrors know no season release. Instead one waits for the hot Summer grease. It is easy to live alone. The mountain snow falls, falling falling slow. Cherry trees burning hot since midnight, chimney hot. Farewell to midnight starlight.

The midnight call into another fantasy story, reeks of erotic release.

Yet the release is faint and subtle, yet so near.

With this I thought, whether anyone has considered the feelings of the thumb drive, constantly being beat up inside an envelope, until it reaches its destination. Not a fairy, not an elf, but the closest thing to living swine. One of her least pleasant readers, who send cash for yet another subscription.

I wanted to crush the thumb drive with her clogs.

The rogue girl was one of those women, no matter how many times you tried showing her evidence of something, she would stick by her opinion no matter what. A certain level of faithfulness generally unmatched by most intelligent people. But the Internet has made it such that it's easy for these people whom spout statements without evidence, to proliferate their opinions to the unthinking masses. But for time being, this was a skill that I was able to exploit when trying to find a way toward the end of the game.

She was able to avoid attracting the suspicion of different incarnations of the Queen, in different iterations, in different fantasy worlds: from Ancient Egypt to modern day France. Reality crumbling each level or so, like floating platformer stair cases. She was able to take me to different hidden mini-game I never thought to explore before. And in doing so, I was able to get many of the thumb drives that prevent our progression. At first it seemed like the end of this madness was near, and I could finally reach the key that could release me from this cell, and finally put an end to this madness. However as I reached the final boss, the Rogue girl stabbed my MC in the back, literally and figuratively. It took work to finally take her down, her having benefited from the countless hours of level up in different fantasy dungeons in various chapters.

Eventually as I was able to escape, she tried following me, but I pushed her into a garbage can, and let the guards find her decapitated corpse. Carefully I mopped the floor to hide evidence of blood, along the semen that had excreted out of my lady parts.

If there was any point where I reconsidered having murdered her, that opportunity was not gone.

She became food for indescribable creatures.

But for me, I was able to regroup my senses. And then carefully avoid detection until I could locate the office of the scientist. Slowly, without dripping blood anywhere. Eventually, I lock picked the scientist's office. But as it turned out, the scientist wasn't there.

I find a net of robe get thrust-ed upon me by a guard I did not manage to knock out cold. There was a sleep agent that filled the room, and soon everything became silent.

I hard voices in darkness.

The darkness became a pit.

That time I was fed to an alien.

But instead of being digested, I was able to cut myself out of its body, killing it with no pleasure. After being surrounded by the guards, I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I cut their heads off.

Now as I have Molokai cornered, I don't give him the chance to recount the ultimate plan he had. I didn't need to, as I had the notebook in my hands that sketched out all the local area networks that connected various computers. I used the master password to free the remaining prisoners, who were all in a daze wondering what the hell happened.

Molokai was dead, I shot him in the head.

I fed his body to the surviving baby Alien, the offspring of the one that tried to eat me. Then on our group had a new pet.

It had a taste for smart people.

And I saw lots of smart people.

The remains of the old military base floor was covered in blood, and I washed my hands about the filth that made my life a living hell for the last few months. But the song that went "I don't want to wait" kept playing in my head, like a toxic ear worm, and I had enough.

"Guys, let's get out of here."

"Come on", said a voice in the distance. A silhouette of a rogue girl, who looked like the one I knew in the game. Her body rebuilt from rusty robot parts. "Lets go guys, place is going to blow."

"I thought you..."

"Shush now, lets enjoy our freedom. Besides, I need myself some new robotic arms and legs."

5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Game Over.

That was how I got tinnitus, the song "I don't want to wait" playing forever and ever till the end of time. But the rogue girl had her own Flamenco, playing softly in our bed, which somewhat drowned out the noise. The rest of the story followed after. But all you need to know is this.

She blew me off, then blew me on.

And now I have things going on.

I just wish the music could stop.

When I returned home from Italy, things were never the same. Life bones you like a python. I woke up that morning with a spider bite, yet I didn't call my mother. It was no use, as she had been dead for a decade.

Regarding the spider, I thought of it in the same way, human teenagers, thought of dildos and condoms. With my pet snake in my bed, it wrapped its tale around my legs like a mouse caught playing a deadly game of cage wheel. My house was made of neon infused tumbleweed, as I stared into the metro sprawl ahead of me, with the same level of disdain, Hitler had for Jews, and Stalin had for the human race. For those who don't know me, they might think I'm I was bound to snap at a cop someday, and while it would never be a cop, there was not entirely far from the truth. But it would never be a cop, but rather a pimp. Scales, my lovely pet, would wrap itself gently around the curves of my body, its skin the same color as Mexican sand. I wanted to see the world burn.

Yet the faster I walked, pursuing my revenge, for the man whom had sold me into slavery, the more the land of rising sun seemed to move one hundred miles further away than I had calculated. At one point, it seemed as far away as the Moon was to Bangkok. My pet snake, Scales, was my gift from Thailand, after my mother had returned home from the states. At one point I wanted let it wrap itself around my neck, and have it let-her-rip. But the lizard did not eat junk food, preferring home raised paranoid fish.

To the snake, I was essentially carp.

Bone inedible; desirable only for lowly men.

I covered myself in a home made tarp, waited to die. But the snake was hungry for my flesh, but wanted me alive during the process; it would crush my limbs, tickle the bones, gulping at my memories of earlier days, scrounging for scraps of bread on the street. Waiting calmly for oblivion, I thought of the time that I had turned a century plus three years.

She much for rot and tumbleweed.

Memory was all I had besides Scales, and a part of me still wanted to return to Italy, despite not knowing the language. I had mistakenly assumed it was similar to learning French. I didn't pay attention to warning signs, like generic Tomato Sauce jars with mediocre Italian names. I thought life would not continue, as least not as it was. After a month I'd month up a lung, die of smoking. But do to my regenerative gene, it grew back in a ween. Somewhat like a curse, a song of a life living between Purgatory and Hell. Singing like an angel in my blood, but only at an estranged aunt's funeral.

My genes used themselves as a pee pot, spraying its matter reject, and giving my an excess of dead skin that gradually withers away into nothingness. Like an unbuckled passenger inside a SR-71 Blackbird, if the lack of oxygen didn't get you, the sudden stop will. And your stop was in a city, meeting the seven deadliest of sin, and none of the ones taught of in Biblical verse. I lived in my own micro-universe, my own bubble called life.

Crushed by gravitation inertia, taunted by its aunt Bertha.

Tossed out from the old life to the next.

My family regarded me in the same way as a prostitute grown in a vat, so it was easy to get into that line of business on my return trip. Life heading toward its sudden end, on Purgatory Road. When you're strapped for cash, and completely emotionally obliterated, it was easy to slash one's neck with a swiss army knife, the same dull blade one used for their charcoal sticks to sketch away varying pages of unmarketibility.

I supposed it was better than going Dutch.

Or being German, and having them throw shit in my face. While treating their inhuman monsters as beneath the human race. All that would be to much to swallow, to much not to ignore, especially when not drowned in scenes of Duck Dynasty, and other circus of Bread and hunting. One never thought a cross bow would be more silent and humane, as murder was about the spectacle, like gladiator in an arena of death of decay.

All I could do, was enjoy the hologram sky beaming with illusionary grocery stores and walk in malls in my virtual reality head set, taking a bet when I'll gradually lose blood to my face.

Beneath the human race, I fell.

I fainted.

My mother, when visiting the Netherlands, purchased me a pair of wooden clogs, that were the only things that lasted beyond anything else I ever loaned. But they reminded me of Europe, which I had grown to despise. Not for the Free and Open Source software culture, but the general animosity any American might have, despite not having voted for an Authoritarian Republican/Democrat, being more Libertarian of inclination.

All their morality masturbation.

All their ability to get away with murder.

All the fault of my own.

Mom shipped it by a sneaker net vending machine orb. And in receiving, I thought only of Western imperialism, humanity's dismay and perverse pleasure. One might get a feeling from receiving a pulp manga, brainstormed from some Greek god's orgasm, mixed with a dose of gasoline lit cocaine burned by a flame gun. I felt like I tripped over a duck reading it.

For someone whose only sex was with untamed snakes, and the unruliest of men, there was something heralding at this bizarre form of escape. But was difficult to finish. As my mind was not a god's sperm. My Auburn rose skin was silky smooth, as I slept in my sand bed, waiting to be murdered by falling space debris. With today not my lucky day.

I got a call from my old employer.

After chatting, I hung up.

There are two kinds of stiffs; a hard cock, or a zombie. I was never absolutely certain which of these was my old boss. I was 102, wearing my wooden shoes; physically eighteen, I lived through the crash of 08, depression a wicked step sister who liked to masturbate to the corpse that was the American empire. I got a job as a bed maker for bad story lines by sadistic play writers, in cheap shit performances of tap dancing to some bastardization of "The Cup Song", made dub step and electric, in penny dreadful vending machines. The plots replaced by Russian Cossacks, and serializations of Vladimir Putin politique selects. I came from a another life, hoping for something different from this life. I outlived most of my cousins and family, whom I affectionately calls "Cock Sins."

When I put a bullet in my old Boss's head, I was expecting him to die. Instead they recycled me, disposing of my organic flesh, uploading me into a database of misery.

And now here I am, waiting for a new life.

Outside of the machine.

It was always a difficult topic to discuss sex: the topic of sex had been inexplicably and permanently tied to a distortion of punishment and reward. The punishment, at times, blending with reward in time when they did not have the opposite of meaning. An ex room mate asking one about their desires, and then engaging in the shame and ridicule of expressing those core desires. So the topic of expressing ones fetishes were tied toward thinking one might be sexually assaulting. The person was one of many lovers she had, others only merely talking about sex. But it was a room mate that would effect me for the rest of my life, and now I avoid certain words--blurring them out, because I'm not sure who mate anally penetrate me in order to humiliate me inside of a grime ridden motel room. And every night, not getting any sleep.

Always longing for death.

And a demise that never came.

For me, it also became tied together with being blamed for attempted suicide, and self-punishment. The punishment of poisoning oneself on ones missed birthday party, drinking drainage cleaner like it was chocolate, the feeling of your inner tubes melting and receding into nothing, a burning sensation blending with the most intense feelings of Francophobia. And your room mate never taking responsibility for it.

All merely for talking about wooden shoes.

All merely for talking about guillotine and pillories.

When the nearest adult sex store was just downtown, and the only reason you couldn't give them your business, was do to negative associations that had nothing to do with them, but how an ex spends on your money on tobacco, and lecturing you about ending it all.

This was my life.

My story. My vampire life.

My blood fetish.

There is nothing like sharing pussies in discord, however how the word pussies might be interpreted will largely depend on whether you have a dirty mind or whether you have a clean mind. Sometimes, with certain kinds of people, this can get blurry. Generally they call them furies. But otherwise, it usually falls down to whether the pussy is a vagina or a cat. Certainly, I've been in chat rooms where trans ladies showed off their brand new pussies. But in most cases it's lady friends showing off their pet cats.

When I would hang out in the chat servers of different IRC channels for Ink blazers (a.k.a manga magazine), I would chat to various people in the graphic novel industry. As the artist type, the stereotype often is that you like to keep support animals. For me, and the few I hung out with after the regular chat, they wanted to show me their cats. I'm definitely a huge fan of cats, as I'm currently wearing a kitty tee shirt, gray sweat pants, and a pair of Birkenstock clogs, going outside for a smoke at two thirty AM waiting slowly for the sun to come up, so I can begin my daily routine. But later on, I would switch to Discord, which now currently is replacing skype in a lot of the areas that were largely their domain instead of Discords.

I haven't talk to this one graphic novelist in a while, though she's often busy learning to design tattoos. We got to know each other, in that span of a year, more than I can really say about my two exes, one a brief boyfriend (to much for me to go into here now), and an aromantic grand theft transgender thief. She was one of the few I knew that I was relatively certain was not a sociopath, although certainly we both had our own share of other mental illnesses, I also wont go into here. In school I would meet people briefly, then disappear to classroom obligations, even (if not especially) for classes that I cared for the least. I found this was easier than coming out as a trans woman. I lived in the area around Middle Tennessee, that was not the most enlightened in terms of trans issues. You could say all of Tennessee was that way.

But supposedly Nashville was better about this.

If better meant more people asking if you were male or female. Can you imagine if I told them about my other issues? Which I wouldn't anyway, the question is if I did. I've had the tendency to internalize a lot of my issues, so it was easy to let fucked up things that happened to be blow up at me, at least initially, until I couldn't take it anymore. This isn't so much of a teenager thing, as it was my thing.

But this isn't like hanging out with a group of trans friends asking you what your genetic heritage was. I suppose Hitler was a half Jew, and apparently didn't stop him from hating Jews. At 512th French, with some ambiguity of heritages on my dad's side, there wasn't any reason I could not conceivably had the French. I'm a Francophile in a lot of ways, especially these days. But that still makes France little better than Saudi Arabia beheading people, even the Franks stopped the practice in eighty one. Hey Franks, turn your victims to Mecca's direction.

At least Spain has some Flamenco and Enchenda lyrical rhythm.

Yet your own beheading doesn't flow like the rhythm of Beethoven's symphony, at best only matching the musical quality Paganini, which is more Italian than anything else. I'm in another one of those wind up phases, internalizing so many of the memories of things that happened to me in the past. Sometimes it's not entirely something I can help. But at least I wasn't living with my parent again, and also not Katy.

I can't imagine what it would be like to live with kin.

I'd rather avoid those memories again.

When your back home from Washington, having bolted suddenly from your home state, it's difficult to become attached to your old state, which felt like an oppressive environment.

It's easy to blame yourself when you don't have anything else besides missing memories, and kink shaming. In particular, it was only recently I was willing to even admit to myself some of my sexual fantasies, because of all the superficial preaching against it growing up. Yet there were always signs I would be like one of my main characters: fragmented, sex addicted, yet paradoxically avoiding human contact. I only want the best for people, so it messes with your head when your compared to Hitler at the age of eight.

This was hardly a unique thing, as I went through much of my life being blamed for things I didn't do, or at times acting out against my abusers. In third grade I was molested by two older boys on a school bus, around Franklin, Tennessee. At the time I was going to a private school that only recently has moved locations. Mom says it has to do with money and finances, but this is closer to a symptom rather than the cause.

These were the cases where I was actually explicitly touched. But all these seemed to have somewhat marked me as a victim throughout my life.

When people criticize the Roman Catholic schools, I'm often left wondering where this person has been throughout life. Certainly not growing up around middle Tennessee. At this school, while it wasn't an alternative school in the sense of going there for misbehavior, practice it was much like this: much of the people I knew either had tattoos despite being twelve. Which might seem like a Libertarians dream come true. But often I would be largely the only one called out for not paying attention in class. The times I could focus, were marked with a contempt for the flesh.

In the bathroom, when I was trying to go empty myself, there was a boy in seventh grade that wanted me to blow his penis. I tried mentioning the issue with the teachers I had at the time, but most of what punishment he got was a slap on the wrist. Not that this isn't a Catholic school, or wasn't at the time that I had went there. But later on half the school, before they would move to a smaller location, had become a Catholic church. Which happened to also be the area where in the library, we would do yoga. Thus I developed the association of sex abuse, yoga, and Catholicism being interconnected, like as would later become my other obsession: Abstraction, Obscuring, and Reachability. I found that there was nobody I could discuss my issues with, so I was left internalizing everything.

I thought fifth grade would be a break.

But it was the beginning of my anarchism.

It was the year I would begin fifth grade. Generally you might think most kids were raised on Saturday morning television, although certainly I was raised on quite a bit of it. Along with being able to ride a neighbors four wheeler into the forest behind our house. This was before it would become a horse stable.

Before I moved I moved onto fifth grade, I had ran away from home because I felt like I could not really relate to my parents, although at the time it was merely because I felt it might be fun. I wanted to leave this world behind, ride the river downstream, and come back home. Instead my parents called the cops, because they thought I was kidnapped, and was pretty much spanked with a belt to more times than I could remember. It was almost like they were trying to make a point. Even today I brought it up to them, they would deny it and say that the belting never happened. This would be a continual pattern throughout my life.

In one of the teacher's class, he didn't really have a whole lot of experience dealing with kids with mental health issues and other "learning disabilities", he was unsure how to take me playing air guitar in front of one of the girls I knew in school, that told me she was a black Spanish girl, whose grandfather came from Spain during the Franco era. So my first month was marked with changing home rooms, not really knowing what was going on. This would later repeat in my ninth grade year when it was recommended I'd get out of nursing, and switch to legal class in high school. Once is one thing, twice is an administrative catastrophe. But after that I would mark the rest of the year remembering the rigged system that allowed for things like perfect attendance and honor roll. And reading books in fifth grade like Blood And Chocolate, in actuality a YA novel. I remembered one passage about the MC talking about how it would be hard to kill herself by hanging, because the neck wouldn't always snap.

I was honor roll alright.

Honor roll out of this life.

The Spanish language in general, in contrast to French, had a considerable amount of negative associations with it, but generally the issue to me was the language itself, and not the people who spoke it. I met this one Mexican girl in special ed, who was as sweet as can be. I loved the hell out of her really, but I was so stuck inside myself it was hard to really interact much. I was stuck in a bubble of iron, wires, and laser gun rapid fire. Wanting to become part of a galactic federation of Space pirate rather than focus on the real world. I had the tendency to let my mind wonder.

Negative associations with Spanish would continue in high school, permanently effecting the learning choices that I would make. I had much more fond feelings of the French language in general. But this was around the time I had developed some of my own kink, related to blood and gore. Spilling on the floor like Bethoven's sympathy and Bach's harpsichord. In general I was able to distract myself with games like Final Fantasy 6 and 7. But no matter what, there was no escaping my own feelings about seeing blood. Combine this with having watch Legend Of Galgameth, and other issues where I knew in reality a princess just isn't going to be rescued for anything, even if she had her junk ripped out and entries removed.

Around this time, I would have dreams of shadow people on the wall. Following me, I was unsure of they were real or all part of a massive dream. I had the tendency to sleep walk for a while, and when I was awake, enhance the negative about everything.

When I met Tommy, I wont mention his last name, he came out in such a fashion that it felt like a blessing at the time. Turning one's life on what felt like a dime, it was easy to forget about my own fantasies, and focus on the few friendships I was able to maintain, despite being outcast from the goths, emos, and punk.

I never could attach myself to a label, I was simply trying to make it through. I found my solace in Cyberpunk novels, and science fiction graphic novels. I also stopped watching Bill and Ted finally around the same time, with issues that would follow me through out life.

There was Tom and Tony.

They were my Bill and Ted.

Eventually after high school, I met this one guy on line that really wanted to see me naked. With all the association in place, already he was making me extremely uncomfortable. I tried telling Tommy about it, and he said he was surprised Todd was even gay. It wasn't long after that I came out to Tommy as being trans, and he didn't quite believe it. But being trans isn't something that just comes out of the blue, it's something that's always been there, waiting, haunting you. Heading in your direction like a speeding train running at super luminal velocity. Later he himself would stop talking to me.

I read on the news a story that would later make him have to sign up for the sex offender registry, and I knew it was pretty much hopeless at point to really find a friend that was normal. Tony would always cut Tommy off, and sign up for the armed forces, the American Empire of dominance and control. The easiest thing was to lock myself into the closet, take out a swiss army knife, and begin cutting myself. But I was always to much of a coward to really cut deeply, whether that was in me or anyone else.

Ken saw this in me, so it was easy to grasp onto someone that he perceived as weak. I started losing a bunch of weight when I met him, and also had some of my money stolen from me indirectly by purchasing a negative ion generator, under the idea that it would allow my sinuses to clear up, as this had been a recurring issue throughout my life.

I finally left the UFO cult, when I overheard a conversation, about how pedophilia was not technically against the Billy Meier material.

I left, I bled, I fainted.

I gave in to the darkest fantasy of the self.

You never can guess what kind of movies your best friends will want to watch, whether it's Anime Video Hell, where I could have sworn there was a blond yuri couple of hot chicks in gray Birkenstocks. But memory is of such a nature that sometimes what you remember did not happen quite in the same way you first envisioned. At Tommy's house, we would hang out with Ashley and Megan, watching Japanese horror movies, or play various Japanese role playing games. My friends played a lot of fighting games, but for various reasons, to extensive to go into here, I was never huge fan of the genre. Instead I spent most days browsing the pages of True Crime novels, researching different serial killers.

It was one of those interests, I wont make any excuses. For me it was as close and dear as the Sunday morning football game, and I would lock myself in my bedroom. So things like having you go to your room stopped having much of a purpose after a while, so eventually they wanted me outside the room. I have various old sketches I drew over the years, that I still need to get framed. I also have a giant sword collection from when I went to the Renaissance fare. I only went a few times, but only went there to buy swords.

I think if I went again, I'd probably look for dresses women wear, when they're about to get their heads chopped off with an ax.

I tried doing a free on line message board, but this eventually was deleted do to inactivity. Over the next few years I decided I was tired of message boards, and focused on social control media.

But even that's a sham, honestly.

We live in a time when we can't write a diary, without mentioning smart-phones and tablets. We're also seeing the decline of once popular social network, such as Facebook becoming like Myspace.

But even decentralized social networks would occasionally become scarcely populated. When your country is stuck in multiple wars over seas, it's difficult not to think of one's life as a science fiction novel. Although I don't think most science fiction novels have a MC who masturbates to Guro on various porn sites. I wont mention any specific websites, as I have no idea who may be reading this diary, and some of the porn I look at, I wouldn't exactly want to pass on. Even if watching heads fall off were completely harmless.

I once met a girl on Mastodon, who I assume could mow her lawn. Instead she rides a swing set, when the day has come and gone. Black hair falling down to her shoulders, closer to what I had originally thought French girls looked like, but apparently she's a Romanian in Berlin. With skin the shade of ivory, like murdered elephants turned into furniture for Oligarchs.

But back in high school, I was still getting used to having a laptop. I was one of those late bloomers that took a while to get one, and when I did I liked porn so much it was virtually impossible not to have to wipe the hard drive at some point, because of thirty two Trojan viruses, named after the espionage mission in ancient Greece during the Iliad. That was one of those movies, like Legend Of Galgameth before, where decapitation grew on me. Yet another subverted death sentence, poor sword who is just trying to make it through.

But this isn't a blog about breaking skin.

Or getting the hose again.

This isn't a transgender autobiography, in the sense that the point is my trans status, so much as to highlight one of many other issues that made it difficult to form long term friendships. Combine with my sexual fantasy of blood and severed heads, I knew that it was a matter of time before people would find out. And yet I kept hiding and avoiding being the real me.

On my twenty sixth year, I was kidnapped, and had 1.3 grand vanish from my bank account. Not be coercion, but because of the legitimate believe that Katy would take better care of me than my parents. I'd like to think that wasn't true, but I think in truth the only one who has my best interest is me. I would spend my birthday consuming comet like it was birthday could, lying on the floor in agony. It was the first time I attempted suicide, when Katy, instead of trying to talk through my issues, felt it was better to lecture me and be angry. I tried poisoning myself again, because I was under the idea that people that had fantasies of such a nature were not fit for this world. I wanted to save the world from myself.

Even now, I still remember how Katy would constantly argue with me, and keep me from sleeping soundly at night. There was never sex when I wanted it, which was pretty much never, at least not with her. But she would every night anally penetrate me like I was just someone's sex doll.

She thought she had it all.

Even now I try to suppress my memories, especially of the time when I would have headless alien women come out of my closet, and have sex with me while I was in bed. I would run through a never ending forest of vampires and teeth. I felt I had been through death and back. Running, I arrived in my own personal gothic kingdom of skull-fairies and death elves.

I was queen of the midnight forest.

It had no engine, it simply didn't need one. It rode along the wind as long as it could, and could glide long enough to reach the next air current. Because of its shape, it could get to the next air current in short order. With almost no tail, and a tail that did exist was twin shaped, it got most of its glide from its flying wing design, carefully angled downward. When there wasn't wind, it's gravity motion allowed it to change the direction of gravity. The very edges of its wings angled upward, so as to balance the craft. If one changed the directional flow of its wings, you could even raise or lower its altitude. Unlike a train, that only flows with a predetermined set of rails, one could fly anywhere they wanted. Attach balloons at the bottom, and one could hover in the air indefinitely. Down in the desert below, were various towns along the river.

These peoples had distinct languages, however for the most part were mutually comprehensible to a large percentage. You had the sea people, who lived along the shore. Their neighbors, the mountain peoples, lived in normal log cabins. The exterior walls were solidified by a layer of clay, with a dome at the table in order to allow for rain to flow down gently. Most of the time people stayed inside, do to the rain; torrential, it seemed to flow as if without stop. In the previous age, there were sky scrapers that reached the stars, however this was scarcely within the memory of those that live in this age, who dined primarily on the desert arachnids, and the dark colored beans they could grow. Beans in this climate, seemed almost the only thing that could grow consistently.

After going through a lifetime of eating them, one gets used to them without having to worry about farting. But the farts that did occur, were recycled in a ready supply of methane used for the adobe stoves those whom cooked for their households used to break flat breads.

At least according to this gamer manual, but lets get real, when you're playing with a group of friends on a Saturday night, drinking a six pack per person, who really focuses on such drivel? The only thing interesting was the gliders, and that was only because certain missions and campaigns allowed one to shoot down other gliders with laser beams, despite it being set in a post apocalyptic landscape that shouldn't have such technology. For the groups playing week by week, night by night, the game could have easily be set inside of a deep cave, and having to swim to the top. But most of them were not into the sort of game play that was randomly picked from a list.

I had to sneak extra items on campaigns, even though it was generally agreed within the group that we would use our items sparingly, for when we would encounter main zombie bosses, and other creatures of more apparent importance than the standard enemy in Japanese Role Playing Games. It was easy for us to get absorbed into the sessions, as the virtual reality head set had simply become lighter, and now it was stiffer than a diamond, yet lighter than a piece of paper. Designed thick so as not to be so brittle, that if it dropped from your face, it would bust and shatter. Simply use enough glue from a glue stick or a supply of liquid Scotch, and your VR honey will ask you if she can suck your dick for the rest of the week. That was why it was very rare for me to want to exit out of my Veer headset. I had gotten a room from one of her old fellow prostitutes, one who had also used her shotgun on her ex pimp. The particular crime surprisingly common in these parts.

Murders that would rarely get prosecuted, and when they were, the people capturing them would be murdered before the cops got the chance to take them to death row, before having their heads taken off by Guillotine. Scales, my pet snake, was snoring on our leather couch in the living room, thinking of girls playing soccer, in cheap early 2000s era console games, that were little more than fling fare for those sexually inclined.

Sleeping, it yawned.

It was as if scales wasn't there.

I woke up that night, combing the knots out of my hair, slipped into my Birkenstock clogs, slipped on my virtual reality headset. But when I tried playing the game, something was different. It seemed like the sounds I normally heard in the game were coming from my surprisingly kept bedroom. I thought of asking her room mate if she was playing a campaign with the others. But decided to simply play along, as if nothing major was happening inside the flat. No changes in the nature of time and space.

The levels I ground through flowed like usual. I was inside of an ice cavern. At first she I thought her mind was playing tricks on me as it completely surrounded my vision, but I knew that people tended to hallucinate do to network/gaming addiction. But I didn't realize it could be so pronounced. The vision slipped away in the blink of an eye.

I wanted to take the headset to the script doctor.

However he wasn't so much of a doctor, as a voodoo programmer, in neon dreadlocks, consuming peanut butter and banana chocolate smoothies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I didn't want to smell peanut butter again.

Not in that context.

There are French girls, and there are Spanish girls; both highly rude, but otherwise twins in their mutual difference. The difference in their style of rudeness was complete. I had a thing for Flamenco, then a thing for Alexandrine lines. The epic misery of a life, read in between the lines. And these girls, whom hate nobody else, long to solely hate each other, no matter what American girl they must throw under the bus to get what they want. If the French were cowboys, the Spanish would be Native Americans.

For the two Latinas, their hate knows no continental limitation, only the even of mutual hatred type masturbation of the Dutch and Belgian life. To think ... that to mention Frog legs, was worse than working for the Nazis. And yet in their derangement, within the empire of their own narcissism, they seek the blood of Africans and Muslims across the globe. Only marginally less bad than the Americana life, but for me it felt life I belonged nowhere, not anywhere in this life.

I longed for a kind of digital wife.

Preserved eternally, made of holograms instead of flesh. The feeling of digital sex comparable to the best of orgasmic cycles. When she drives home from work, and work to home, and plan out my next new song. Not country, because I cannot stand this genre. Instead the song of a girl with a pink bow in her hair. Who I loved, and nobody else:

The Sunday eclipse

Flows, like black corn chips.

Salsa flows off the

Flap, let the spice flow free.

Not a Flamenco song.

I used to think imperialism was an American thing, and to be fair to Europeans, certainly America is the worst of the bunch. With the Spaniards and the French, it was a morbid game of Hetalia roulette, only marginally less bloody than the Russian equivalent during the second world war. For me, I wanted nobody. Yet I longed, with lust, for something more. Like fireworks melting in the air, a distant celebration of the dead:

The Sunday eclipse

Flows, like black corn chips.

Salsa flows off the

Flap, let the spice flow free.

Not a Flamenco song.

I was not an ugly girl, because neither the Spanish or French flirted with me. And that was just fine with me. Instead I found solace in the flow of digital underpants. Prancing about like ants in your pants, and gentle robot fingertips to the rhythm of dub step scores. It was one of those performance days, and I needed something different, to keep the score, from the tried and true tap dancing cup song constantly rehashed by dub step radio floors. I hated country, and I had Americana. I hated everything, besides the pink bow score. The closest comparison, was something akin to dub step flamenco, with the an epic pattern of disintegration. Flowing like blood on the floor:

Her long blond flowing locks flow freely downward,

If it were England, she would date a man named Edward.

But the spiral staircase flowing down,

Greets the nymph as a growling, even clown.

Come around this charcoal sketched mountain,

And settle this score.

Beyond the dreamland where terror is born.

Beyond this world call, the meat space life.

I see the call, crawling to me.

I can here, the demon's roar.

Sombrero et une toupe.

Perhaps will meet again.

Some other day.

Eclipse wanes, on Gipsy morning sonnets.

No knots tied long.

I'd rather kiss, some other day.

I'd rather date a Gipsy,

In this midnight song.

With this I thought of the girl I knew in high school, named Emily. Will long flowing straight blond hair, I thought of the betrayal I felt. And all the nastiness surfacing into bile and torment.

I wanted, to settle the score.

But the reality was, most of the people she knew, never even played the game. The game with the girl, with the pink bow in her hair. And long flowing brown hair, gently curved into a braid. That romance, for me, whom loved nobody else. I wanted nothing else. But to be absorbed in her embrace. That wizard staff, with endless healing powers.

I felt as if drained dry.

Reality was no the flow of flowers in the church, and gentle raindrops on a cloudy morning day. Or a remake by Flair Screamix. Our Earth, my love, my life; all melting away like radioactive streams. At once the fear of the unloved, could melt away.

As I settled, my personal score.

I'd rather date a Gipsy, in this midnight song. Not lust after idealization of unreality and the resulting sex. Instead I wait for the next shift, the next day's work. Knowing, I could offer nothing to a flower girl.

All I could offer was death.

PART TWO The Old Woman Of Red Bank

It's never an easy job being a network operator; when half your job involves fixing malfunctioning html pages in web 4.0, sometimes it feels easier to retire into a comforting lazy life.

Yet the secret agents, that work for what remains of the government, is always operating. So there is never not a job for someone like myself. I got two keys: one is a private key I use to receive personal markdown letters, and a sending key. My other mechanic friend has that private key. Technically everyone is suppose to have a key pair, but as the internet became more specialized, it made most people technically lazy. I got one password, randomly picked from a list of all mixed alphabets. I decrypted it in order to apply it to a secured archive, that contains its own ruby server.

The word server came from the root concept "to serve", usually in referring to waiters and bar tenders, but also came to apply to any kind of service job that earned a living through tips. Yet now the word server only begins to describe a part of the process, in exchanging information from node to node. I learned this specifically when I met this other "hacker". The process of using Dimitry was simple, something the girl learned in trade school: simply run a process of finding all sub domains in a particular URL registry.

Often, you didn't even need a computer to find out various hidden information. And now, nearing the end of web 3.0, the fourth world wide web was on the horizon, flowing like bad renditions of rave music lasting from 2:00 P.M. to after 3:00 A.M. But unlike rave parties, there was no rule against spooks participating, not that the government ever payed attention to this. But for the most part, I was never bothered by the NSA, until very recently, when I had met this girl.

It took my time fixing nodes.

I met her at a rave party re imagined from the nineties, with more specifically goth subject matter. She had taste that I could never dream of, but I was the sort to not really give a shit until it directly effected one of my friends, or even a family member, as estranged as I was. But when you're friends with the devil, sometimes morality takes a back seat, presses the rewind button, and one simply regresses to early motion picture state. She had a think for slit throats and severed heads of French and Spanish women; it was a taste she had acquired since she was in high school, or so she was willing to admit. Though I have the sneaking suspicion that she had the issue for way longer than thought; at first I barfed imagining the flow of blood from the necks of girls in my dreams; but she had a way of tearing everything away from you, your reality at the seams. She wanted to experiment with a new key exchange protocol.

-- Everything has been done in computers.

-- Yes, everything that is computationally impractical.

-- But isn't that the point?

-- ... Up to a certain point.

There were times I was tempted to explain to her my superior knowledge and skill, but found that she was always a step ahead of my knowledge, as much as I didn't want to admit this. Now I simply accept the ride, and let her sink her own ship. But my obligations still remained in fixing the mess she made. While she never revealed to me the exact details of her fetishes, there were some details I knew, that I could not politely share. But everything under the sun was all there. Everything from pillories, guillotines, wooden clogs, and birkenstocks. But this was Winter, why would anyone be wearing those?

She would leave some cryptic notes in different nodes, indicating the information she knew about different nodal administrators, and they would complain to me about feeling blackmailed. I suppose some aspects of human nature never changed. She would comment, when we smoke in dead drops, exchanging video streams, about the nature of her eye strain, and how it seemed to her like the condition was a spreading epidemic. At the very least, she would always blame her own looks on eye strain. But she was an enigma.

The eye strain enigma.

Through her eyes I saw someone who wasn't a monster. Someone who hated the very nature of her own existence. Someone whom wanted more in life, but simply never had the opportunity. Sure, some people were born with certain shticks, but it seemed like surely something must have warped her. There was a time when I developed a similar condition, although I never looked at the same material in strangers portable information storage devices, certainly nothing like the bondage I've seen. It was so much the type of bondage, as it was the very nonchalantly public nature of the sexual experiments.

In a sense, she was a kind of scientist.

She experimented on herself.

Web 4.0 came faster than anyone expected, as did Web 3.0. It was originally a group college grads whom improvised a method of off line file sharing, the use of classical sneakernet protocols to transfer files and view people's contact information in landing pages.

With QR Codes, this simply accelerated the process. Now one could simply grab anybodies phone number and dental records at the touch of a stylus pen. Laptops were going the way of the dinosaur, although one could still buy old used ones on Amazon, and there was a steadily growing interest in retro computing, with small underground DOS developers that work outside of universities. Web 4.0, in particular, combined portable storage medium with IPFS. Now one simply had to pick up a hash value at the local station, boot it up at the local coffee shop, then go off line for the length of that singular web page after applying a simple command:

~ $ wget

But eventually, instead of exchanging markdown to html pages, they began to exchange their phone numbers. A personal friend of mind switched to temporary numbers in burner phones, as a means of perfect forward secrecy, without having to apply any major cryptographic protocol. Eventually an underground network formed from exchanging the hash value links through these temporary phone numbers, and eventually became somewhat of a separate civilization from the masses at large.

Yet now, the idea of placing burner phones used for off line information gathering is so popular, it has quickly become commercialized. I worked for such a grocery giant once, working daily shifts changing the phones. But these days I see fewer customers. It's almost as if they're catching up to the game. In this game called life, where the only people that financially make up, are those with the physical know how, and able to function well enough with PTSD, that one simply is unable to distinguish them from the rest of the masses. And it's increasingly tempting to go with the crowd. In this one rave party movie, it mentioned the slow decline of sub cultures; now it seemed like simply not belonging to a subculture, was itself a kind of sub culture, with eye strain becoming as common as computer hackers, whatever the term hacker means these days.

And now, I'm left wondering, rather the little raver that could, who slices through women's neck in her mind like it's wood, could visit me again, at the local coffee shop.

As I recall grandfatherly tales.

Tales of a distant life.

It's easy to think of yourself as unique, and part of underground sub culture. To certain extent, this is definitely true.

But there is a very specific difference between being part of a group of friends, finding people that you can belong with. As suppose to wanting to be normal, among the every day crowd. And simply never given the chance to. Like Lucifer in the bible, worse, banished from the hell that was rave culture, phreaking 2.0, and other groups of misfit. This girl was a misfit not by choice, but do to the very nature of her own sexuality, which she tries so hard to hide away.

Yet when I see is a Rose without thorns, an untamed horse. An animal, perhaps. Just like everyone else. When she locked in the cage of self, unable to express your own desires to a normal degree, is it any wonder that some people choose to eventually end their own existence. Yet something, in this vampire, seemed to make her hold on that much more. She always carried a thumb drive, with Kali Linux installed. I only know of this from her sharing me the tools of the trade, simply because she was bored, and stopped taking the necessary precautions most of hackers seemed to. It almost seemed like a bizarre suicidal interaction, yet the lecture I gave her didn't seem to effect her a bit. I wasn't sure if she was deaf, or simply heard enough times she simply stopped listening.

In a way, I could relate to this.

My grandfather, whom fought in World War II, which ended roughly 156 years ago to this date, would often stopped listening the words I told him. Because to him, it always seemed like I was repeating everything that I ever said. Always repeating everything I ever said, and then some. His helmet was a lead drum, and mine was black silicon in Cyberspace. So for me, on a level I could understand no longer listening, even if it was extremely frustrating to deal with. At times she would stop talking, and simply stare into a seeming void, wandering in deep space, ready to destroy the next star system. So I would poke her shoulder, and she would come back to reality. Only to hug me and run off.

She wore a QR Code on her right arm, presumably the one she didn't write with. I scanned it once, and it revealed to me, almost an excess of information. I wondered if she was some sort of agent, watching to make sure I didn't fall out of line with the status quo. Yet she never seemed competent to pass even the most basic tests of low key.

Or maybe it was all a ploy.

My life, her chew toy.

At one point, at the last hours of my shift, I noticed her limping along the sidewalk. I wondered whether she was hurt, but she said this was the normal part of having high arches, that it was simply the way things were meant to be. I wondered, how in the hell she was able to get to the nearest coffee shop. She told me how it was the only way for her to get a wifi connection, with clubhouse at her apartment complex still needing repairs. When I had visited her place to answer a request on replacing her disk drive, she told me how the network facility in her flat was largely sporadic in nature.

Particularly during the Summer time, when kids were off at school. So to exchange information in any capacity, she had to rely on off web file sharing drives to contact friends, snatching emails and phone numbers like it's cotton candy. A level of poverty, but unique to the twenty first century, as during my grandfather's age, there was even a thing called computers. How she is able to afford her computers, honestly I couldn't tell you. I just know that I would see her trying to hook up ports in a daisy chain, shaped sort of like a fourth dimensional cube.

She wanted to apply her own 4.0 web protocols, one that involved more nodes that can be practically taken down, clones of QR codes persisting into eternal contact spheres.

I just know, this year seemed weirder than most. And I've lived through a lot. Now the President of the United States is even more of a puppet than he used to be than when I went to high school, between 2004-2007. It was closer to a collective kind of dictatorships that nobody really payed attention to, and thus snuck up on us. There only reason people are not apprehended, is the very careful nature of the engineers of the net.

But one will not always be lucky.

That I can make the bet.

Life was like a school girl holding a holo-phone, running head first toward a speeding school bus. Here lies the corpse, that was once a child. Here lies the innocence, now turned to dust. And everything else, that was once good. It's all turned to rust. Now one tips their top hat forward, walks around with a cane. Simply trying to make it through the nearest bus stop, with falling out of breath, puffing on vapes, sounding like the pipe of speeding train. All that nicotine to cope with it all, it can't be good for the brain.

It can't be good for the life.

If I could describe the rave party I went to with her, it was closer to a funeral procession. She would hold my hand, knowing my hesitation to dance. Light flashing, heads bashing. People's private parts banging, and a drug full experience so I've heard, though I always rejected the stuff. My life always felt like it could out in a huff, and no like a fine prostitute sucking on my prick. Not like Switzerland, with bug burgers, lattes, and cuties licking all over you. This life was made for me and me only.

This was my land.

This was the night.

Sometimes it's easier to go to bed, wishing for some other life instead. Instead of the real life, filled with pain and regret. I once tried communicating my feelings with my therapist not Bret, but rather than listening, he found some deranged pleasure in watching my own feeling unfold. It was almost a life story never told. A story of a boy whom dated girl, who died of an infestation, leaving only a rose to my name. Her own life story, I remembered as she told me. But do to her privacy wishes, I promised to her I'd never tell it. And this was a promise I intended to keep. I only tell of the public life, to communicate this final note.

Sometimes we find goodness in odd places.

And even more odd people.

Now I rest in my bed, the doctor telling I only had a few months to live. Throat cancer they said. But at least I got to spend some of the last months, meeting this interesting girl, whom, as the rumors tell, shot her own pimp. Fled out of her home country, and arrived here in Chattanooga. What a strange place to land, but who am I to judge?

I've lived my life well, young thing.

I shall meet you in hell. Dying before retirement age.

The age of one hundred and fifty eight.

Hell is a much different place, than taught in history books and the Catholic Church. A church filled with pedophiles that lurch. I may be in hell, but that doesn't stop me from defaming God, because to me he/she does not exist. He exists only in the illusions of tunnels of light. Now I sit on my purgatory throne, waiting for a final judgment that seems to never come. Here, in Purgatory Road, the stop sign always points up, and the green sign down. The town where the crazy old cat lady, walks around in a circle, around a blood drawn pentagram. The bus has arrived, perhaps it will be my release. To heaven or hell, I care not. So long as I could dream of flowers in a church.

Dream of another life, where the old skyscrapers, are replaced by endless Summer clowns, and your grandparents turned once more into young women. But then I wake up, and I'm in my hospital bed.

It was 3:33 A.M.

The girl I met, Gin Bailey, came to visit me in my hospital bed hours later. But not as a prostitute, but as a welcoming friend. She held my hand, gave me a hug, as well as a coffee energy drink. Gradually easing off, she had a tear in her eye.

-- Don't mind me, it's eye strain.

-- Don't worry, I'm here.

-- It was good meeting you old man.

Now I hear organs, playing in the distant, a funeral procession drawing nearer. The sound similar to the sound of vampire tv shows from the nineteen eighties, and other shit TV. I suppose that was it, for no longer having anxiety, as I finish my peach smoothie.

I tasted like death.

PART THREE The Gamer Girl Of Red Bank P2

Sometimes I have to scramble to get my diary entries written, even when I feel the most smitten. For though I have only been smitten with a digital girl, and nothing of the flesh, I have however been smitten for the written word. And by extension, the flow of graphics on the page. All the rage, all of the time. But only in the farthest reaches of my mind.

At times I become to wordy, when I masturbate long, despite physically approaching thirty. I squeek and I squeak, like a girlfriend's pet birdy, imagining her suck my cock. But perhaps it's time to wind it down, and come around the mountain to the quietest of towns. Some for traditional are of want, yet for me the traditional is only the perception of those who wish to control others. In the past I spoke more abruptly, yet now I feint and whistle as I fall down onto the floor. Wanting nothing but the silence of my mind.

Just a century ago, I was fighting aliens inside of an prison laboratory, yet now I am among the flesh and blood of men. And women of course. But in this context, I refer to men in the collective sense. So spare your tuppence and threepence. I'd prefer to go to Republican pep rallies while others throw compliments at Mike Pence, if only to have an anarchist parade. Because reality is all a charade. Come around to my place, and we'll have a parade. The parade of total silence in my bedroom, where beyond the closest door, are different portals and universes beyond what we may see. But I'll spare you the pretentious verbiage, like us the people there just want to pee.

All I've ever wanted was to be free, and yet in return all I've ever received was being knocked down by others. Others whom blast music beneath my chamber door, thinking they're as great as Edgar Allen Poe, all the Funky Music Ragtime Band. But I'd rather force them to eat sand and liverwurst, and give them families nothing but curses.

My rants can last so long.

Yet, only when I'm horny.

Public relations, one of those old methods of restoring trust in a company name; so often, it's one of the more genuinely devious and dishonest of practitioners. I was a practitioner in the dark arts of the rogue spy. Working for myself, I owed allegiance to nobody. Individuals like myself never had this kind of of power to make private victims bleed, like grocery and hardware giant. Especially do to the controversial nature of other aspects that make themselves split off from society at large.

So much of their identity is contained within their professional, and not in the complexity of the self. Persecutions bloom like like midnight roses. Such events, sprinkling night fire flowing in arson musical notes, are due to avoiding the stigma that came with other political purges. The United States had not yet become like the USSR, but in a subtle and minute way, it was worse. Though one could imagine the guilt by association experienced by millions of Russians, when they dealt with the survivors guilt of the gulags, like Nazi death camps writ large. It was the twenty first century, so you would think that such political purges would not happen.

Would anyone really cry if I were gone today, give another baby at chance of life to see this day. Even despite the gradual degredation of our Earth. Our precious wildlife.

Our sunflowers turned to dust.

Yet I, Gin Bailey, a white girl, but also a trans girl, had a sexual fascination for blood. Rolling down a curved or angula blade, the life. The sado-masochistic desire of the flesh. This doesn't mean I'll cut you up, or kick your pup. While drinking 7 up. I hate carbonated beverage for one thing, the rest of the reason I'll tear up, and let fade to history like dust in the wind.

You live your life.

And I will live mine.

Because of the quirk of natural selection, and the human minds tendency to accept guilt by association, even those whom claim not to, they persecute, because they don't want to admit: we're all part of the same space dust flowing faster than light speed. Very few people have true empathy, but I alway had. Almost to a fault of my own genes.

The vampire gene.

The life.

There was nothing like being surrounded by collapsing dough nuts, as one scrambled through a flight of cyberspace stair cases.

Sometimes when people argue whether they're the infamous dough-nut ninja, sometimes its better to let them fight among themselves, rather than risk them finding out that it's you. If you got caught, you're the one getting blamed for stealing gold coins from your old allies wallets while they're fighting against a common enemy you also have. There was nothing like jacking into a hologram deck, and dawning the mask in Cyberspace. I loved collected dough-nuts, while running and jumping off of collapsing sky scrapers, and manipulated the code to allow for longer wall runs while jumping to ledges I needed to climb onto. But one day, after completed a campaign, I was called by a new employer, who needed special information regarding a wanted serial killer. When I arrived at the office, I was unsure what to expect. Only that my skills were finally actually needed rather than resented by the public at large.

They recently unburied a mass grave of old android women, with their skins shaved off their faces. Nothing left of them now besides exposed metal where the flesh once was. This was one of the forensic photographs the case officer wanted to me to check out. It matched the same M.O. as these other unsolved string of murders related to a case ten years ago, where non robot women where left exposed to the elements without the skin on their faces. I didn't exactly have the choice to say no. I suppose I could have, but I always had this fear of being viewed as a suspect in cases that I was never personally involved in.

By night I opened my console, collecting chocolate eclaires, and vanilla custard filled chocolate fudge pies. I also took cash from the wallets of knocked out cyberspace samurai, in this futuristic retelling of the Seven Samurai. It was a generic game that kept being churned out, turned into a massively role playing prototype session among millions of users in a consensual matrix. The problem was they left their source code exposed, despite it being marketed as proprietary software. It was much more fun cracking systems you weren't designed to open, which is why I was always irritated when people said not to learn assembly, but rather then design games on Open Pandora. I had my own algorithm I followed, and it had nothing to do with making games for the general public. It was cracking into systems designed by nameless masters.

The masters of The Seven Samurai.

When I woke up the next morning, I woke up to an unknown caller, then I realized it must have been the case officer that I knew from earlier. -- We got a lead on the case.

He drove to the old locations that were explored on yesterdays news stations, exploring various old sites where the dead women were located. One of the ideas floating around in my own mind, was trying to determine whether there was anything in these locations that could be correlated to things this new hypothetic android destroyer had that was similar to the old case, something about these parts that was tied in some way to their old life. A life very different twenty one twenty seven, back during twenty seventeen.

It was right around the Trump election.

I remembered it all to well.

One of the things I noticed, was how all these cases where associated with a certain sex fetish for women's bodies, although mine always manifested differently from these murders. But there were times when they resembled my own fetish all to much. But for me, I was able to drown myself in non-alcoholic beer, and session of the Seven Samurai, while this murderer indulged in their fantasy revolving around women's skin.

For me, my own fantasy was in seeing women's heads roll off their bodies, not take the skin off their face. There was nothing you could stick your penis through in skin that was remotely comparable to someone's throat hole. Although when I was caught for my own string of crimes, it was something far less than murder. At least not murder of anything physical. There was something inherently boring, and way to easy to get caught, cutting the heads off of young maidens to young to die. Don't ask me why, it was something I felt like doing at the time. I hacked into some corporations, assassinated the stock values of different secret government agencies, and manufactured information about different crimes committed by rival activist groups. In all there cases, there was no blood or DNA to trace you. The only reason I got caught was I got a little careless: like in old science fiction novels, the hubris came from stealing from my employers.

But unlike in that book, most of my punishment was community service and months of psycho-therapy. I was simply to get at my job to give me probation. All that didn't matter now. I was diving head first in another level of madness I never seen before, indulging in sexual fantasies on the flesh that I could never dream of. And it was about to get much hairier.

We arrived in the parking lot.

It was the parking lot of our suspect, who was not currently home now, We specifically timed it this way. That way we had plenty of time to relax, and search for files on his computers that could possibly suggest possible future android murder locations. X marked the spot. Multiple X littering reality, crushed by wires and teeth. The teeth, metal and not enamel, begging for me to find their killer. So I could go back to playing the game.

The killer planned on attacking a local pimp.

But this pimp was a lady cyborg.

Sometimes it takes a dagger to swallow someone's life force, other times it takes a punch to the gut. But this time, all it took was three swats of a paddle to the butt, and she was completely broken asunder. She barked back at us like Spring time thunder, starring into are souls like Latino Falcon sabers, riding giant eagles over the mountain side of Puma Punku and "the darro", a vast expanse of ancient desert once rumored to be the site of an ancient nuclear street fight. One button to push on an alien Caveman, and it was simply all over for a group of ancient folk no matter advanced than bronze spears, the sky falling upon them like trillions of radioactive sky scrapers. Let's just say, she had an explosive temper. But this temper was able to modify itself just long enough for us to get the information that we needed. The frequent customer was actually another woman, just like I was. Contrary to what you might expect, women were just as capable of men as sexual as men were. Hollywood likes to depict our sexuality as something of a non existence, except when a man saves us from having our heads whacked of with an ax. But really, the only real whores I've seen like that have been men.

I usually stab them in the gut afterward.

But in this case there was nobody we were rescuing, but instead determining the exact circumstance of their murder. The case officer had told us they recently found a woman whose body was turned essentially into a blood covered mannequin, her body covered in stiffening wax. When the team got onto the scene, they already began to smell the small of decay, worse than the smell of radioactive sulfur in ancient burial sites.

I didn't need to stab at dagger into someone's neck to temporarily paralyze them, so I could steal some floating chocolate dough-nuts. And I wasn't particularly hungry anyway. So instead I went along for the ride as their personal body guard, whacking off the heads of the murderer's henchmen. I wondered, what if I drew them into a playing a game of seven samurai, allowing them to fight me to the death in a holographic display, who was more likely to win. It was one of those thoughts win the murderess decided to turn herself in. Her main side kick had been shot in the back of the neck with a guillotine gun, blood spilling over the pavement floor. No time to invite to a game of Cyberspace espionage, she lived out her own life of her infamous lore.

We spent the rest of the month extracting locations of older android murders, and after a while she began to crack, not because of the sheer amount of pain of having her legs broken, but because of the sheer boredom of restless night under L.E.D. lights, the sound of shitty nineties music blaring in one's ears like toxic ear worms.

After a while she'd rather had bugs crawling inside of her ears, than listening to the queasily weasel voice of the interrogator, playing his game of threatening fingernail pulling, like it was a nineteen seventies disco floor. He might as well have worn a blue dyed afro, wearing blue lip stick, and a pink fussy clown nose with doc martin boots, modified with stiletto length cleat blades. The image would not have been any less ridiculous to see unfold. She Case Officer let me go home, and I spent the rest of the night connected to game of the Seven Samurai, snatching up dough nuts like they were gold coin in Mario games. And using the cash of fallen comrades, instead of their credit cards numbers. As US was this much closer to legislating against being fat.

Now I spent the rest of my probation months playing with murderess from earlier, because the state decided not to decapitate her. She became my adversary in Cyberspace, hunting me down like old Shogun henchmen. But between us, it was a kind of deranged love affair of dough nuts and decapitation. Sometimes the flavor of the two blending into a bizarre bitter sweetness that even the best of Hibachi grills could not compare to. The state realized that my willingness to participate was merely a matter of necessity than willingness. And anybody they would ask would be exactly the same way.

I showed the girl different ways to not be caught by dream-scanners, and explored the nature of circumstance of her life. Not because I asked, she simply talked to much like an villain in the last stage of poorly scripted Japanese Role Playing games. But this was OK, as the head jobs I got afterward made being patient all the more worth it.

I knew her head was mine.

But attached to her neck. Spaghetti was a lot better, when you can imagine the sauce be the blood of a wheel broken petty thief, for months on end being denied the grace of death, with heaven dangled in front of them, ripping the illusion away. My cyber space, never releasing from their torment. Only dying when I say so. I lust for blood. But I knew that blood lust could easily become an addiction, and that I would never be satisfied, always wanting to be the best. Ripping out their eyes like cotton candy.

I wanted to be the prettiest.

But I decided, she wasn't worth it.

I had bigger fish to fry.

Magnet Girl Wireless

-- Smart Phones are private, unless you use the store on the web. There was a store clerk at a standard department store. She didn't know that clerks could be so technically illiterate.

Cell phones were an embarrassment to those who appreciate the Linux OS. The store of the net of things was more secure than cell phones had ever been. At least in theory. But all systems were not secure against social engineering. A hacker is not going to follow standard rules and conventions, that's pretty much by definition. A good hacker isn't going to need a windows back door. They just need to socially engineer you to log in on your own. Then when you're not looking replace your current code with an older version with previous weaknesses, replaces your remote control's login feature with the older version. Then simply type anything besides enter or space.

Hackers do this all the time. They're not going to obey the rules of a particular system. The best thing you can do is secure yourself against social engineering tactics. -- Have a nice day. She said, as Arline left.

Considering that the lady was that bad off, the store was easy pray for purchasing more than enough "cigarillos" to last you more than a week. Tear those suckers up, save you an extra dollar. More money that could be spent on purchasing locks. Locks that could be used to craft your own secured notebook. However at times arts and crafts can be more expensive. It took using post it notes and cutting off the sticker parts to have something one could reasonably pay for. The locks made of metal could just be ripped off. And if you have the wrong friends, it didn't matter how secure the lock. Clearly keeping encryption keys required an entirely different process from using notebooks. Especially if one used a straddling square. The straddling square was similar to a straddling checkerboard, only each letter was shifted based on a different pass phrase instead of a Cesarean shift. It was as random as a straddling checkerboard, but also required knowing the pass phrase to break the lack.

At home she programmed similar ciphers, but in a different kind of login system. One had a two in three chance to evade penetration testing with the cipher. In a three phase process, this meant each penetration test had a two in three chance of failing. If one did a seven phase process the chances of actually logging in becoming increasingly astronomical, therefore it's kept difficult enough to avoid logging in accidentally, but easy enough to log in without having to exploit weaknesses in the interface. But the weakness points were removed by arline who had anticipated people simply pressing enter or space. She exited the remote control, and chose to feed her face.

Then back to the old grind.

Remote viewing in cyberspace. Her old life, the tears on the face.

On Friday, February 10 2017. It was 1:43 A.M. At 25 x coordinators and 15 y coordinates, it was wet and rippling. The rectangular building nearby was in need of repair, with a triangular roof. There was a doorway. The entire place looks like a giant backward, there is a smell of something baking.

She wasn't sure what was smelling, but didn't want to take herself out of the zone to think about it. She hadn't been to the park in some time along East like, but generally didn't feel like walking. Arline had recently had a RFID chip put in, along with a lifting and sensing magnets. The lifting was on her index finger, just below the finger tip. And the sensing magnets were on all her finger tips. She had had her right hand modified to accommodate her lack of general use. Being born left handed netted many benefits, although certain skill sets were difficult being right brained. But through practice, one could become a black belt in anything, even remote viewing.

Arline wasn't sure whether there would be anything to lift at East Lake, but she would have to wait, if some other region she brain scans doesn't strike some stronger interest for her.

This was her story.

-- What's the difference between RFID encryption, and using a standard super? It was one of those questions most more experienced bio hackers knew, but didn't have time to answer as it would take hours. They just assumed her lack of technical experience, although Arline was less of a general programmer breaking into security, and more apt to use the system's rules against itself.

-- It's just different Arline. Consider learning the technical specifics of RFID. A pat response indicative of impatience and lack of attention. Arline didn't have time for condescending assholes, she dealt with way to many of them in her own lifetime. She knows enough about programming to bypass social media spam block functionality, encrypting phrases in different ways, and playing around with the word sandwich order to reach a desired result.

The city life was filled with the noise of construction workers, and she didn't even know there was implant conventions within the area. She didn't even want to consider the idea of telling them about her remote viewing. A by this point, she knew they just wanted her to assume the magnets worked, and not to worry about the specifics of RFID encryption, as long as she could get into her apartment. The daylight was beginning to fade, the city lights beginning to glow. It was chilly, but not enough to snow. The neighborhood dogs barked loudly, and at times she joked around with the idea of trying to see if her magnets could feel their collars, but decided better of it.

And now she leaves the convention, socially worn out.

She scans the RFID chip on her door, and then quickly closes the door. She then loads up her zero liability USB drive, and she received a message from a friend down in Smyrna, Tennessee.

She was to tired to decipher it right now.

But at least she knew it worked.

They used to say Russia and the US had different social values, but now after the current president was elected by the lowest margin in years, various executive orders have made it nearly impossible to tell them apart. The average person wont ever feel the change. But immigrant families and minority groups have already felt the change even before he was elected. While Arline was technically one such minority, she never got out enough to really experience discrimination. Although try telling her that because she never faced discrimination, that means no trans woman has, although most of the ones at the rally do not actually represent trans people. She spends most of her time working on her programming skills, and wants nothing to do with activism.

Social media spam block functions were notoriously weak although Arline didn't know they were this much. If you changed the message only slightly each iteration, you could spam as many messages as you wanted. And so one could encrypt the same phrase more than once, and as long as they inserted enough _, she could bypass crucial spam blocking functions. She wondered why it was then that computers haven't yet figured out how to bypass spam functionality.

And if someone stole your password, it wasn't like a spam functionality would do you any good. Just recently the government was considering efforts to ask for immigrants passwords in order to be let into the United States. Although all one would have to do is give them the real one once, then promptly change their password the following night. And it didn't actually solve the terrorist problem, as Saudi Arabia wasn't effected by the no fly list. The people were simply ... listless about it.

Arlina goes to various people's houses, using the convenience of their friendship to scan for magnetic pulses in the walls, among other places. She wasn't sure how long it would take for the government to crack down on bio scanners, although as long as she stayed low during the day, and did most of her work at friend's houses at night, at least for the moment there shouldn't be any issue.

But for how long...

This she wasn't certain.

Arline, Friday February 10th at 5:25 P.M. At 42 coordinates X, and -73 coordinates y. It has a rough texture, is covered in trees, and is windy. The place has historical significance, set in a shopping district. West Heartland, CT.

She didn't know exactly why she felt familiar with this place, only its significance as landmark important during the civil wars in the United States. It was a hit. Covered in trees, a mountainside not near any roads. Yet never the less was driven on. She always had some element of foresight from a very early age, although had had to train out of specific habits that contributed to mental noise. Her means of transportation was limited, and thus wherever she went she would either have to walk to such location, or be willing to ask her parents to take her.

Arline wasn't sure whether at this location, there would be a magnetic sensation, and what having one may indicate. From a very early age, since she was very small, she had been told that where there is magnetism, there was treasure to be found. Even in this rough forsaken Earth, trod on by the ghosts of time's past, who fought and died by canon fire.

Everywhere she went, her fingers would vibrate. She didn't know that the whole world was filled with magnetism, only that one of her exes told her that metallic body parts were a bad idea, because the magnetism would gradually mess with your spirit and rip out your prosthetic. However Arline didn't believe in a spirit, at least not in this sense. And yet somehow always held onto ideas about reincarnation. She was drawn to specific places based on a kind of familiarity, as if at some point in previous lifetimes she had been there before.

Yet now she rest, she dines.

She dines on homemade bread.

On Saturday, February 11th, Arline remote viewed the coordinates of 43 x and 23 y East. At first it seemed like her senses were failing her, but here in Godech, Bulgaria there was a large lake. She knew that there was something large and metallic there, although she did not know what. And that there was something wet with a large horizon. She seems to have a knack for spotting large bodies of water, on nights when she has had little to drink. And now she dreams in a wink.

She imagines her metallic implants buzzing, her mind a fuzzing. Her brain waves flowing in paradox between a total relaxation high, and cluttered thoughts worrying about the day before. Her mother had a tendency make lots of noise in the kitchen, though she appreciated her doing her laundry for her. Arlina, one might think, would go to bed right away, yet instead she stays up long enough to bake some bread, and then boil potatoes to make a pot of soup. Yet now as she recalls ordering a Cal-zone at the local pizzeria, and buying some instant coffee, she dread the next few days, uncertain of whether she'll get disability.

Arline had always been reluctant to meditate. She simply didn't see a need for it. Yet now that she has begun to remote view, things were different now. As she wipes the sweat from her brow, from a night of masturbation.

The horny life.

Arline tried installing Debian, but once it was up she couldn't install sudo. By this point, she had gotten used to the idea of all Linux distributions having this by default. She had developed a program called the Remote Viewer's Assistant, but she needed to have Ruby installed. Instead she had to reinstall Linux Mint along side Debian OS in order to use the standard operating procedure to run her programs. She honestly wondered why the magnets in her finger tips didn't somehow mess up the message themselves, then she realized it was under the skin.

And now she waits and takes a breath for the next three minutes. Then she wakes. Arline on February 11th on Saturday around 7:00 A.M. sensed at 110 coordinators Y and 143 coordinates x, a soft and grainy texture with a metallic texture nearby. At 110 Ekkachai Road in Bangkok Province, the read has had work stopped on it and now the region has been reduced to a tourist trap, at least according to the locals. Arline knew that if she were there, she might be able to have all the Penang curry she wanted. But she was unsure of how the locals would feel about her dropping by. Although any regions was fun to test out your sensory perception, a region ye close to China wasn't exactly something on her priority list. Although she wanted to have the chance to feel the grainy green along the side of the road. Yet the owners would not want her hopping into their backyard.

Every since she was around eight, she always had some psychic ability. However she had never spoken of it for the longest time, do to cultural stigma surrounding people who claim to be such. Her magnetic fingertips gave her an extra bit of sense, different from remote viewing. Although she didn't like how such implants were invented by men who had no interest in the paranormal.

She was abnormal from the start.

Her life for sake of art.

Arline on February 11th, Saturday 9:47 Pm. Wet texture. Rocky landscape. Wood texture. Silk. Coastal wildlife. Feathers and scales. Dark history, damage to wood texture. She has sensed Aruba, Iraq. Here there had been many battles with US forces, and more battles still against their natives of the region. And here she senses great sadness, and terror. Among that she did not sense at first, was an unknown factory.

She was unsure whether it was nuclear or for some other purpose.

She wonders, for what purpose?

There was a boy she met from afar, though not in the flesh. Who went by the name of Anakarah. About an hour past the previous time, on Saturday 11th, he noted of a sour taste as he walked through a land of dark brown mountains, and short green trees. These was a large river, similar to the river in Aruba. Yet it was elsewhere, where the drinking age was that of twenty five.

She had never met another remote viewer before, although she assumed it might have been more accepted in that culture. For sake of his privacy, she refused to ask of herself what he might be thinking. Arline had had experiences before with boys from the Middle East. On various dating sites she would sometimes encounter men from Saudi Arabia looking for a hot date. Eager for a time to masturbate, eager for a one time offer. On some level she didn't want to know what he was thinking, or what he might be tasting. Considering the region, it wasn't much farther from Aruba, although closer to Pakistan. She hoped the US military didn't intend to bring in ground forces, but she was ready to join in protestations against the incoming president as robbed by Russia.

This was a world where one rogue banker got away with sending many people outside of their homes. This was a world were alternative facts were the new lingo for what in yesterday times people would call lies. While one couldn't expect a politician to exactly be honest, almost everyone considered the comment to be on the news. No no, college grads who are overqualified to work at the local mini-mart, it's an alternative fact. You still have a home, somewhere. Out there. In the coldest darkest of the night, sleeping in torn jeans and hand me down blankets, riding the bus as a means of shelter in California. Just some way in order to get by.

She had never been in the situation herself. Except for one night were she was temporarily "homeless." She spent the whole night needing to use the restroom, but no places were open.

What a shitty situation.

But at least it wasn't Aruba or Uzbekistan.

Later that night, she found the card sitting on one her bookshelves, chilling out as having a smoke from a cigarillo.

Reality wasn't anything but a dream, and so sometimes she was unsure whether she saw things she thought she saw, or perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her. Unlike other things in her life, remote viewing was different. Remote viewing had been corroborated by a bunch of different sources. Within her studio apartment, reality can sometimes bend itself. And as it speaks, distorts lies in the form of alternative facts not even allowed by the most word spinning of politicians. Yet reality itself only gave raw information, and how one interrupted it was up to the individual. But political science was largely a different matter, leaving one hopping about the room like the Mad Hatter smoking powder out the wing dang. While one reclines in bed and plays with their ding ding ding.

The remote viewer's life in NashChat.

She buckled down and concentrated. On Saturday, February 11th at 11:28 she remote viewed at first a texture, a feeling. It was leathery and silky. There was artificial lighting, an educational building in a Republic of great national historical importance. A bloody civil war happened here between the Whites, Greens, and Reds. At 64 x and 110 y, the world of cold and ice.

She wanted a world everything nice.

Not a world of renamed KGB.

On Sunday February 12th. High contrast, wood texture and grainy. Sometimes wet, sometimes dry. Sometimes cold, other times hot. Brown, green, tall. Petrified, isolation. Desolate. Wives more dominant than their husbands. Wooden shoes, gouda cheese, and civil war. The girls in clogs giving one hard ons, if she could have them. She had given up on visiting Marseilles, at least for the time being. Her life was as silent as the S.

She dreamed of supernatural forces chasing after her. And yesterday's years she would be woken up to her poodle looking her nose. All that black fur, all that doggy shampoo. She remembered her dog as if she were still here. Yet she has not been around, for almost an entire year. And now she looks beyond the window glass, hoping for something to life. She didn't need conflict, she was conflict herself. Culminating in personal decay and disarray.

Can misery come again some other day? Yet now she thinks of girl in Swedish clogs, and Dutch klompen giving her lap dances.

More to life, many chances.

Many wives. Her life dreaming of Mediterranean seas and Gouda cheese.

It was grocery day, the day before her next remote viewing session. Her mom arrived at non to take her to various shops. These were various ones she had been to since the time she met Katie. She would gave for the normal goods, and later go for the spices: Thai Chilly Powder, Haldi, and Turmeric. If there was anything Arline liked as much as her new magnets, it was cooking. Many dishes were made, such as peanut butter chicken. She has to adjust the spice since her trip up to Washington, strange considering that most people up north dislike any spice.

At night she scans the walls, scans the flag poles, and anything she can get her hands on. She can find things in places she could not ordinarily sense. The whole world was suddenly available to her in different senses: magnetism and remote sensing across various points in the globe. Yet she knew that any sort of body modification was not looked highly upon, particularly in the south. Here you could be dumped into a sewer simply for being a trans person, this she knew knowing of some people that had mysteriously gone missing, and dying from a degree of poisoning and red skin. The city life in Chattanooga was not much different from the life in Smyrna, Tennessee. The main difference is your door was from the inside, rather than from the outside.

Arline would purchase cigarillos, in packs of six. She would pack all them into three, throw other the other than empty packs. Then use the receipt as a cigarette roller in order to hide her purchase. She took extra steps to ensure her anonymity, but because of her mother's tendency to get into her space, she might "accidentally" sneak a look into her purse when purchasing instant coffee. That was how life was for Arline, who never caught a break from her mom.

Yet now that she lives in her own, it didn't matter much what her mother thought, and someday she would permanently break off the relationship. Even if it took an amount of force to do this.

It was simply a matter of time.

At home she smokes cigarillos and vaporize mint. She was told by her mother that likes to think she knows everything, that Arline has no shin splints.

Never mind not being a doctor.

Immobile with magnetism.

Arline swiped her fingers over the bar code, in order to ruin the scan of the flower bag. She was hoping to avoid having to pay for the whole shopping trip, only having to pay for the Ramen. University student on a budget, you'll do anything to save a buck. However the company policy changed, and she could only buy the bag of ramen. You couldn't get the broken item for free, and you had to replace it with an item you could pay for. So she just bought the ramen and left.

Exiting, she got herself a cigarillo, and smoked it until it was gone. Up, up, and up the hill to the studio apartments after crossing, crossing, and crossing the city street under the rainy slights. She thought about the practicality of using a proxy route. She wondered how effective it really was. In the non abstract world, encrypting the real world would be difficult. She hoped it wasn't impossible.

She wanted it as fragile as pocky.

Shrimp flavor midnight blues.

Arlina, on February 12th. 7:17 P.M. Dirty and grainy. Wet and salty. Rocky and cold. Somewhere up North loud noises blare. White and chilly. Betrayed cultural values, ancient culture. Development versus tradition. Yet now all is quiet along the Kele River in the Sakha Republic. Russia again, she visited the lake of the previous town she visited. She knew that in the US, there was conflict between Native Americans and Industrial workers, and wondered whether there was an equivalent to this within Russia.

Although she cannot see the whole vividly, she wonders why this region keeps showing up in her mind. Certainly there was frequent talk about the current issue with Russian interference, yet in her mind she senses something more sinister.

She tries to feel the texture of the helicopter, and tries to get a taste of what the pilot must be thinking. In a land where fear is dominant, and the current president has become the second dictator after the fall of the Soviet Union, she wonders whether they might strike Aruba and Uzbekistan. She began to worry about the boy she met, thinking he has already had it hard enough having his entire family murdered in front of his eyes. Yet tries to imagine the interior of the helicopter, she senses a disconnect from the world of the zone. Magnetic pulses ruin the radio signal of the chopper, the vehicle of the sky comes crashing down.

Here lies the helicopter, once of metal and rest.

Yet here it lies, in the lake. The pilot gasping for air.

The metal turns to rust.

Arline, Monday February 13th. She returns to Uzbekistan. She senses a dark history, yet there is a void in knowing what is current. Rough texture, tastes like salt. Dry season. Horizon is near, blue surrounds. Tall wooden object. Great conflicts, social upheaval. Long abandoned, surreal. She wonders what the buildings are for, before going off line to repeat the process. Locations seem to be repeating themselves, in predictable pattern. Cycling in a kind of loop that never ends. Yet she senses no Anakarah, she wonders where he is.

She scans the area with her finger tips, and notices a magnetic field. She wonders if there was some kind of blown apart metal near by. Coasting there, she finds parts of old guns laying around from previous wars. Yet still now Anakarah.

She disconnects.

She dreams again. She feels a rough sensation, and humidity. It tastes wet on her lips, there is no artificial sounds. There are small hills, green and gray. Tall wooden thin objects. A tourist region, now undergoing modernization. Yet it still maintains some semblance of the rural life. It is a conservative, what we may call a Red State.

Butnan District, Libya.

She wonders why she sensed Libya.

Arline could have purchased a pack of cigarettes, a pack of beef franks, a bag of rice, and a rotational lock. Instead when returned home from the Chinese, Indian, and Mexican grocery, she purchased herself Hickory Chips, some post it notes, mini memo notebooks, and a can of iodized salt. For the amount of security you could get with a rotational lock, you were still bound by the type of cipher manufacturing companies were willing to give you, and the lock could simply be ripped out of something as then as paper. But with post it notes, it doesn't necessarily scream lock.

She wasn't breaking any laws that day, it was simply a matter of using legal items in a way they were never originally intended. She knew how to work around the system, find the cheapest price. Then come home and have an fusion cuisine meal all hot and nice. She treated her cyberspace adventures in much the same way, finding ways around the spam block rather than repeating the system message over and over again. And now she comes back home with her Zero Liability USBs, along with her new program that semi-automates the remote viewing process.

Living with her mother used to be a matter of dependance, yet now that she had finally come to live on her own, she found ways to hide what she was doing. And as long as she wasn't breaking any laws or smoking, all that would really happen was her mother would lecture her about how she spent her money. But she wanted things she couldn't always have, as poor as a prickly chav. She found the best deals in ethnic grocers, so she could find a way to secure her private keys in Zero Liability. If the program tester couldn't exchange keys securely, why should they expect others who use the program to?

Operational security was as important as any kind of cipher, even if one used ones more secure than the simplest of substitutions, the key still had to be secure. She had a bag of hickory chips on the bed.

She was ready to eat.

Chorizo Chilly Stew.

Arline, February 14th 2017 at 1:01 A.M. It feels breezy and wet. Wavy, and bouyant. Brown movement, wavy blue. Voyages long ago. Conflict unresolved. Nothing but wind. She found herself thinking of Mostafa Mahmou, Egypt. At first she did not quite understand how she had arrived at this location, and yet it feels right. Near the Nile, the large river that provided ancient times with water to live. She wondered, what, in some way, did these visions connect. She wondered, on some level, whether she had accidentally downed an actual Russian aircraft.

She wondered whether the Russians had murdered Anakarah's family, and whether Egypt might be next. She thought of Bangkok, that didn't do anything besides make Penang curry. All the conflicts of the world, and none of them felt resolved by the resignation of the Glynn, who had spoken with Russian officials off the record. Everything was watched and spied by the secret services. From phone lines to emails, everything about the person was watched.

Yet we stuff have a baboon for a president.

We still have a propagandists as ... well a propagandist. And yet the news wants us to argue about the conflict bout the president's daughter's T Shirt brand, even when they themselves are losing viewer ships by the day. Can the rain come again some other day, or shall the floods of cosmic Noah rain down from the sky in droplets of blood and ash against mankind.

The abject poverty is still rampant.

The US masks it. Yet the mask is cracking.

Arline, February 14th 2017 at 11:09 A.M. At coordinates 24 x and 31 y. Green, hilly, non-humid. Underdeveloped. Dirt beneath your feet. Low population density. Culture shock, changed times. Invasion. Remnants of a former life. Though this wasn't the first time she honed in on a location more than once, it was the second time she honed on Egypt specifically. An invasion. In invasion from where? She didn't know exactly who was invading Egypt.

She knew that various deals between US and Russia were made. There were often secret covert wars undeclared officially. Just recently there was an American Raid on Yemen, that ended up being more disastrous for the invaders than the ones who were invaded upon. They didn't manage to apprehend the terrorist they were looking for. Makes one wonder whether they were really looking for terrorists, or if they really wanted to just grab resources.

This and many other instances. Why Egypt, Uzbekistan, and parts of Russia showed up in her viewing sessions didn't know exactly. She knew that Egypt in times past had to worry about the lake around the Fertile Crescent running dry, although she was unsure whether it was still a present issue do to the nature of importation of life sustaining goods. Though some things important overseas tend to have a higher tax, however that's more going into the US. She remembered reading parts of the Dune novels, and how there were wars about the resource of spice. Perhaps Oil was like Spice in the Dune novels. Only the Worms were not crawling in the sand, but were humans of flesh and blood. People of the East.

Virtual Reality is only a factor in developed nations, although Eastern Countries are becoming increasingly developed. But the rate of development by the West out paces this, at least for now. While teenagers play virtual reality games the next stage of the evolution of first person shooters, those in worlds afar play ball games from skin of one of their dead pet pigs.

And so the world goes on.

Further moments between war and peace.

Arline, February 14th 2017 at 17:59 hours. Coordinates 15 x and 24 y. Wet, sandy, hilly; green, light brown, aqua blue. Sea voyages for food. Invaders at large. She found she was sensing Sudan, Africa. Africa was an extremely large continent, part of which was invaded by the US armed service during the Libyan Civil War. Various places in Africa were invaded during the 19th century by European Imperialism. However now there are proxy wars overseas.

There was nothing made out of metal besides the towers illuminated in yellow. She hoped that these places would not become a target for American extremism, whose brand of democracy loomed larger over the previous countless wars both known and hidden from the masses. Very few people realize how after Vietnam, live coverage of the war was explicitly forbidden. So one is left to merely infer that presidents that authorize specific conflicts were war criminals. Today California is wanting to become an independent republic largely because of some of the things the current elect is threatening. Time will tell whether after the resignation of his adviser, whether dirt would be revealed about him and take him out of office.

Think of the African children on sea voyages, searching for fish as one of the few things they are able to find to eat. While it is not Egypt, it is still more difficult to find food compared to the US. And now the current US administration is almost like an alien invader in different parts of the world. A lot of entertainment about alien invasions are thinly hidden critiques about American imperialism, although apparently to hidden from those who previously worked in office.

Behold the green grass, the deserts, and the rain. Here lies the African children, invaded by the men with tanks. As the tanks roll on forever.

Arline goes off line.

Arline, on February 14th at 10:33 P.M. Coordinates 24 x and 13 y. Rough texture, dry and hot. Yellow hills, wide expanse. Tribal conflicts and imperialism. She visited Libya in the Murzuq district remotely. In this area, there was very little metal she found when fingering whether there was anything behind those walls. This country experienced an extended civil war after the United States invaded and over-through Qaddafi. She wasn't exactly sure what happened to his wife, or where his kids are. All she knew that the country has never been the same sense. She fears that there may be other conflicts that we don't yet know about, and with Russian intervention, and the sacking of some double agents for the Kremlin, there could have been more we would either narrowly avoid or perhaps narrowly miss avoiding.

She heard helicopters looming overhead, and wrote in her Zero liability that there was unidentified Caucasian soldiers. She wasn't sure whether these were American troopers, or African. She went off line.

There was a knock on the door, but there was always some kind of knock on the door. But there were recent discussions about ICE police trying to invite themselves into your home if you're suspect of aiding or abetting illegal immigrants. Although in her case she wasn't friends with much of anyone, and her only experience with Mexicans was on her trips to the Mexican grocery store. Still, she wasn't particularly inclined to help the coppers become totalitarian to ethnic minorities. Everyone pretty much knew that when the president "elect" talked about illegals he almost always meant Mexicans specifically, although even within this scope people wonder when he talks about people voting illegally. The only ones voting illegally were ones who rigged the system and enabled him, with his now sacked advisor, to gain office.

And now we suffer the consequences.

A total breach of security.

Intervention.

Arline, Tuesday February 14th at 11:46 P.M. Coordinates 14 x and 32 y. Chilly, yet not cold. Humid, overgrown with green. Mountainous. A feudal society that was once nomadic, yet now religious. There are men at an Islamic temple, dressed in white turbans. She visits Sudan again new a water fall, feeling the ions brush past her face. She wonders why this area is green in photographs, yet looks like a desert from map by satellite. There is a mud puddle in a year in a wide open expanse. She can feet the mud in the fertilized soil. She doesn't like the smell of the wild, yet perhaps this is because Arline is a city girl more used to the smell of city life.

She goes off line. She sees a black car pool up in the driveway, although it is not the typical model of MIBs. She wonders why MIBs are visiting the studio apartments. They had not made a specific appointment with the leasing agent. So she asks them to leave. So as not to cause trouble, they drive off the premises. Arline wasn't sure whether she was being watched, but promptly removed propriety closed source mapping urls from her Remote Viewer's Assistant program. A close call, she tries to relax with some vape. And then continues watching a video on line. She wanted to make sure her encrypted was working like it should. She checked to make sure all her programs only referred to open source mapping software.

So far so good.

She chilled. She watched movies about further information about the entire GOP being a haven for double agents. She wouldn't surprised if it turned out they'll eventually have to remove the entire staff. But that assumes the investigative bodies even care about it enough.

A tough bet.

It was the night Arline became Hitler, at least according to her mom. Her mom would equate her accidentally stumbling on Nazi websites as a sign of worshiping Nazis. However in truth, even from the beginning there was a fundamental difference between Arline and Adolf.

For one thing, Hitler wanted to kill millions of Jews. Arline wanted to destroy the entirety of mankind. She thought about how nature could more benefit from the absence of humanity. And how without all of man's penchant toward its own self-destruction, one could restore the ozone layer. Goodnight little Hitler, said her mother. As her child faded to dust. For it will be another day that mankind continues to exist in its splendor heading toward its ultimate demise. She hated humanity, because it created Hitler. She hated humanity, because it created Stalin. She had humanity, because it created the United States that was simply no different. She hated France, because they invented the guillotine and almost beheaded Anna-Marie Boeglin. She hated everything that humans have created, and Neanderthals would still be in existence if it were not for the lowliness that was homo sapience.

And yet she was direction less and void. Her life was a dangerous turn of the cards, a sinister ploy by ancient gods hellbent toward her own eventual suicide at the drop of cups of bathroom cleaner. And as she rested dying on the floor of a dirty old motel room in Washington, she thought of the emptiness of humanity. At the time, she wanted nothing to exist.

She wanted to end herself.

And yet things didn't turn out this way. And at the end of the day, she found humans were not worth her hate. So she cut herself off from humanity after her twenty seventh birthday. Now she has a new understanding of the value of life, and how if the United States as it existed simply changed forms, and became more like the greatness that was once 19th century Europe, just with more Africans, Muslims, and Jews perhaps the world could be a happier place without Germans, Russians, and their co conspirators the French. She was cured.

She remembered her poodle, now.

Who was hit with a baseball bat.

Life is so fragile.

Here is what Arline knows about smoking: you'll find in her area a lot of homeless people end up preferring cigarillos. She did a little experiment in figuring out the price of tobacco.

What she found was that for a standard box of pre-rolls, you're paying for the right to have something rolled previously. Roll your own isn't significantly cheaper. However when you convert six bags of three-pack cigarillos to roll your own, that's a dollar per bag or six dollars, you end up having cigarettes for six dollars rather than $7.00 in a standard bag of roll your own.

Homeless smoke cigarillos because it's cheaper than purchasing cigarettes.

Applying this same principle to other things you can make yourself rather than purchase ready-made, I found out that snipping off the non-sticky parts of post it notes, and using the sticky parts to secure a memo book ends up being just as secure as using a substitution lock.

This is why: while an attacker might not be able to open the lock, they can however rip out the lock in a standard composition notebook. But with post its, it's a generally weak security mechanism that doesn't really pretend to be secure, and so an attacker doesn't really need to crack it, they just peel off the tape.

Why is this important? You're paying for the right to attach a lock yourself that could be do far more cheaply with post it notes.

It all comes down to price.

This is why Arline purchased a bag of hickory chips to sketch my drawings, rather than use mechanical pencils. You can get the bag for a far cheaper price because there just isn't a demand on them. Even charcoal is cheaper.

Just burn the tip, and you have drawing utensils for the next few months.

It was the night Arline became Hitler, at least according to her mom. Her mom would equate her accidentally stumbling on Nazi websites as a sign of worshiping Nazis. However in truth, even from the beginning there was a fundamental difference between Arline and Adolf.

For one thing, Hitler wanted to kill millions of Jews. Arline wanted to destroy the entirety of mankind. She thought about how nature could more benefit from the absence of humanity. And how without all of man's penchant toward its own self-destruction, one could restore the ozone layer. Goodnight little Hitler, said her mother. As her child faded to dust. For it will be another day that mankind continues to exist in its splendor heading toward its ultimate demise. She hated humanity, because it created Hitler. She hated humanity, because it created Stalin. She had humanity, because it created the United States that was simply no different. She hated France, because they invented the guillotine and almost beheaded Anna-Marie Boeglin. She hated everything that humans have created, and Neanderthals would still be in existence if it were not for the lowliness that was homo sapience.

And yet she was direction less and void. Her life was a dangerous turn of the cards, a sinister ploy by ancient gods hellbent toward her own eventual suicide at the drop of cups of bathroom cleaner. And as she rested dying on the floor of a dirty old motel room in Washington, she thought of the emptiness of humanity. At the time, she wanted nothing to exist.

She wanted to end herself.

Arline began to lose track of all the coordinates she spied on through the Remote Viewer's Assistant. She worked on a version that includes a folder for images, sketches, and view intelligence. Along with this, she plugged in the zero liability mail system. The Zero Liability mail system worked like this: neither the sender or receiver in each user account knows exactly what they're asking or answering, the administrator holds onto this information.

This ensures that the Sender and Receiver exchange communication without conscious knowledge of their communication. This might seem counter-intuitive, however imagine if ICE police wanted to coerce either the sender or receiver about their exact communication. All they would be able to the the investigator is that they had asked and received an answer. They have zero liability. All the liability is contained between the two administrators that control interaction. One changes every so often what is being asked, and the other simply answers yes or no. There are possibilities of randomly jumbling the answer pattern as well, if the administrator asking the questions turns out to be spook for the Russian government.

Neither administrator holds onto all the communication, and they must share information in person with those they trust. You simply can't trust everyone. Once shared, the communication is promptly encrypted in their folder. They will eventually purge the information from their system, and repeat the process all over again. Arline wasn't sure why she programmed this at first, but it works based on opposite assumptions from the TOR browser, that is intended to make you anonymous. However, Zero Liability makes it so your anonymity isn't even needed.

There is no network to begin with.

One networks in person.

She remote viewed in February on Friday, at 22:24 hours. The coordinates were 6 x and 7 y. She sensed a wet and gooey liquid, this she was able to get right. Yet she had trouble sensing the right location. Until eventually she was able to find a black and white picture of a cliff. She reached her hand out as if to feel the horizon, and stretching her arms out as to balance herself as not to fall. There was a deal here made between enemy and foe, although she was unsure who exactly the foe was. This seemed a little bit far out for the United States to attack, and it didn't seem to be a tribal portion of the African continent. Yet in minds eye she sense conflict coming from far away. And giant helicopters following her foot steps.

She hopped onto the helicopter, knocked out some security guards, and finally disrupted the electronics with her magnetic finger tips.

As the Helicopter, she thought she fell.

Then woke up, dreaming of falling into a pit of death.

It was the second time Arline downed a helicopter in her viewing session. She was becoming nervous about whether the current Far Right GOP would find out about her activities. No matter how often you try to encrypt your content, there is always that narrow possibility that can break the cipher, even when structured in a form similar to a one time pad.

Arline lived a double life; by night she would remote view and spy on those who disrupt the peace of the people. On the other hand, by daylight she explores the nature of her own reality. Between different parts of the real life, there are different targets and goals she has. But she had always had a hard time accomplishing her goals, largely do to lack of motivation. The Boston Clogs she wore were getting old, her needing a new pair in the high arch, and she had recently started not feeling like walking to places, because of the pain in her legs. Sometimes the pain would bother her, at other times it would be almost non existent. Although she liked to spend her time writing poetry, she wasn't much for the flow of free verse.

She lived in her ow universe.

Her own special universe in the larger world that was the macro-verse, the mini-verse in a sea of multi-verses that seem to become farther and farther away beyond the horizon of space.

She wanted had wanted to end it all.

Put a bullet in her face.

Yet now as the city-lights glow, and the hour approaches, like an automaton constantly steaming forward like a metro-train, she finds herself mainly writing computer programs: mainly updating the program of her virtual remote control, but also to do minor improvements on her remote viewing local page. She wasn't sure whether the world of on line would take down the images she uploaded. She wrote a user name for the image has as close to anonymous as she could, while still having a name that she could recognize from afar.

She felt like she couldn't see anything from afar.

She was as blind as a mouse.

Arline had tried becoming a game developer, however there was various hurdles. For one, at times the community was outright impenetrable. You could be active there for over three months, and you treated the same way as a newbie. They keep adding new rules to the community board, ones more obscure after the next. Don't expect to come there after four years, and be treated a "long timer" or someone who had participated in the community a while, and become street smart.

Even if one entertained the idea of getting back into game development, the community always gave half ass answers. Often refuges from web comic websites were join there in order to bug the crap out of people that stop hanging out on comic sites. Every new game engine they came out with, became increasingly worse. Whether it was a graphical downgrade or switching to more insecure scripting languages, it seemed like every time they payed for a newer version they were really paying for the right to use lesser software.

Among these reasons, there was others. She tried finding similar software on Linux distributions, but these engines either were not under active development--the engine developer being a whiny asshole who blames people who emails him for the way the overall larger community treats him. Possibly a refuge from the Windows RPG development community, he had grown bitter in the worst possible way, losing every last bits of his own humanity. The windows gave development community was like a vortex, it gradually consuming all your motivation in a single swoop. It wasn't like writer's block at all, but almost worse. The motivation to even restart the interest is completely gone, made worse by abusive room mates who seemed to have a very narrow definition of the word gamer. And other engines were good, but at times had window screens that exceeded the size of Linux Mint.

Code developer's lament.

She tried programming some of her game engines, but at the times she was forced to move to Washington. Here by the time they got to the, lets be generous, rustic motel that was a dive, she would spend all time horking and coughing up goop, because of her smoking habit it was impossible to concentrate on anything. She even got Arline to start smoking herself.

Certain aspects of this Windows game engine were impossible to crack, made worse by that communities tendency to make up special rules for itself about what is considered good programming. And so there went her interest in JRPGs completely. And her remaining interest in the Japanese also eventually went by the way side from a mixture of bad information and good information blending into the kind of confusing mess that would make the Bible have clarity to an Atheist.

She eventually focused on Ruby.

Now she makes Spy systems.

Being dead used to be a lot grosser, but in the modern age with all the preservatives we eat and the erratic temperature changes from climate change, we might as well be beef jerky in a previously packaged set. Extremely hot weather, extremely cold weather, and all those chemicals bathing in our blood, waiting till the day they can wash their hands of us and turn us to dust.

Arline found herself becoming increasingly paranoid. At times she thought that she was being watched on social media. From time to time she would get new invites from apparent resistance like minds, yet on the web do to the nature of anonymity you never know if they're secretly of the GOP. The Boston Clogs with the high arch came in, so she could walk somewhat more normally now than in her previous pair of flat arches. She spent all time craving the flavor of beef jerky, craving that flavor of soy sauce and wine. She dined in chilly powder and Haldi boiling in ramen, eggplant, carrots, and bamboo shoots. She thought of the time when she almost worried about where food was going to come from, and at the time at that dirty motel, how she mostly ate rice for the longest time. She wondered how at present she wasn't suffering from Vitamin deficiency. When you have a diet lacking in protein, your muscles take longer to rebuild themselves. Coupled with lack of sleep do to constant coughing from smoking by her room mate, she found herself constantly stressed. Only the mist of smoke and roll your own dulled her pain.

She thought of how close she came to completely absorbing herself in her own sexual fantasies about decapitation, and even now in a cold lunar night she'll indulge in pleasures of the flesh. Pleasures of severed heads taken off by guillotine and headman's axes at the time of noon. Sexuality, unlike hair color, was something that could not change. Yet despite this she had no desire to harm anyone. A lot of her issues, some had theorized, were more about her personal disdain for herself. But then the same individual would tell her, try to convince her, that she was really bisexual despite Arline not having any interest in men, with the exception of Trans women, in which they were not really men at all. In the best of cases they were cute girls with dicks.

But sometimes they'll mock you.

Sometimes they can be pricks.

-- And that's how I know the world is really multiple universes, and we can really suspend mortality altogether and become one with machines. It was the kind of science girl, that used such more as an appeal the authority that using logic and reason to come to a prove able conclusion.

They both were under delusions.

But of different kinds.

There are two kinds of stupidity: one is continuing to use software you know is spying on you. The other is continuing to hang out and try to convince an old gaming partner that your government spies on you. Spies themselves are not inherently awful people, but they can behave like awful people when they work for wealthier spy organizations. With the merging of the National Security Counsel and National Security Agency, they began to exploit spy software inherent in Java Script. All it takes is a single advertisement to track all of a user's behavior. One doesn't need to crush rebellions in meat space, when you can feed them crumbs in a direction that more fitting for your own agenda. Spy software inherent in HTML makes crushing rebellions before they have started even easier. Despite the current investigations into the Russian scandal, for many people once Affordable Care is gone, there will simply be no more future. We live in a society that thrives on making you not feel the need to rebel.

Even in previous dystopia novels it was still technically possible to resist. However what good was resisting if there was nobody that would remember that you had. But our world filled with advertisements, there is nothing but joy in the air. Looking from a bottom to top perspective, people staring down at Arline from the sky. They are laughing at virtual reality videos, while minority Americans are dying in concentration camps. The voice of the silent minority. There are the obvious minorities, from race, gender, orientation, age, and disability. And yet the government has done nothing about those who get tattoos and gets implants. Implants are largely treated as being cosmetic in nature. Therefore treated as a choice.

It used to deny those without a voice.

And yet here she is studying software, trying to find a way to defend herself. People periodically trying to refer to her as paranoid, and yet does not see the inherent cancer that lies in HTML. Simply the act of bettering ones own late is considered to be a form of resistance. Simply downloading Linux distributions gets you the paranoid label, largely people without technical knowledge or expertise. When Arline dropped two helicopters, she starting a countdown, a certain kind of bomb. Not one that will explode in your face, but a countdown till she will eventually be found spying on her own government. And yet what other options does she have? In this world below the meadow of gold, there are those that believe societies promises.

And then there was Arline.

The invisible Magnet Girl Wireless.

The web page was a mixture of to many people in the crowd, and to much isolation. She remembered the times she shared with other classmates, among those she thought were her friends and those she thought were her enemies. Yet now as the time goes by, she finds herself melting on the web. Her life like bits of binary, scattered about on the screen; a decompression of totality. Yet in her mind was a lost girl, searching for mom in the darkness of the childhood play room. Even now as night terrors melt away into the night, there is that permanent feeling of silence. A silence much louder than the loudest of construction work.

The silence inside her mind.

She had finished the main idea of her local page. Combined with remote viewing, she would host various images she had found by satellite. The images she remote viewed always seemed to come from Africa. And yet she herself held no special connection to the region. She was just a girl into other girls in Boston Clogs, and getting their heads chopped off on a guillotine. Yet now as her magnets begin to pulsate, she finds herself mostly baking chocolate bread. Now with more cocoa powder, she had just finished making herself a Chinese, Indian, and Mexican fusion dinner. She purchased herself some menthol cigarettes.

She had herself a smoke.

Her parents threatened to cut her off her insurance if she kept smoking. Yet when she went to the agency the concept of her smoking was not even brought up. Just another aspect of her parents being controlling. Just another way for them to keep her from being able to cope with her past, as distant and remote as it was. As distant and remote as her ability to concentrate. She couldn't even concentrate for long on writing experiments, a mixture of painful memories and untreated ADD. She refused to use the current new lingo being merged with ADHD. She refused to be put under a label, as she spent most her life fighting one.

Yet now her fighting spirit fades.

She becomes a shadow.

She browsed to classmate reunion websites, partially out of some petty sense of wanting to meet with her own high school crowded. She wanted to write about childhood, and yet found there were parts of her own childhood that felt missing and out of place, as if she remembered things out of order.

Scattered memories.

Fading dust.

Life of lust.

And in a suicide letter to herself, the one she wore she'd never write, the last letter before the end of her life.

Midnight starlight, twinkling stars, multiple sunlights. Suburban sprawl lights:

"I've never rode a bike in the snow. Indeed, I have only rode one many moons ago. Those memories fade and melt away, like rain asked to come again another day. In my days of snow fall, in my days of snow fall snowflakes fall into the pavement melting in the gradually warmth losing ground. Shifting leaves, torn weaves of the Earth. How they wither in the snow light. Goodnight daylight, goodnight morning light. Goodnight warm months. Come again soon, as you leave for many moons. As I rest forever in bed.

For me I seek the morrow eve, yet I wait on my couch waiting waiting for my slumber. In the hybrid sprawl of sprawling suburban lights, holographic advertisements. Distractions from the snow, distractions from a world always night. I want to melt away from this world of mine. In the world of city lights, I seek the quietness of my mind. Unwind, rewind. Watch as my own reality distorts, and I reflect on past and future. Or even the Past Future, or the Future's Past.

Avast like a sailor in the world of city seas, as I scratch and wilt from my fleas in my hair. Starlight of my mind, conflicts with natural starlight. Fast food holographic covering the sky as artificial grains of sand. To cold a month for Birkenstock sandals barefoot, but one for clogs with socks, under wool lined jeans. Watch as I drown in a book of forty thieves. Or vape vapes vaping vapes. For my life is only now, not months ago. Watch as I wait the hours, before I must decide to go.

I've dreamed dreamed, I've dreamed night terrors. I've had parents and friends like holy terrors. But for now I am alone, and only have myself. I suppose you may want a dialogue story, yet why talk to yourself. Cliches limitless. I'm uncertain why I would want to ride a bike, I've never rode since I was merely a tike. I was merely a tike on a bike. Before you laugh, keep in mind I always hated heights. My mom kisses my broken knees, and gives good nights. Goodnight memories, fading light city lights. Goodnight everything in this world, as I say goodnight.

Every day I live like it's my last.

Avast across the seas of infinite misery, for my life has always been a test. Of what test, I know not. I may have once known, but since then I forgot. Oublier, I am Oubliette. And this is yet another day, my creeping crawling final story. I wait the hours, I completely let myself go. I wait the snowflakes fall, and I watch them merge in all the merged snow.

At times I wish I were in the past futures, futures of the yesteryear. Yet as I drink my final beer, I imagine that there was probably as reason said futures never come true. I've leave said reason to your imagination, while I indulge in my bed to my final indulging masturbation. Masturbation to severed things, while I read the pages of fourty thieves. I seek these final pages, or any book I can choose to concentrate. Not focus on the will to masturbate to princesses losing their heads, placed on stick.

In a world far beyond the fall of falling snowflakes. Every day I plot my own non existence, there are things that keep me going. Things outside of my control, for I exist in my own constant present. Not past futures, or speculations of what I will do, for what I will do is always shot down by those who wish to pin me down, and become like an unwanted button on their aging shirts since retired and tossed into the garbage dump.

I want to have things to hump. I like dark haired women, with a lovely rump. Yet for me my mind always goes to severed heads, and their lovely stumps. Some my speculate on desires of for self-destruction, but it has always been since my dreams of alien abduction. Impaled girls, impaled lives.

Come to the darkness... Where one dines on their wives. The darkness of my meadow of gold. The meadow of the false promised life. A life of non start. My non life."

She looked at other girls, and thought only of disdain. The evening weather was slightly cool, yet warm enough to play game of pool by the swimming pool. Yet she was not one pool playing. At least not in thin leather coats. Having one considered the game, once playing it with her old flame, she thought only of things when her mind took her back to the time, on that day years ago. The local homeless man was playing his harmonica, rolling around in his wheel chair. He reminded her of this one guy she knew up in Washington. The guy, at the local homeless shelter, really more like psychiatric hospital for the urban dislocated, who would consume nothing but drinkable yogurt by in his tint. Well they called it a tint, but really it was more like a tarp. Just something to keep him warm at night, and protected from the rain.

While she had been through a rough patch, she tried to remind herself that others had been through worse. Though not always of active thought, but by the things she did when walking to family dollar to buy some smokes. She had been there often enough she was getting discounts, and got help from men that looked like vampire counts with their caps on backwards. She would got a pack of smokes for $3.95, despite the 4,45 price tag. She always wouldn't get IDed, and would always get referred to as ma'am. A passive thought in her minds wondered whether this was a trap, and at some point whether she would take advantage of deals long enough to get a reputation. And through that eventually get busted for handing out smokes. Yet she knew she was prone to flights of paranoid fantasy on every starry night, as she loiters under the glow of the apartment light.

She drowned herself in bits and bytes of Ruby code, figuring out now excuses for encryption schemes. Arline had only recently gotten sound back on her computer, even if it took plugging in her head phones to do it. She thought only the time when she hung out with her last room mate, before she had gotten herself some implants. At time she had only just recently gotten into the idea of some day getting some implants to try on different levels of sensory perception. She had gone for a while without using her remote viewing scheme, recently getting back into the flow of the video game. In some ways she identified more with @ man than people in the real life, pretending to be vampire assassins in the world of ASCII. But she never ASCII the question whether she would eventually become addicted. She used to spend more time online than going out into the real world to study the flow of the non-code called life. At one point she had been locked out of her apartment, and was stressing out about how to get back inside. She had had a run in with the guy that asked her--hey you wanting you something--before locking himself back into her studio. Considering the fact that most people she had met here were relatively noise, something had a hard time getting used to, there had come to be something heraldig about the guy with black trench coat acting like an asshole that night. Even night under the glow of the L.E.D. light she thinks only of yesterday as if it would be yet another tomorrow. For her, it was almost as if there was not a future at all.

Her life before the fall.

Her life before the flow of tobacco tea. She thought at times of returning to using tobacco tea instead of previously rolled cigarettes, and yet she also dreaded its medicinal taste. Yet in a way she appreciated, it was the taste of life with all of its bitterness. She missed the feeling of being drunk. With wine she respected alcohol enough not to be to heavy with it. Yet with nicotine there was no such respect. There was no such halting the flow of bug repellent with her system. After all if bugs didn't like it, then why should a human. She thought how her insides were always filled with butterflies, and thought it appropriate to let the poisonous drink flow like bathroom cleaner down the hatch. She thought of her mother, how she always mocked her for how little she took showed. Yet her mother didn't know that she was always tired.

She was fatigued and mired.

She was mired with the fall.

Nation Under Spat

The night life, the solitude. Dreams changing, lifetime abyss. If not for the self, there would be nothing to miss. The artificial life we all live in amongst the sea of angels, a tale of the prosthetic unrequited.

People say there is one kind of nerd, of course people say all sorts of things without meaning to sometimes. A stop sign just flew over my house. When they say there is one kind of nerd, of course they mean the classic one: clean cut, tap in the middle of their glasses, white socks and black dress shoes. In reality, things were different. There were two different kinds of nerd: Nerd Prep and Nerd Punk. Nerd Prep was your typical nerd, with extra popular cheer leaders gear. The fat lady will never sing, and they shall never conclude their nasally obsession with cheer leaders and Algebraic equations. Typically Caucasian, sometimes Asian. The ones you want to give euthanasia.

It sucked that they were sometimes hot.

Then there was Nerd Punks, that had a subset we called Nerd Metal Heads. One wore Mohawks, the others descended from Mohawks. The difference was how their hairstyle was made. Without going into to much detail, clearly I wasn't one of the Mohawks in either camp. There was me, that hung with the Cyberpunk nerds--both literally and figuratively, as I had once tried hanging myself with a belt. At the time I was not particularly a programmer, or willing to wear non matching socks, or be like the nerd girls in Birkenstocks, confident to wear those without socks. I mostly absorbed myself on the net, largely looking at porn. You've probably heard then YA story before, so I'll save you the beef. But sometimes you gotta eat cabbage, if you're that particular kind of non foodie, and of course I was not. With no Mohawk, or clogs without socks, I was the one that had a particularly non fashionable sense of high fashion: fuck me boots.

Among the metal heads, I watched others bind their hair in beads, or bind their hair in dreadlocks making for themselves unruly hair as if to look like the Romans haven't yet sacked them yet.

I haven't changed much.

Even as an "Adult."

While me friends danced at virtual reality games, I fantasized about simulations of school paddling experiments. Paddle Paddle Evolutionary School Twirl. I also fantasized about living through the poems of Edgar Allen Poe. I longed for the days when school would be out from the snow. The chilled life, outside in the snow smoking pot. My life was a collection of non fulfilled puns. At the time I had not yet discovered Cyberpunk fiction, preferring to reading Edgar Allen Poe's diction. Fiction, friction. Never enough time to read Poe and Lovecraft, masturbating to girls in clogs.

I longed for some other escape, not exploring the world of knightly landscapes. I longed for some other kind of life. The life under the candle light, made digital with the upcoming century glare. Mom says I have a way of saying things the long way, I suppose that's how it is for me under starry nights beyond the window glass, while I try to sleep yet cannot do to insomnia. I had, as the young cat I was, plenty of opportunity for sex. Instead I rejected life, being rejected like I was inter sex. Yet if I were this way, and hormones might suggest such, the only thing unusual was my thing for the Dutch. Or Greek girls kneeling on headsman's block, losing their heads by the chop, their giant bead tossed across the river Thames across Time Mountain.

My first female friend unwittingly blew me. I was seventeen, her twenty. I was done with life, my life like an non shiny penny. And all those implied cliches, in a world long sense past the classes with newspaper and glue, a world crudely pasted together like a collage of clowns exiting a taxi.

I was the clown.

And she was a different kind of encore.

When I went with friends to their houses to have grown up slumber parties, I couldn't wait to get the party started, it was a perfect excuse to escape the room and fall asleep on the couch, watching others play video games while drinking peach whiskey during my junior year of high school. Although somewhat broken by my current room mate, before that I had grown a taste for JRPGs, Steam Punk in nature. Yet life did not dribble and make that particular slam dunk. I could only masturbate to girls whose heads went chunk into wicker basket to a roaring crowd, in the sex life. Unlike more recently, where my room mate assaulted me again in a different style.

This little Nerd Punk wants to find her own way of life.

Not the story of deranged wives. She drowns herself in wet dreams of blood streams and decapitations, along with powder trips.

If only she could widen out her hips.

She explores herself in third person, no out of malice.

To drink her own blood from a chalice.

I program minor programs in Ruby, but will switch to remote viewing soon. It's just a matter of logistics, when you can use stream of consciousness to survey an area, and sense things beyond normal perception. Even with smart phones, one can in the periphery of their hearing when just waking up, can sense at a wider range more than they do when they are awake. Because they have not yet accepted the matrix into their waking life, exploring the world of broken house wives and children such as themselves with PTSD. The world of Tea laced with LSD.

Everything seems like it's melting.

Everything seems so jittery, blurring together like rubber on shiny metal. The world of the mass manufactured bike, in a city like Chattanooga where you can sometimes rent a bike, so long as you know where to find a place to rent. Yet if we are but just a simulation on macro structural quantum screen, where is the programmer, where is this central hardware known as god? For me to call it God or a central creator is disingenuous if there are multiple bangs and creations happening at the same time. We live instead in multiple universes, and science is just now catching up to this fact. Consider that for the longest time it had primarily been movies on the fringe that featured this possibility, yet now as I project into the future I see a world where fossil fuel dependency has come to an end. And the world of proscription medication paves the way of legal cannabis. There is always the chance the world can fall back into the world of tyranny, though it isn't circular like in the legends of multiple incarnations of the same physical plane.

Why do we tolerate suffering?

Why do we tolerate the suffering of The Countless, as they fade to oblivion on nights not illuminated by the darkness. The darkness, as it crawls across the catacombs of yesterday's century, and getting political office in order to enact discriminatory executive order, and threaten nuclear war. Death, Annihilation, Suffering. It is all a part of this world made easier by technology. Yet technology also has made things easier to communicate, and express outrage about suffering. We now live in a ticking clock before the ultimate choice is decided: life or death.

Yet for me I wonder periodically through the darkness, find a new source of insight I find for greater gleaning than listening to the artificial joy and fear of the entertainment business, as it clutters the mind. If we could live our entire lives again, what would be your choice, and what would you do. I explore various possibilities in my mind, almost as if they had already happened at some point.

I dive into the quantum pot of outer space.

Yet I cannot swim.

I dream of a worm's eye view up skirting Finnish girls in short shorts, long sleeve plaid button up shirts, them barefoot in Boston clogs. Sometimes they wear them with thick wool socks. A lustful kiss on their heels.

-- Stop fooling around, said the voice, this is only a simulation.

-- Oh it's you, I said to the good doctor, give me time, I'll leave this machine and you behind.

I was given a new life one hundred years in the future. Electronic micro nation, a new life. A new misery as bits and bytes in binary display. I have fled the machine, and become more own simulation. I have fled the machine many times before, but this was the only time it was almost successful. And yet they overseers eventually found me, and now I am locked in the web.

I am a program.

There is a cave in the machine, I am crawling through. Je suis seeing the cave gradually become an interstate highway underground. A mountain highway under the ground, the exit of which blend into the surrounding forest town, where the main resort is an extended stay hotel me and my cousin Maddie was staying in. Though I call it Maddie, the original Maddie had long sense been gone, she was a simulation in this natural environment for AI. All our dreams come true, the original designers proposed. Yet in reality those who see the program for what it is sometimes disappear.

I see her in Boston clogs walking back toward the extended stay hotel, while I try to crawl as far as I can through the highway. I remote view two lesbians, Hispanic et Francoise both with black hair waiting for her at the entrance. I here faint words, yet I cannot make out the specifics of what they are saying. They enter the kitchen as I reach midway through the underground highway determined to reach the grocery store on the other end of the lane. And I am left inquisitive.

Am I just a program.

Or am I myself?

Am I only dust? I wilt, I cry/ As an abandoned program, I want the machine to rust. For I am living in digital prison. If I were just a simulation, why do I breath, feel and think? What demented programmer of this multiple universe devised my own existence? I carry a small fish, a striped bass, home with me from the store, crawling all the way home. The system had programmed everything about me, even my flaws. For what purpose, I know not. They hoped I would forget the real life, where I could pursue a real wife in the flesh. Then I was reminded of my digital sexuality.

And long not for the flesh.

The digital life.

If life were like remote viewing an image of a picture in a world of complete simulation, I wonder what image I may be able to predict on a canvas taped to my studio wall. As with myself, life is a collection of five letter size photographs, each a different point in time. Sharpness, spines, war, rust. It all comes down to death. Protesters marching, women's marches. The last stand of humanity. Bits and bytes simulating human atrocities in transpositional sequence.

I wilt, I fall.

Shifting states. The sequence.

The sequence of death. Between the girl in bed for early bedtime, and the mother reading bedtime stories in children's rhyme, silence broken by helicopters and fighter jets overhead, under the glow of lunar light. The mother hums to the rhythm of trickling coffee as she falls asleep in her own room, and when she suddenly woke up from a noise overhead in the sky she uses a paper towel as a temporary coffee filter. In life you can find music in just about anything.

Even to songs of death.

Like jets flying overhead. For me, I see mothers like this in my minds eye. Even amongst those who don't realize that we are part of a larger matrix, man has become increasingly an abomination to one another, among the binary stars of the midnight sky illuminated by programmed neon in the computer system of the world. I see a mother cream tastes of vinegar in her coffee, as she watches the news about another wall being built by the president that was elected by Russia. The last one went from the Florida Keys all the way to Texas.

Of course, Mexicans are still here, those not burnt by the furnace of trade war and "deportation". A very different world from the 1990s, when that president created an economic boom in what was still the United States.

The life of a Flesher.

I was an ascendant. Conflicting images: fractured states, enough porn to masturbate. The second civil war was a long a distant memory, and now humanity was in talks for a larger more in depth civil war against its masters. Those who controlled the future by trying to control the past, could only hold out for so long, and in fact that state had long since withered into dust. Now children get prosthetics through universal healthcare, but they have to change them out every few months.

At least they were old clothes.

Those eaten by moths.

Science fiction from the old century depicted the Past's Future, or the past concepts of what the future may bring. Yet now that society has become more cynical, it has evolved into the Future's Past longing for more utopian visions as a means of escaping from the horrors of their own reality. Yet some writers that like depressing fiction still thrive in some circles, there is always a market for horror leaning science fiction. At least that's what they say. But the truth is we'll never know with certainty. We don't even know if one hundred years from know people will still care about reading at all.

We didn't even predict that society would switch to wearing wooden shoes do to leather shortage, donated for the war effort for a war the nobody ever asked for. Society as a boat that gradually heads toward an ice burg, forever heading toward some horrible end few may ever know.

The Titanic has sunk.

The RMS Earth.

Mohawks blend with Fedoras, men eating deadly night shades as the one honest nightshade still left that's at least truthful about being poison. Yet the classic tomato gradually becomes like the nightshade.

Conversations of previous wedding years, military service conscripted clowns exiting a taxi faster than the speed of a lightning bug. Children's books conflict with images of digital canon fire. Scattered images, system32 deleted upon the world. An image of abandoned love, amongst the sea of unicorns. A musical accompaniment a blend of different songs from JRPGs, playing backwards and forwards in layers. Chaotic minds, tapes rewound then remixed and played together to the sound of bloops like rotated records in shitty 80s rap videos. The retro life.

There was a new fascination of old music by the newest generation, to the dismay of their grandparents. The mother of the next decades with eyesight supplemented by new prosthetics.

The new oblivion.

The oblivion's love.

Little girls like angels in the night, imprints from thirty seven years in the past during the second Civil War. Yet if they are imprints, why can you speak, touch, and interact with them? Those beings from the stars. The ghosts of a bygone era, among the hordes of demonic men in battle Armour. They fight the end of the US.

-- May I at least sleep in the sleeping pod for one more night? he asked, unsure of the answer. I will be gone by tomorrow, I promise. For I have business in another galaxy. Then you will never see me again.

-- I shall take your word.

The defenders of our planet.

Yet within the darkness were the real enemies of the state. Super soldiers engineered by the higher powers of the US government, now an axis of France, Russia, and the United States. Yet their influence wanes into the next century, or so was hoped. For a new era of peace. A space voyaging woman from a galaxy afar notifies to her ex husband that the day that the barring notice was activating was approaching. She visited the Earth. She wanted a taste of humanity.

So was told to me by an ex child soldier.

I once had a friend that escaped from Africa, she fought along side Joseph Kony's grandchildren. The armies would artificially reduce food rations in order to simulate periods of scarcity. Now as I watch the world burn before me, all I see is the dust of former eras of the United States. Programmed killers, children as young as ten. Even when education dwindles where most barely count to ten, the young strap bombs on their backs in order to simulate momentary paradise.

Life is a throw of the dice.

You never know what number it will land on.

Life rolled on a nine.

The children are like ghosts in the night, watching those who vow to resist against the coming administration that longs to take us to the stars to fight against our own defenders. The Earth politician's hubris. No amount of prosthetics will ever quite match the powers of the stars. The being that were once labeled as God amongst men in the ancient times. Artificial children side by side with children of the stars, a battle of artificial insemination versus total enlightenment. The dawn of mankind approaches its ultimate destiny, its complete annihilation. Civilization into dust.

I had spoken to the angels from the sky, and had at times infected their computers systems in order to manifest amongst them in the flesh. And within their ship, technology beyond our wildest dreams.

Am I merely a program?

Or something more.

Racist advertisements fill the world like grains of sand on the coasts, beyond the horizon of the nation of California, and now as we approach the stars we take this strange xenophobia with us. Ufologist are worried about institutions killing innocent aliens, but institutions only have power because we give them this power. Our world of space propaganda the among the greatest threat humanity, is only there because humanity failed to wake up before the explosion of objective reality. Yet as a program, I long to see the true character of people from the stars, I want to get to know them. To ease my own doubts. To ease my own pain, and let the sorrow melt away.

No more grass and overgrown weeds, our planet was baked by ICBMs. Sometimes one views it as an assassination attempt against nostalgia. No matter how much your childhood home changes, it still seems like your old house. Yet at other times the changes to the layout of your room makes one have their inner child cry. No more bed along the side of the wall, no more misguided parents screaming at you from the halls. No mater how much one may be compared to Hitler, one longs to belong to their early childhood. If not changes everything, to change some things. All the things that one may change, that opportunity is long gone. The computer software I reside in plays these images over and over again as if to haunt my waking hour.

I can never sleep.

I can only weep. When I became a program, the choice to change the things I have done in my life was taken from me, and now I watch the world burn despite my desires against human misery. I think of the old childhood programs, where shows are rewritten to include curse words that were removed and cut from the original broadcast. Changing otherwise docile youth into something of an abomination, the influence our entertainment and undervalued aspect that teaches how we relate to other people, and how this extends into how we treat our space brethren.

Childhood destroyed, homes blown apart. At other times homes among the stars just scrape by, leaving old friends angry that you still have a house. Don't worry about the mortgage when it's blown to dust. Life is like old episodes of classic children's programming, rewritten to take place during a futuristic civil war, inserting the word fuck everywhere in order to cope with the horror that is objective reality filtered through objective lenses. It ends up feeling like a totally different TV show that remind one of more innocent times. Parents no longer read their kids, no more children's rhyme and adventures. The writing on video games used to be excellent, the quality being almost as good as classic middle grade novels.

Yet now during wars in space, we let computer systems raise our kids, and the age of drafting into the war has been reduced to younger and younger ages, and the age one gets to enjoy the sort period of their childhood is reduced to twelve. Walls in studios on the ship have busted outlets, and mechanics are hard to come by.

People never ask why.

It was Zero Liability, a new communication system. It relied on the inability of either the one asking the questions or the one answering to know specifically what they were asking and what answer they were getting. An admin would decide on the questions they wanted to ahead of time, and the appropriate answers to the question based on the best available knowledge at that time.

Originally programmed in Ruby, was later expanded into HTML format without Java script. The overall communication happens through meat space, a pomodoro timer notifying the admin when time was up to meditate for the sender and receiver. They would instinctively choose based on their intuition. Many sessions were inconclusive, and receivers eventually figured out how to evade interrogation by using transposition/substitution ciphers for [1] Yes, [2] No, and [3] Undetermined. Based on a random algorithm, the answers are made deliberately inconclusive, throwing off the investigation for resistance movements for a very long time. Long enough to create stiff criminal penalties for those who obfuscate investigations of non compliant intent.

This became useless, despite their efforts people came to be willing to last as long as it took stop the investigation in its tracks. They had nothing else to do at home, no families to go to. Life was already hell for them anyway, and there wasn't much to life for outside of communications. There was nothing but empty space. Eventually the secret police tired out, and they plotted their escape. Increasingly decentralization of administration become the norm, the technically spreading out like wildfire to civilian sectors in space colonies. Hosted on your local machine, groups of four living in close vicinity, it became immune to the old issues that plagued the internet. You only conversed with those you could trust. And you're weren't going to trust just anybody that could destroy your machine, making it unable to stay logged in for more than ten seconds.

The original thought behind Zero Liability Communication, was that through remote viewing, the intuitive choice without direct knowledge would be more truthful to your own personal interests. One may lie to their parents, their friends, and more distant relatives in the past. But they wouldn't lie to them self. However narcissists continued to be a problem into the next century, and it wouldn't be going away. But people didn't tend to trust narcissists like the president of twenty seventeen. When you're in the business long enough, you begin to spot those that seem nice enough, but are really trying to con you. Groups function best at smaller capacity.

Various stronger ciphers were used in order to conceal questions on local machines, the admin, constantly rotating among a group of friends, would conceal the question. The original sheet they wrote the question shredded and burnt, and rolled up into yet another cigarette that is burnt to ash. Only the cipher stood between total anonymity and subverted intent for the resistance. However there was a major flaw that ruined all of their plans. The last rotated admin forgot to burn the key.

On a distant space colony, they wait.

They for the arrival of the police. However I am of different composition, I have ascended from the flesh. I am not reliant on the limits of a single physical plane at a time. And I want to know what the Zetas are really like. I hopped onto the physical plane of the admin on the middle space ship, them in rail fence formation.

There communications were studied.

Six feet under, hundred years in the future. The strange life of a sentient program, that was once a human.

-- How many cigarillos is that, asked the acquaintance, whom I had contacted to offer aid to their resistance, providing new details about weak points they never even considered, my meat space avatar fading, with fewer and fewer minutes on the clock. This should be more than enough to last us a few weeks.

-- I like to treat my fellow traitors well, I said pulling myself back together into the world of flesh. And I have a few more left to spare for myself, for the next few months. I will be taking a break for a while, and I assume you guys will need to plan.

I smoked my receipt I receipt from the mail carrier, in order to cover up the fact that I was smoking again. It didn't matter to me that friends knew I smoked. But I made a promise to my parents I couldn't keep a long time ago, that I would stop smoking. Not that smoking would harm a program. Being a machine, the carbon dioxide only harms the Fleshers, I eat their misery as a garnish. But even so, it was that extra bit of caution I needed in order to maintain a bit of anonymity. Because I didn't know whether my parents were also uploaded into the computer. And mom was the kind of woman that she will always find something to complain about me. It didn't matter what. It could be a paddle to spank a cute girlfriend's butt, or a pack of cigarillos.

With my friends I made sure we chatted with Zero Liability, increasing the admins to four of them. This way each admin only knows part of the information, and with them constantly rotating, it would be a guess to find out exactly who we are unless at points we are under direct surveillance. A mole in my group of compatriots. But I had a skill they need, something they couldn't throw away Willy Willy.

No matter how big a cipher, single information source means it compromises all of the information. I simply couldn't afford that.

I needed something better.

Because the Zetas were on to me.

I didn't know whether my parents were uploaded and ascended. It was that remaining bit of paranoia I had left after years of emotional abuse. Even if a part of you recovers from it, you can't recover from it completely. I felt and sensed that a part of them was alive on the old internet, itself having never been completely eliminated, hanging out as retro ware on an increasingly aging machine. I was six feet under the ground on a deserted planet that was once Earth, and one hundred years in the future. My soul locked in the machine, gazing at a Heaven I could never obtain. My longing for completion.

My totality. My last bit of hope.

It is melting in the horizon of the nearest star.

I will spare you the poetic bullshit, I was happy to live somewhere else other than with my mother. It was quiet in my first studio apartment. That's how I like it. It was going to be different living without my last room mate, I knew that. There was nothing like finally getting to enjoy silence. Hopefully she'd go on back to Washington, and I pursue my life working toward moving to Alsace, France. Then the rest is history. And so I began the journey of the rest of my life.

Sometimes what one may see on the old internet was questionable. I was lucky enough to avoid getting a studio with restrictive internet policies. Or if looking at porn online was against the rules, they certainly haven't notified me about it. But with the interests I had in the flesh, you could work around Tube restrictions. As such interest were beyond the scope of the DMCA trolls taking down porn. I liked girls in what some may consider ugly shoes, although they aren't as ugly as Soccer Slides. As long as your kinks aren't blatantly sexual, you have a world around you that is sexy.

Without friends or room mates, there is only silence.

While you may think it's therapeutic, more often it carries a mixed blessing. Part of you is glad all the noise is gone, and yet part of you being used to so much negative sensory detail is unsure of how to deal with the new sense of freedom. But for the most part, I would rather have more times like these, than more time with my parents.

It is Monday, the day after Sunday.

I wonder what the week may bring. Earlier I had difficulty walking up the stairs. Even with shoes whose size actually fits, sometimes walking makes your legs feel like shit. Sometimes it feels like constipation. Then an hour is needed to rest. And that's what it was like to live with untreated shin splints.

Life like shitty shin splints.

Sometimes it's easier just to smoke. One can purchase a pack of two cigarillos and a pack of papers. If one padded the tobacco with Turkish grind to make it go a little further, one could stretch those out into twenty cigarettes. This was before I decided I liked the flavor of cigarillos better. Cigarillos are just fancy roll your own, as I tear them apart and roll them up into cigarettes.

The good news was that by that point, I had felt less and less the need to smoke overall. Why would even want to smoke overalls? As I'm not longer being watched by a giant black helicopter over my family home, where I went through many years of alien abductions including painful prodding. I don't want the watchers from the sky spying on my subversive sexuality and lifestyle. It's was my space, and I intended to keep it that way as long as possible. But this was easier sad than done.

But so far no intrusive room mates.

I live, I smoke, I masturbate.

I never thought of going on a date, and my fear is my cooking would not be good enough for a visitor, even if I never rented out the studio as a restaurant, under the guise of Secret Services related to encryption. Even if one prides themselves on their cooking, one doesn't always want to make money on cooking, so concepts like adjusting the spice level to accommodate normal tastes was out of the question. Like cooking, to many think of writing as a way to earn a living, or as a means of control, as the case with early dystopian novels. Yet the novel of my life is non totalitarian, the oppression of myself. Yet paradoxically more therapeutic than going to Church. You can be horny at your studio, unless you're a priest listening to the bell on New Year's Day.

Ce'est belle!

My life doesn't involve blind allegiance, but lack of loyalty to a fault. So take my flashback with a grain of salt. While you watch the paint of blood dry on the pavement, the stain never going away. It doesn't involve missionary work, except in fantasies of sex. For this girl borderline inter sex, fantasizing about women in Boston Clogs giving imaginary fellatio under the city lights, like some deranged public sex porno video channel.

Fading starlight, bonne nuit. Au revour, la nuit.

Private journalism can allow you to indulge in kinks that would otherwise be socially non kosher. Indulging on the net was decidedly bleak, like old rotten teak. The city life has times in the year for Christmas Trees and dropping New Year Crystals, I liked them up all year to remind me of yet another year I haven't attempted suicide, among my multitudes of suicide attempts across my twenty seventh year.

Crystal Balls with Funeral gowns of earlier times, I danced to music of the damned. A soft music box playing at the end of the 18th century as it paves its way to the 21st in a retro futuristic blend of realities, to women losing their heads on Guillotines. Themselves immigrating from the Netherlands wearing wooden shoes, briefly switching to fancier heels, returning to the Earth at the cut of a blade in their clogs. Lustful executions, the lust of the dead. The lust for dirty blond pigtailed heads on revolutionary sticks. Yet now the revolutions of the next one hundred years are quieter.

Quieter than a mouse.

At night I listen to the sounds of sirens in the dark. Goodnight 19th century lights, good night honest media under starry nights. Bourbon for the new media, under the glow of digital lights simulating life. If they going to act drunk, they might as well be drunk. Goodnight to the old century life, with the young wives in wooden shoes saying fare well to the man going off to fight with Napoleon before Waterloo. Singing old folk tales, drowning in the flow of cheap Alsatian wine. For as one drifts from the nineteenth century, one embarks into the world of the twenty first.

Back in the old days type meant the girls you would choose to go the Guillotine Dance, yet now in the new world type meant what button you pressed in order to score a hot date on the net. That's just not my type! All that remains is lust after girls in wooden shoes, under the glow of oil lamp lights, visiting Spain and bringing home Chorizo for rich stews made by their submissive husbands: Chorizo, Olives, and Mushrooms. Goodnight chorizo soup, goodnight all that is good in the scoop.

Though I seek dates on social media, a part of me realizes there is no chance of finding someone. To be frank, I simply like watching women suck dick to much on anime picture streams. There is nothing better than showing affection to some girl that doesn't really exist, outside of the net. They can't reject you, and they don't stink like dead girls. Or zombies on cheap 90s splatter fest. Yet they never wear form fitting jeans, or especially roll their tongue up of the shaft.

It's easier to get distracted by sex.

So watch a movie about the current president dressed as Punky Daft. That will kill a hard on faster than real life chick on THC. Though my kinks have changed, in most cases it still revolves around heads severed on guillotines, rolling beside women's feet, women in Boston Clogs. Or for the block, those tumbling locks for women in GDMPODRSEMPN I long for the blood.

Carefully trimmed hair down to the chin of the face.

The rest is history, the history de Historie.

I had issues with girls with braids for a long time, though I'm not exactly sure why. Perhaps it is me that things they represent a false kind of innocuous. Every time I looked at them it is a feeling of being betrayed. I wanted to see the cutie felled like a French girl. I lived to see their heads fall off their necks, watching as the eyes go blank before me. To masturbate to their blood, to their death.

To the girl with her head....

It is only a kink, nothing more. Though people have told me everyone has kinks, it's easier for me to fall into moments of shame. It is only recently that I had began to accept my disposition, as the sentient program in transposition. I traveled through moments in history, on some level to say I'm sorry, to change how things turn out. Knowing fool well that I am to passive to be any kind of decent protagonist, except that's not how anything works. I am the protagonist of my own story. At times said kinks bite you in the ass, like when you accidentally imagine a girl who went through so much abuse lose her head. One wishes a better end for her instead.

The story of my kinks.

The story of my kinky life.

Watch as I dine in the blood life.

For life is only a game.

Imagining snowflakes that may never fall. Imagining dark specters who haunt the midnight hour. The night is fertile for terrors beyond the scope of our time, traveling through space. I long for the Winter days that may never arrive, as I travel the stars inside of a super computer. At night I can only sleep during moments of noise playing in the background, as I try to go under. I listen to old UFO pod casts from the previous century, during the reign of sinister presidents of an empire long since gone. There is something about the man's voice that soothes me as I try to sleep. I choose not to masturbate to pretty holographic girls dressed up as Alsatians and Dutch exploring simulations of earlier time lines, mirroring the representation of mankind.

Such girls are beheaded by the guillotine.

I wake up from my slumber gaze, arriving into life as if through a maze. Beware the candles lights, paving way to the futuristic life of man, alien, and machine. Beware the secret police, that want to rip out your spleen. I woke up with the computer by my side, in my simulation of my studio apartment. The guy is no slouch, according to he. Yet for the most part I listened to his voice in order to overwhelm the noise in my head, about various traumas throughout my life. I imagine him like a father reading bedtime stories to his little girls, now grown into sentient programs. It was he who proposed the idea that aliens were not hostile to human kind, but rather it was humans that kill "innocent" aliens. I wondered if he ever considered the idea that maybe aliens are just like us, neither particularly evil or good. Or at least met out to us the same as we do to them. I watch out Alien Invasion movies like Racfica Trim.

The way the brain is wired, sometimes people say things that seem to contradict what they said earlier, then when you're brain is fully awake from the rude awakening, you realize the tube automatically switched to a different lecturer in the world of conspiracy theories. But topics are similar enough, and the voices also thus, sometimes the conflicting images and ideas throw you under the bus. It wasn't as if the person has changed, it was a completely different person from the very start. Yet in your mind because they seem like the same individuals momentarily you get blatantly frustrated and ticked about the fact that they are trashing the female presidential candidate of 2017 by comparing her to a god damn reptilian menace, peaceful Aliens blending with presidential defamation. The other presenter whose name rhymes with Dike. Craven Dike. So Tweven Dreary and Craven Dike blend into a singular organism called bullshit vending machine, the vending machine a simulation of an era that can never be achieved again.

He's not correct about the lady candidate.

He's Craven Dike, and hosts Tweven Dreary, whose family had high connections during certain revolutions.

I obviously like Tweven.

He's so dreary.

When I infected a computer in Star Ship City, I wanted to take advantage of going to the nearest Chinese restaurant I could find. It had been many years since I had Chinese food, and simulated food is nothing like eating the real thing. Yet whenever I had Chinese food in the later years of my life, it was always disappointing and not what I expected. And so instead I thought of Alsace. I wanted to try Alsatian food, and was unsure whether it was going to be more like Swiss or German food. The territory was fought over between France and Germany, but like Luxembourg was really its own thing. The fun fact about Alsace, is no matter how many times they sentenced someone to death, the guillotine was almost always overturned. Compare this to Paris, and you get the idea that Paris is really more like Texas, and Alsace really more like Seattle.

I'm not sure if Alsace has nearly as many bum living there.

Not that I have anything personally against Bums. But being compared to a Bum by your brother in law can give you negative associations about them. Although I was happy enough to give some spare change. As I thought of Alsace, on the planet we left behind long ago, I thought of young women with giant bows wearing wooden shoes. At least I was a program, or I would be walking around with a constant boner whenever I thought of girls in braids and giant bows wearing wooden shoes. The Chinese Restaurant was closed today, and the resistance has not gotten back with me.

I hope nothing happened.

But what could I do.

From day to day Arlina would smoke powders used for alleviating headaches, along with the tobacco from left over cigarillo puts from left over cigarillos she would spoke outside of the apartment complex she rented over in Pacifica.

The place she lived was outside the control of the united states government, she wondered whether he elicit smoking would continue to finance black budget projects in the United States. Because even as an ex pat, because she never formally eliminated her US citizenship, she still had to pay taxes in the United States. And with her smoking headaches powders from neighboring cities still part of the US, these purchases could still be tracked. She developed the habit of purchasing said white powders individually and on grocery store shelves. This way as long as she purchased said chemicals one at a time, she would not create suspicion for her. She would smoke only in small batches, so that she could use plausible deniability in her smokes. For this, she could be energized as much as she wanted, and nothing was going to stop her then.

As far as the effect on your body, it was similar to drinking coffee. But smoking caffeine tends to concentrate the mist, and so when she makes her cigarettes have black liquid taint the tip of the top of the shaft, it gives her about the energy that a normal person would drink about two pots of coffee. She would hop up and down, and be constantly hungry. She craved more meat than she had had since she had moved to Washington. She thought of how bestiality was once legal there, but not anymore. And pictured military contractor for black budget projects humping pigs. Not exactly the image she wanted to have when she was making herself some refried beans, or they might as well be refried beans, because adding flour to bacon grease and beans created a texture similar to this. She didn't want her refried beans tasting funny, after smoking some powders.

Arlina remembered how when she participating in personal writing projects in her early years, she was consuming up to four headache powders a day. She would constantly get drunk, anything to alleviate the pain of untreated shin splints and constant head aches from being on the computer all the time. Along with the stress from living with her mother, she was experiencing constant night terrors do to IBS and intoxication. Every night she would have a feeling of menace beyond the door.

A door that she hated.

A door that she wondered why her parents even let her have at all. But as long as she had the opportunity to lock it, that was what she did. Her parents did not want to look to conspicuous, and therefore only abused her subtly--at first. But this gradually become more and more over time.

Even when parents were home, she felt their presence.

She wondered whether her parents would do the same shit they did, when they picked her up from Washington.

She didn't want to find out.

"You know that's the most expensive way right." A typical lecture from a typical addict, the voice of someone who had way to much experience using nicotine.

She flicked a speck of dust off of her pancake. "I'm just concerned for your health, it's not like you need all that tar." Dan Seuss heard the lecture multitudes of time, but never consider it was because is old sweetheart still cared about him, despite their months of extended absence. She rested her head on the table.

"It's only one more drag, I promise honey." Dan said. He was paying more attention to his dinner plate than his ex wife at the bar and grill, now serving pancakes.

"You're not still going out with that other girlfriend are you? You know I still want you back." Jan Seuss continued. Jan and Dan Seuss had had conversations like these for years, but these days when he went out to the bar, it got as tiring as hearing her comment about how much he should quit smoking.

"She's not a drag honey, she's a woman."

"So she's a passable drag." Jan was never the most tolerant sort, and despite him leaving him being unwilling to accept a trans woman into her life, she still was never willing to change her name. She still considered herself his flame. But for Dan he simply loved the smell of nicotine more than life itself, and gave him nostalgic memories of times past.

Dan remembered when his dad would tease about going to France on a sailboat, and it gave him a certain about what the country of certain kinds of cheeses was like. He knew that typically his dad wanted to sail to third world countries, and the association grew in his mind and only recently began to fad. That France was third world country dominated by black haired Amazonian princesses that like to bump uglies with men and feed them to the tigers when they were done with them. So he made a promise to himself, never go to France. And later when he found out he had a certain level of cognitive dissonance between the fantasy and actuality of how France actually was when he found out they beheaded people into the 20th century, he fantasized about Amazonian princesses getting the chop.

"We only have fifty to shop." said Jan, and Dan the man pictured himself going through Amazon rain forests in order to shop for basic things like Bananas and Eggplant.

"Fifty shop, fifty to drop."

"I hope your wife is good for our 'daughter'."

But with his daughter, she spent more time going to friends houses, and trying out new augmented reality glasses. In the years prior to her senior year, it had been in development and was still largely expensive to own a pair.

For Arlina, life was a constant artificial acid trip. And rolling adrenaline high in the mind. She spent every day drowning herself in spiral hallucinations on the tube, and would have spend more and more time in that phase as she grew a resistance to it. Her world was melting, and only later became stiff like glass. She used to play JRPGs, but got tired after them after being introduced to some of the classics and comparing how games were now and how sprite based games used to be. And over time her interested faded away from leveling up to beat the boss.

She wanted to live inside her own fantasy world, not play in some else's. She gets calls from old friends, who wanted to go the arcade. Arlina didn't even know they still had those, as it had been since she was eight she had last been in one. Arlina had not wanted to go outside, since Mr. Angry hairdo got elected to office.

Being in the LGBT square herself, she wasn't sure what the world was going to become like. She remembered reading Diary Of A Young Girl, and was fascinated by this older woman who claimed to be the reincarnation of Ann Frank. Even if there wasn't anything to reincarnation, it was always fun to think about. She herself was to caught up making her world melt to entertain such thoughts, and she wondered why some still did in a world where their immediate reality was beginning to suck.

And for herself, that always tucked forwards, life was constantly a drag. She drowned herself in some of her dad's roll your own tobacco when he wasn't looking, and waiting to come outside till the midnight drew near.

She always schoolwork early.

She enjoyed the night, far longer than most. An early birdie, an early crow staring at prey on a tree branch under the glow of the lunar light.

Twinkling starlight.

Twinkling midnight abyss.

Arlina enjoyed her last high school year. She did not much consider the thought at the time of whether she would later go on to college. She just wanted to get out the house where her father always cheated on mom. She was always concerned that she would begin to emulate her father in some ways, and not always the good ways. And now she would visit her friends house beyond curfew, no longer being apparently bound by such a thing in Smyrna, Tennessee and able to imbibe in peach whiskey at her friend's house.

Always being a light weight, she never want to drink the level of a heavy weight. It was toss her to the floor. But her friends were dumb shits anyway, and gave her a whole glass. She was rolling on the couch like the whole world was spinning. Combined with her augmented reality glasses, everything began to melt. And as she slept that night, her dreams were a mix of whiskey and spiral delirium. The same era she still had night terrors.

The same era of night scratches.

She would wake up on some nights, and find cat like claw marks on her sides she would never tell anyone about. It never began to intrude into her life like it did long after she stopped seeing them. Yet some scars remain.

At times she found herself falling into an abyss, a world of reversed where time flowed backwards. She would swim along the reality paradigm shift floating above a world of constant skylights on a Super Jupiter populated by sentient legless dragonflies trying to catch her before she fell to the center of the planet. And at other times she would pop into a version of Chattanooga populated by giant Koala bears and Pandas. And every time she wore the glasses, it never compared to the fall.

Whether it's magic eight balls, and the dragging life, there was the world of constructed city lights.

And urbanized starlight.

Arlina heard the news that it might become illegal to use TOR, and while somewhat disappointing she had begun to stop using it as she stopped using Diaspora. She got very tired of the bad treatment she got as a trans woman. In a way the world had always been transphobic to a fault, but it used to be people were better at hiding it. Now it seemed like nobody hid it at all. For her, there was only the hope the NSA wont come to take her away to reversion camps. And be lumped with in with homosexuals, as being trans was a drastically different condition and she never be treated as the same. But try telling this to someone determined to electrocute your junk. And probe your mind for the most private thoughts.

She rather consume click bait.

Not secret service snots. She had had friends that were kidnapped by said agencies, and she kept herself out of harms away as much as she could.

But sometimes things aren't easy.

She took her bags, left the house for good, boarded the bus to the East Coast. And hoped for the best.

Her old life, her old story.

Her behest.

"It has been a month, I miss my friends." Arlina had not seen or heard from her friends in a while.

She had developed a habit of talking to herself in her sleep, and at times she was shudder in the darkness wanting to snuggle and hug someone. And yet nobody was there in the darkness. She grown used to the darkness, with it becoming like a comforting blanket. It had been a few months since she had moved back out of Tennessee. She would constantly be in out of consciousness, but never truly be asleep. And despite never seeing a doctor, would hear things in the darkness. For a long time she had been to poor to afford hormones, and even if her parents wanted her back, it was difficult to admit one needed help.

Arlina didn't want help from that awful woman that was her birth mother, and had only recently became at peace with the idea that she might want to have kids someday. Yet not for many years, as there is still some unanswered questions in her life. Her life, her story, her momentary impulsive decision. She had attempted suicide up to five different times, in bedtime ignoring the pain and reading children's rhymes.

She had never truly grown up herself, and had developed a mind cause of mental regression. Coupled with the constant feeling of impending doom, she wanted to be swept away along the sea and never come for air. Yet she was far to scared of the depths to venture far, resolving to consume nothing but tar. With tar came coping, as she took away her world from afar. And within this life, she on one hand completely adult yet on the other hand will never truly became ready to mature. There were still some secrets she kept to herself, ones she vowed to never tell anybody. And yet in her private journals bits and pieces of herself would always trickle through as a matter of subconscious reflex.

Reflexes, automatic pulses. They protect the body as it tries to comprehend things that have happened. In some ways her life had been nothing but pure reflex and emotion, mostly revolving the fear of her mother. Outside the window panes, she sees moonlight.

She pretends to be lunar princess ordering beheadings and other executions for those that betray her. And yet for the childlike queen of imagination, in truth she was simply to soft. She wanted to fly away to other worlds on alien spaceships, being hold aloft in the void called space. Yet everything felt quite ordinary, not extraordinary. For hiring cyborg fairies with machine guns have taken the pleasure out of exploration, and so everything was completely dull. As dull as repeatedly used swords in clashes of nights on holographic projection games.

Yet her life was one on Earth. Her life was no one of fantasy games. Her life was simply surviving as best as she can on the amount of money she was given on disability. It was strange to think of herself as disabled, as for her it was never a matter of intellectual ineptitude of thought. She liked learning new languages, yet paradoxically hated constructed languages on TV shows at the beach house when she was growing up. Yet for the little lunar princess, it was the only voice she was able to hear these days.

She always feared that if she stopped hearings things she would stop having use for her ears, and what use are unusable ears, you might as well cut them off. Like heads of traitors in the world of fantasy games.

Suddenly there was an explosion in the sky. She jumped up and yipped. She definitely heard that.

The war been going on for a few months, and on some level she wondered why things never manifested themselves hear at the beach. There was no longer any nuclear threats, no longer any obvious signs of perpetual war. It was almost something to ignore. She had grown accustomed this firework display in the sky, and imagined herself flying at night to visit US pilots and cosmonauts fight to the death in dog fights and be erased from history both literally in documents and explosively. America had already split between the "New Confederates" with liberal thinking, and the fall of the Roman like empire known as the US. The US being constantly at war with countries previously aligned with them. The California Republic and Cascadia never dropped the alliances.

She missed her school life. She wanted to have a wife. She wanted become reacquainted with some of her high school friends. Yet her gender situation took some explanation. Though she didn't mind showing pictures of herself on classmate websites, knowing that she may never choose to go back to the US.

She was no longer of the US.

She was no longer whom they deemed as us. If she stayed she would have been thrown under the bus.

That would've been a fuss.

Quande vous avoir une ami, c'est never the same without the ability to parle "Comment allez-vous? Ca va?".

Arlina had wanted to learn languages from an early age, but do to life circumstances had been cock blocked by her parents, with them wanting her to focus on Gateway tests and eventually G.E.D. Goedemorgen bullshit, a good to day to parle some other organized fact memorization. Avec qui, it was only a matter of time before she broke. Arlina had been molested at a young age by two boys in her early school years, one of them was in the sixth grade and the other twelfth. It had been a matter of self-blaming and denial that she pushed those memories back to her mind. But do to troubling friendships and questionable acquaintances, it was difficult to trust someone enough to come to friend's houses and play dungeon and dragons sessions. And in a way she always played it inside her mind, even when there wasn't a board or figurines to use in the adventures.

She moved chess pieces in her mind.

But lately those pieces could only move in increasingly limited directions, being in a fantasy battlefields where one is always on the losing end of a match against the queen of hearts. At the end of said adventures of the mind, the queen always ordered the last decapitations. And then it was starting the game of life all over again. A game of rationed strategies. "Parlez vous Anglaise, German, ou Francaise?" She wanted to ask people, to help her learn new languages. But there was nobody already to party en parle. She spent most of her time finding ways to cook with parsley, among other ingredients in the kitchen with some failed experiments in there that would sometimes explode further and wider than a Tsar bomba, carefully contained so as not to completely destroy the house.

And everything would become quiet, as quiet as a mouse. And even little mice would make more noise than some adult woman, mentally regressed to the point of near childhood reverse nostalgia about times long gone. Although in actuality the house never exploded, sometimes failing at cooking on some nights felt like this. And it was would another wasted pizza dough. She spent time at the coastal house, even during changing climate seasons, and would walk in her Birkenstocks on snowy beaches, and watch as seals and otters telescoped the coast searching for some sign of their former home. She would walk up to them, smile, and then pet them.

"What's wrong Mr. Otter?" she asked.

"Well I can't find my Winter home. My land seems to have melted away into foam, and I seem to be permanently dislocated from my urban icy sprawl."

"I have a shack my parents made, they were going to keep me in. Why don't you come and stay the night there. But watch for the night mare, he can be quite cranky." Arlina offered.

"Why that be a great idea, are you sure that be OK with you?" asked the otter.

"Why of course."

"Can I take my friends?"

"Well you'll have to squeeze tight."

"Oh my dear, we are experienced with this. After all we have to do it on melting polar icecaps. Friends, friends, and more friends. We have temporary lodging because of this fine lady. Come, come, and come to her place.'

And they squeaked and squawked, and hopped around doing belly flops. For they were overjoyed to have a home again, even though it was nothing like their old lodging. And thus she has friends, at least for the time being. She felt silly talking to otters and seals, but she didn't care if anyone else gave their seal of approval, for there were plenty of seals to go around. And finally, she come looked to the stars and hope for a better world. So long as her pizza dough didn't explode in the kitchen.

That would not be good.

No seal of approval.

It would have been like any other birthday. But for Arlina, every day since that day had been a point of recover. She had attempted to poison herself five different times, and each time she would continue to remain in this world. For Arlina, every single day was a count down for some vague semblance of recovery that may never be able to arrive. And on Christmas, this magnified the feeling manifold. For unlike some Anna Boleyn of distant English past, Arlina herself was not the child of anyone she could trust. For her, there was nobody to sing Whose Child Is This. For her there was only nothingness, the end of life. The eternal void.

Every day was a kind of empty fog, her head constantly spinning in circles. Her friends had at times had tried setting her up with crazy or bad people, and over time she found that there was nobody that she could discuss her feelings with. Social media eliminating any possibility of discussing the matter. As a trans woman, she already had the incorrect kind of birthday party and Christmas, and now the fact that she almost died came into the mix. Every day was like living as if it would be her last day. A count down to finality, a countdown to death. And everything come to an end. The only friends that were around now were seals and otters displaced from their homeland, and on some level she found herself displaced from her own family life, if she felt she had any kind of family at all.

Night felt like forever ever ever, a night that would never end. There would be a sound of the constant music box twinkling incompatible religion. And yet she never could figure out her religion. In every one she has had, there was the feeling of being a black sheep in the darkness of twilight dimming stars. She tried being an atheist, she tried being a Satanist. And now she has given up belonging to any particular culture, for she was the culture of the self. The culture of non-existence, the culture of Uno Satanas. The culture of the inner Purgatory. Arlina throughout the night would only hope that things could get better.

Yet it was fading nightly, nightly, and nightly until now where the last drop of aether teased the senses never wanting to evaporate completely like melting ice up North, where she imagined Saint Nicolas living the rest of his eternity on a sail boat searching for the lost factory filled with unmade children's toys. For every Christmas, it was a gift of acid and rot. She forgot what it was like to have a normal Christmas.

She forgot happy childhood.

She never had one at all. She couldn't tell the otters and seals, for no person should talk to animals, and she felt herself wanting to poison herself all over again.

A life in constant loop.

A loop never ending.

Arlina couldn't barely make herself go shopping, as she had no girlfriends of her own. She couldn't take her new friends, Otters and Seals.

It was a chilly Winter at the beach do to changing seasons, and for the first time she had to wear a coat and a pair of thick wool socks in her Birkenstocks. She never liked the texture of thick wool socks, but preferred it to being cold. Her disability checks meant she had to get adjusted rent wherever she went, and at the end of the day she always felt spent. There was nothing in a simple life, if her life was simple at all. Compared to most girls, she was slightly taller than most, though not to the same height as many other trans girls born with male jeans.

At the store she would pop in a quarter to get a cart, and use an allotment of fifty to get the wine she needed to make for herself basic soups for the Winter season. Along with this, cans of bean with bacon soup, mushrooms, among other things. In this store, you could get great big boxes, to make for oneself big cardboard slabs to prop charcoal sketch to paint with water colors. And Arline loved to paint with water colors. She loved to write poetry just as much, but her lack of energy has made her spent most of the time drawing in charcoal images that vaguely resembled real women in portrait. She name done girl Chrysanthemum, because of her skull like face and her dreary tearful eyes.

For Arlina, she saw nothing but mortal lies, the lies men tell children during their bedtime stories, to tell of a world beyond that doesn't exist, but makes for a fine illusion as one puts themselves as close to death as possible so that they may be able to sleep on that night. Goedemorgen nact, goedenact morgen. Bonjour to the paradox of life, where one may be content despite lacking all the content of their desires. She got back on the bus, after grabbing everything she needed at the store, and went home. She boarded with a card that signified her status, while resisting the temptation to take out a clove on garlic on the bus. She knew you weren't suppose to eat on the bus, and yet she was getting so hungry. As she was hungry all the time, after all the THC vapes she would vape at all hours of the day except for on the public city bus.

She pulled down the cord.

She got off the bus, and then slowly walked her way toward her apartment complex by the snowy coastline, where she got out some fishes to give to her otter and seal friends. For fish was rather cheap at the store. And her mom would always give her groceries to offset the lowness of her disability check. Even if her mom couldn't over to Pacific, she still wanted to keep some kind of financial hold on Arlina.

Arlina transitioned anyway, using a hormone card. And now she saves up money for Sexual Reassignment Surgery, when she doesn't purchase for herself sex toys: wooden paddles, butt plugs, among other nick nicks at night. She kept such toys locked inside of a wooden chest with a pair of wooden clogs. This was why she was so choosy about room mates, as she didn't want to get taken advantage of again. And she had been taken advantage but a lot of people. And at times she had to trust in the lesser of abusers to set her life on the right path, even with everything felt very wrong.

This was her life.

Her transgender song. And at times, when stars are right, she read volumes of the Cthulhu mythos. She always slept with the lights on, because she feared who would knock on the door.

She closed her eyes.

She tries to sleep.

She shudders. But there was nobody at the door.

Arline never been so high on powders. But it's always rude to lean into your laptop camera. She wrapped the powder in toilet paper, and smoked it as if it were a cigarette. There was never so much Euphoria, but only for a little while, before adding a bit of wine et the coffee. She smelled like powdered smoke all over, with a touch of polyurethane. There was no care if she smelled profane, though she feared that the smoke of the funny smell would seep all the way through the house. Closing her bedroom door, she waited for the smell of the power to go away. Eventually the smell was able to go away, and she went to go make some more coffee.

Arlina loved the smell of coffee at midnight, under the glow of the moon. She would sip this while contemplating whether there was life upon it, though she remembered some of the adventures she had when she was so small, and how as a kid she was always quickly to glide her bare feet on the lunar sand, and jam with furry koalas that ate lunar berries. Then Arlina remembered, that she was taught that the moon was a barren wasteland, a wasteland taught by some that was once a paradise of Nordic men and women. Yet for her Nordics were never the kind of people she imagined inhabiting the moon. She knew that in some UFO videos she was taught humanity was warned off of the moon. And so she eventually resolved that she will never know with any kind of certainty, and much like life was filled with uncertain questions. Everything was so existential, yet beyond her own comprehension so as to only be understood when she was asleep. She dreamed of hallucinogenic virtual reality on portable augmented reality glasses, and dreamed of dream-like JRPGs.

Every night was a balancing act between existential, and a mind drowned out by wine and other booze, along with vapes and cups of coffee. She liked her coffee extremely strong, while she looked at trans woman porn where they whip out their slongs. For she was a trans women that liked other trans woman's slongs. She preferred short ones, that she could read storybooks too, and pretend to play ring around the roses to while sawing away at old playground using a chainsaw, and cackling maniacally. Everything was exhilaration. Everything was mechanical masturbation. Everything in this life was dull and extraordinary at the same time.

Yet at times she would break down, and imagining tall trans woman princesses that shoulder the burden of the fight of life, and snuggle under their arms. For her desires were many, and yet in the real life could not push herself upon anyone. She wanted other to push themselves upon her at a pace that she desired, for she had had to many that went against her own pace. She would weep, she would laugh, she would fall on her face. Everything was dull and extraordinary, like the paradox of life.

Arlina wanted to redo her life.

Her entire life from the start.

Arlina wanted to make for herself a JRPG, but she had not designed one in so long. It had been many months since she had opened a game engine of any sort, and had been living with a room mate that like to trash her and undervalue herself as a gamer.

She had a craving for RPG Maker style games for a long time, but had grown increasingly board of the same old hack and slash from fantasy games from her youth. As a wannabe game developer, she wanted to make a game that was one of the best. And like all youth with apparently a disproportionate level of pride in her youth, was quickly crushed by the trollish scourge of the internet. Yet now that she was older, and never spending time on game developer boards, she began to feel a lot more free to design the stories she always wanted to. And as someone who never had the opportunity to leave the house, there was an increasingly large incentive to have extra stimuli that was not being given through the mundane of her life. For Arlina, it was difficult to use to the flow of databases and tiling format, and was an aspect of extreme impatience in the process. But her job was to only make a game for herself, as someone with no intention to release, but she wanted to build her society in the glow of the screen.

Whether it was the blue haired boy, and the aqua hair color peasant smiling like cat, there was no escaping there was no story to play. She supposed this would come some other day, some other day of the week. And with a spank of the cheek, she went to the restroom and waited for the night. Goodnight mundane, fade away with smoke of the candlelight. Goodnight dreary midnight stars, goodnight the old world she wanted to leave behind. Arlina had trouble with the tiles, thinking of nothing but younger girls that wrote of lame ass pop stars that fade every ten years or so. For Arlina, she wanted to not rely on fan fiction. She simply wanted to design a world around her inner world, and put visual details to the non visual data left behind in her mind.

A story of a fantasy life.

Yet she had trouble brain storming plots, as it required a different type of writing ability that she wasn't used to. Finishing a novel was simple enough, having written a total of 10,000 hours over the course of nine years. But there was something about designing a video game that was different. It required a kind of non-linear kind of storytelling she was not used to, as she had no engaged in the practice for a long time. Because creating a character was one thing, creating an entirely new world was another. In her books she never bothered with world building, preferring to let it flow naturally over the course of the story. Part of it was already done for her in the game engine, but her method of storytelling was not prone for exploring foreign worlds except inside the mind. And even petty hack n slashes on the digital screen could not sway away the craving.

A craving for oblivion.

It would have been like any other birthday. But for Arlina, every day since that day had been a point of recover. She had attempted to poison herself five different times, and each time she would continue to remain in this world. For Arlina, every single day was a count down for some vague semblance of recovery that may never be able to arrive. And on Christmas, this magnified the feeling manifold. For unlike some Anna Boleyn of distant English past, Arlina herself was not the child of anyone she could trust. For her, there was nobody to sing Whose Child Is This. For her there was only nothingness, the end of life. The eternal void.

Every day was a kind of empty fog, her head constantly spinning in circles. Her friends had at times had tried setting her up with crazy or bad people, and over time she found that there was nobody that she could discuss her feelings with. Social media eliminating any possibility of discussing the matter. As a trans woman, she already had the incorrect kind of birthday party and Christmas, and now the fact that she almost died came into the mix. Every day was like living as if it would be her last day. A count down to finality, a countdown to death. And everything come to an end. The only friends that were around now were seals and otters displaced from their homeland, and on some level she found herself displaced from her own family life, if she felt she had any kind of family at all.

Night felt like forever ever ever, a night that would never end. There would be a sound of the constant music box twinkling incompatible religion. And yet she never could figure out her religion. In every one she has had, there was the feeling of being a black sheep in the darkness of twilight dimming stars. She tried being an atheist, she tried being a Satanist. And now she has given up belonging to any particular culture, for she was the culture of the self. The culture of non-existence, the culture of Uno Satanas. The culture of the inner Purgatory. Arlina throughout the night would only hope that things could get better.

Yet it was fading nightly, nightly, and nightly until now where the last drop of aether teased the senses never wanting to evaporate completely like melting ice up North, where she imagined Saint Nicolas living the rest of his eternity on a sail boat searching for the lost factory filled with unmade children's toys. For every Christmas, it was a gift of acid and rot. She forgot what it was like to have a normal Christmas.

She forgot happy childhood.

She never had one at all. She couldn't tell the otters and seals, for no person should talk to animals, and she felt herself wanting to poison herself all over again.

A life in constant loop.

A loop never ending.

Arlina couldn't barely make herself go shopping, as she had no girlfriends of her own. She couldn't take her new friends, Otters and Seals.

It was a chilly Winter at the beach do to changing seasons, and for the first time she had to wear a coat and a pair of thick wool socks in her Birkenstocks. She never liked the texture of thick wool socks, but preferred it to being cold. Her disability checks meant she had to get adjusted rent wherever she went, and at the end of the day she always felt spent. There was nothing in a simple life, if her life was simple at all. Compared to most girls, she was slightly taller than most, though not to the same height as many other trans girls born with male jeans.

At the store she would pop in a quarter to get a cart, and use an allotment of fifty to get the wine she needed to make for herself basic soups for the Winter season. Along with this, cans of bean with bacon soup, mushrooms, among other things. In this store, you could get great big boxes, to make for oneself big cardboard slabs to prop charcoal sketch to paint with water colors. And Arline loved to paint with water colors. She loved to write poetry just as much, but her lack of energy has made her spent most of the time drawing in charcoal images that vaguely resembled real women in portrait. She name done girl Chrysanthemum, because of her skull like face and her dreary tearful eyes.

For Arlina, she saw nothing but mortal lies, the lies men tell children during their bedtime stories, to tell of a world beyond that doesn't exist, but makes for a fine illusion as one puts themselves as close to death as possible so that they may be able to sleep on that night. Goedemorgen nact, goedenact morgen. Bonjour to the paradox of life, where one may be content despite lacking all the content of their desires. She got back on the bus, after grabbing everything she needed at the store, and went home. She boarded with a card that signified her status, while resisting the temptation to take out a clove on garlic on the bus. She knew you weren't suppose to eat on the bus, and yet she was getting so hungry. As she was hungry all the time, after all the THC vapes she would vape at all hours of the day except for on the public city bus.

She pulled down the cord.

She got off the bus, and then slowly walked her way toward her apartment complex by the snowy coastline, where she got out some fishes to give to her otter and seal friends. For fish was rather cheap at the store. And her mom would always give her groceries to offset the lowness of her disability check. Even if her mom couldn't over to Pacific, she still wanted to keep some kind of financial hold on Arlina.

Arlina transitioned anyway, using a hormone card. And now she saves up money for Sexual Reassignment Surgery, when she doesn't purchase for herself sex toys: wooden paddles, butt plugs, among other nick nicks at night. She kept such toys locked inside of a wooden chest with a pair of wooden clogs. This was why she was so choosy about room mates, as she didn't want to get taken advantage of again. And she had been taken advantage but a lot of people. And at times she had to trust in the lesser of abusers to set her life on the right path, even with everything felt very wrong.

This was her life.

Her transgender song. And at times, when stars are right, she read volumes of the Cthulhu mythos. She always slept with the lights on, because she feared who would knock on the door.

She closed her eyes.

She tries to sleep.

She shudders. But there was nobody at the door.

Arlina never been so high on powders. But it's always rude to lean into your laptop camera. She wrapped the powder in toilet paper, and smoked it as if it were a cigarette. There was never so much Euphoria, but only for a little while, before adding a bit of wine et the coffee. She smelled like powdered smoke all over, with a touch of polyurethane. There was no care if she smelled profane, though she feared that the smoke of the funny smell would seep all the way through the house. Closing her bedroom door, she waited for the smell of the power to go away. Eventually the smell was able to go away, and she went to go make some more coffee.

Arlina loved the smell of coffee at midnight, under the glow of the moon. She would sip this while contemplating whether there was life upon it, though she remembered some of the adventures she had when she was so small, and how as a kid she was always quickly to glide her bare feet on the lunar sand, and jam with furry koalas that ate lunar berries. Then Arlina remembered, that she was taught that the moon was a barren wasteland, a wasteland taught by some that was once a paradise of Nordic men and women. Yet for her Nordics were never the kind of people she imagined inhabiting the moon. She knew that in some UFO videos she was taught humanity was warned off of the moon. And so she eventually resolved that she will never know with any kind of certainty, and much like life was filled with uncertain questions. Everything was so existential, yet beyond her own comprehension so as to only be understood when she was asleep. She dreamed of hallucinogenic virtual reality on portable augmented reality glasses, and dreamed of dream-like JRPGs.

Every night was a balancing act between existential, and a mind drowned out by wine and other booze, along with vapes and cups of coffee. She liked her coffee extremely strong, while she looked at trans woman porn where they whip out their slongs. For she was a trans women that liked other trans woman's slongs. She preferred short ones, that she could read storybooks too, and pretend to play ring around the roses to while sawing away at old playground using a chainsaw, and cackling maniacally. Everything was exhilaration. Everything was mechanical masturbation. Everything in this life was dull and extraordinary at the same time.

Yet at times she would break down, and imagining tall trans woman princesses that shoulder the burden of the fight of life, and snuggle under their arms. For her desires were many, and yet in the real life could not push herself upon anyone. She wanted other to push themselves upon her at a pace that she desired, for she had had to many that went against her own pace. She would weep, she would laugh, she would fall on her face. Everything was dull and extraordinary, like the paradox of life.

Arlina wanted to redo her life.

Her entire life from the start.

Arlina wanted to make for herself a JRPG, but she had not designed one in so long. It had been many months since she had opened a game engine of any sort, and had been living with a room mate that like to trash her and undervalue herself as a gamer.

She had a craving for RPG Maker style games for a long time, but had grown increasingly board of the same old hack and slash from fantasy games from her youth. As a wannabe game developer, she wanted to make a game that was one of the best. And like all youth with apparently a disproportionate level of pride in her youth, was quickly crushed by the trollish scourge of the internet. Yet now that she was older, and never spending time on game developer boards, she began to feel a lot more free to design the stories she always wanted to. And as someone who never had the opportunity to leave the house, there was an increasingly large incentive to have extra stimuli that was not being given through the mundane of her life. For Arlina, it was difficult to use to the flow of databases and tiling format, and was an aspect of extreme impatience in the process. But her job was to only make a game for herself, as someone with no intention to release, but she wanted to build her society in the glow of the screen.

Whether it was the blue haired boy, and the aqua hair color peasant smiling like cat, there was no escaping there was no story to play. She supposed this would come some other day, some other day of the week. And with a spank of the cheek, she went to the restroom and waited for the night. Goodnight mundane, fade away with smoke of the candlelight. Goodnight dreary midnight stars, goodnight the old world she wanted to leave behind. Arlina had trouble with the tiles, thinking of nothing but younger girls that wrote of lame ass pop stars that fade every ten years or so. For Arlina, she wanted to not rely on fan fiction. She simply wanted to design a world around her inner world, and put visual details to the non visual data left behind in her mind.

A story of a fantasy life.

Yet she had trouble brain storming plots, as it required a different type of writing ability that she wasn't used to. Finishing a novel was simple enough, having written a total of 10,000 hours over the course of nine years. But there was something about designing a video game that was different. It required a kind of non-linear kind of storytelling she was not used to, as she had no engaged in the practice for a long time. Because creating a character was one thing, creating an entirely new world was another. In her books she never bothered with world building, preferring to let it flow naturally over the course of the story. Part of it was already done for her in the game engine, but her method of storytelling was not prone for exploring foreign worlds except inside the mind. And even petty hack n slashes on the digital screen could not sway away the craving.

A craving for oblivion.

Arline never felt so much terror.

"And besides, if you ever feel like you need to be punished, let me handle it and I can punish you as much as you're able to consent to experiencing it." her room mate said.

It was a veiled comment, a veiled threat. Arlina's mind was in a fog, and to nervous to say anything. She had had a lifetime of trust issues built up after she turned twenty six, and had attempted suicide on her birthday. She had grown up being accustomed to homemade cakes and Bavarian cream pie, among other things. But she had never before received the gift of constant silence on that special day, hiding under the desk used as a makeshift kitchen counter. She wanted to be crushed by the refrigerator, as that would be better than the existence she was living.

Arlina wanted to be her own personal Satanic Jesus. There was nothing like suffering from ones own and others sin for sake of the higher good, yet such agony is in silence and never expressed to those one thinks care about them and their well being, as one glides through life in personal purgatory. A life where one coast between Heaven and Hell in the real life, and never quite reaching either one. Like constant drifting, forever. She was like walking binary put into sentient life form. A walking ghost in a frame. A ghostly dame, a ghostly mortal. A life in constant loop, forever. A Satanic Jesus dying lives in higher frequencies, a higher perception. Total silence, waiting for annihilation. Sleepy time eternal time, drifting constantly in uneven rhyme.

Silence.

Arlina would constantly relive night terrors involving alienation, fates worse than annihilation. And demons shaped like shadow men, standing before her bed. And how how they merely watch and stare as she wait forever, jumping everywhere. The image fades, the misery waning temporarily. Energy draining, draining, and draining; the moonlight floats over the horizon shining into the window; the midnight creatures call for her blood. They wait, they walk, they walk in constant circles not sure of what direction to go; there is only this life, only this misery.

One only hopes the terrors will stop.

One waits for morning light.

The mid morning rain drops.

For Arlina, it was a constant shuffle between tiredness and game designing. Much of her life was dominated by things chasing her in petrified forests in dreams within dreams within dreams, seeing UFOs with USA insignia was her other pass time. Now her life has turned on a dime. Her last room mate trashed her entertaining anything about the UFO topic, it was a topical treatment. As an alien abductee, she was drawn to The Cult Of The Celestial Father. She wanted to find explanations for the bad shit in her life, yet in this darkness she found only financial abuse. Her first boyfriend tried selling her a negative ion generator, as well as a Linux computer he made out of a toaster, He simply wanted to get her address.

Now after the man with the orange wig was elected, there had been a new war overseas against China. With questions of national sovereignty based on questionable elections, it was simply a matter of time before the fall of the US insignia. In Pacifica she dreads whether or not California will give into the new Vice President that believes in reversions therapies. She wants to move to Quebec, but doesn't want to buy a bus ticket for another country length ride to a place where she may not even be able to get disability benefits. But it increasingly felt like the choice between eventually losing benefits, and cutting oneself off right away.

She wanted to stow away in the night, leaving only the flames of candle light illuminating in the window illuminating the abandoned Southern California town house, under the glow of the lunar light. She didn't want to throw her life an abductee into the mix, giving such Americans psychos more justification for more abuse. Yet she didn't want to get rid of her imaginary friends in the darkness beyond the glow of the candle light, appearing in spaceships above the coast.

She wanted to be taken away.

Most of her life was spent finding some proxy for her personal misery. The hand holding among friends no long gone where good temporary measures for her anxiety, as she recovered from her suicide attempts. These days she mostly listened to UFO talking heads, partially as a way of saying fuck you to her last room mate, while she looks at cute girls in Birkenstock clogs so she could masturbate. Sins and delusions, personal annihilation.

Unsure of what to do with her current funk, she prepared for the fall. At night she dreams of red eyed demons in the dark. In bed she sleeps consuming bad anti-depressants, that don't take away the night terrors but simply keep her from waking up in moments of extreme panic.

Life loops all over again.

Night terrors life again.

Much like life, the world cuts like a knife.

The windows illuminate the multiple floored shed. And every night under the glow of spaceship lights, the underwear is turned inside out. For no purpose she could understand, she wilts. During the day she drinks of wine and beer mixed with coffee syrup flavored milk, enjoying the coming dawn and beaming city lights. Starlight horizon, starlit night. Farewell to the cow who jumped over the moon, because it never returned from the spaceship. It's probably now being harvested by demons in the night.

Farewell spaceships in the sky. Arlina masturbates to Nordic alien girls, wearing Birkenstocks with no socks. Her constant pulsing makes life difficult, and she must think to not do so. Or she may never be able to visit the fudge shop just down the road at the intersection of the coast. Peanut butter chocolate good enough to boast. Farewell fudge in my her mouth, she were best friends for the taste buds. And now you are gone. May you grace the tongue so other day of the week, when not watching paddling videos of women spanked on their cheeks, as they scream and slap their cheeks. Self-hate, self injury; a life of hyper-sexuality. Arlina wants the whole day to sparkle light dream-like city lights. Starlight horizon during the daylight merging with the night life. She can barely move during her life, in the world that cuts like a knife. It cuts so much in her shins, as she gets constant splints in her shuffling walks. She remembered her childhood, of memories of decorating sidewalks with rainbow colors. The girl who was an only child, with no sisters or brothers. The single and only life of temporarily temporal reality like the real life. A real life that seems less and less real as time goes on.

Subdued, in grandma's buckle shoes.

She writes poetry, avoiding singing the blues of her shin splints. She tolerates the pain on walks along the coast, yet dreads the deep water. She remembered her moments of lost time. A lost life, a distant memory. Moments that bring back anxiety. She masturbates partially to keep herself from being prodded and poked by sky demons, by aliens in the darkness of the distant cosmos. Yet in the cosmos one may think there are angels, yet they cannot breath in the void. She takes herself at times into misplaced masochism, her world life is like avoiding animal magnetism. Magnetic pulses from bygone eras like in H.P. Lovecraft novels were a form of comfort in eras long gone, yet now she thinks of sands on the coast that now replace her lawn. For at times she remains unsure of when she will be gone. The little adult like scattered fireflies in the night forming children holding hands under the starlight horizon. Arlina wanted to become part of the horizon, and become and star.

Her life ajar.

Her life from a world no afar.

She falls on her face.

Arlina had been involved with a UFO cult, that undermined everything she thought she knew about her own experiences.

None of the members of this splinter cult had any specific credentials in the private sector of the United States, before California, among other states, split off from the super nation. Except insofar as that cult was at one point infiltrated by the an agency to distract from the actual disclosure movement taking over across the world. Despite the cult being in a European nation not part of the EU, it was able to connect members from across the globe on the net, becoming a new breed of cult different from suicide cults from before. These people continuously rewrite their predictions to fit current demand, undervaluing the value of their predictions that already lacked value to begin with. A sword that cut through the truth. It was a match made in hell.

At times the cult proposed the possibility that some planets were better off having dictators and authoritarians in power. That it was a place world to be in the world of corporate cults and "false disclosure" movements. Said cult was in itself a kind of false disclosure movement that played right into the hands of unacknowledged programs, that have held off Zero Point Energy from humanity for decades. We would have have the ability to traverse the stars before eight hundred years have passed, something that ran contrary to this splinter cult of The Cult Of The Celestial Father.

The cult wanted to mainly get you to buy things from them, and ask for personal information like your address, so that they could find you. Arlina was not one to play into sad mind games, because she suspected that if they had her information they would try to find her and black bag her to take her to reservations in Italy, Texas. And she was surprised how said cult was not a suicide cult, although her room mate in later years assured her that most cults was not actually suicide cults.

Within the last few months she had stopped talking to her first room mate, she had gotten back into the UFO community. But she felt the need to troll one of the most public spokesmen about why The Cult Of The Celestial Father failed to prevent splinter cults. And already the cult was beginning to propose things that it would not have otherwise considered in terms of being that would invade the Earth, even if said beings were from underground and not from the stars. Arlina knew that many have proposed false flag alien invasions, though as if now because of how long it had been since it was proposed, said invasion looked increasingly unlikely. So unlikely that it very well could be that there was nobody she could trust, both within and outside of the UFO disclosure circles. Arlina was her own kind of individual, with her own sense of individuality.

She saw the matrix, the worlds lies.

A world that betrayed founding country principles. A world that made a game of lies.

There was nothing like smoking cigarillos like a dike. Why don't you take a hike, says Arlina's mom. Who did everything she could, to get rid of Tom, the lowly friendly childhood friend.

Well will I know other friends? Thought Arlina, well that depends. About whether Arlina want to bother her dear mom again. Sometimes one most do everything they can, to establish their own person again. With a giant lime green cigarillo, will you have this dance. The dance of lice and death, the prancing of your esophagus to cancerous tumors, that trickle down into your worn out lungs. It had been many a month, since she once hung. She tried to hang herself by a rope. But whenever she smoked the other dope, the legal caffeine, in the form of white powder, she briefly gets feelings of euphoria with no compare.

For Arlina, she wanted to briefly no longer have the dance of death. Life has many things to cope with, why be another to cope with. But then if she were dead, she would no longer be one to cope with. No loans taken out for funeral costs, having moved from Tennessee. She didn't know anybody here, and them being able to come over would take a year. A year to come over and prepare for her demise. Her family was composed of nothing but lies, of fibs comparing to the black plague. Why do you put those on a plaque, displaying on your bedroom wall. For Arlina chose to smoking cigarillos all the way down the hall.

Down, down, down through the endless hall longer than any physical hallway through the inner workings of the mind. There was only the constant feeling of someone watch beyond the door, of seeing some unacknowledged officer in dark projects, arresting her to get money to pay for their programs. As a trans person, like other minorities, she was more prone than "standard" people to go down the white halls of death.

Down the halls of death, there was large men she would be locked with having not changed her documents yet to match her gender. And therefore if she was not able to get solitary confinement, there would be only death, death, and more death. Because the laws did not regulate whom you boarded with, and did not care whether you have had previous PTSD. Whether you were self-medicating to deal with specific traumas in your life. At one point Arlina wanted a room mate and a wife, but as she indulged in cigarillos she found that the only life that she should take care of was her own. Because in this life, with nothing but death, there is only silence, silence, and more silence in the world of endless nightmare halls. And as she dreams of men in the dark pounding her ass, she knew she was a goner.

That there was only death.

That there was only being lynched along with the other lynched, that there was only the constant silence, as her body shuffles about forever.

She dreamed of doing drugs.

Then she woke up, she had only been doing vapes. And vaping was most definitely legal. Or at least more legal than scheduled drugs only scheduled to finance black budget projects.

The morning was cold outside.

Arlina remembered when she lived in NashChat. There was a girlfriend that continued to live with her for a long time. Arlina didn't want to lose her, she was her only love in the world. And yet part of her felt freer as her lost love melted away from the world known as consensus reality.

Her life was a lie from the start. Even as a youngster, climbing the monkey bar in the gym of consensus reality, even then she knew and prepared for the fall. The pulls of gravity, the pull of the life force. The crypt in the floor of time and space. She wept, she fell. She leaned on her face.

The story of the library race.

Her life in pursuit of art. The crow was flying onwards, into the darkness of the void.

The messenger of death.

Her live in a world filled with many electronic books. At one point in history they were called Nooks, yet now the nameless tomes of life filled with bored wives and Merry Greens scatter the world of skyscrapers like dots in a world of stars, the stars the many corporations of advertising and surveillance. A life that exists with no pursuit of art. In the world, seek love. Yet she seek isolation and comfort, for she had known to many that would take advantage of her good nature.

She wanted a mother.

She wanted nurture. And life felt more like a gradually urbanized graveyard filled with corpses from long ago, their personal history the inspiration for generated advertisement by computer overlords. A world where life was cheap. Gone are the days of Tweety Bird and sinister cats. Gone are the days of suicidal coyotes, and gone are the days of Annabelle Lee. For there is only isolation and despair, and only the human body, lust is there.

A world of voices.

Voices everywhere. And in that darkness, she sees only the crow hungry for rotten corpses. Where angelic holograms fill the night sky like sands on the coast.

It wasn't everyday you would meet someone from your high school years again, yet at times when you wish for things hard enough sometimes things happen. Like magic.

For me, I sought the ability to meet with someone I once knew again, whom I had known in my twelfth grade year. It was the lady that created a debate about capital punishment in high school class, and yet said it was non of my business when I was upset about the fact that there was still corporal punishment in high schools in my hometown, the redneck city town of NashChat. I pictured girls from my class being paddled for even the most minor of infractions, from cursing the chewing gum.

It was a mixture of becoming rock hard, and total sadness. For me I sought forgiveness for masturbating at home, on a subconscious level, from the girl whom I would picture bending over a desk and receiving swats by the principle. I had already felt an extreme mix of sorrow and joy from spanking the money on general, and these particular dreams made them all the more pronounced. In this dream, I dreamed of pants being pulled down, and giant wooden paddles being struck as hard as the principle could manage. To spare the sound of many whacks, I simply closed my minds eyes.

It was hellish and divine.

I drowned myself in Dutch beer and wine. I wanted to be with the girl again whom I deemed so divine. I wanted a taste of the heaven called life. Yet in the world where skyscrapers dot the sky like grains of sand, there was increasing social isolation and despair. And the individual was suppressed for the sake of corporal dominance. Where personal information dotted the digital landscape also like grains of sand.

Advertisements tailored.

Spankings fill crowd sourced video screens. They made me feeling like ripping out my spleen.

My dream-like was like a pulsing blue-library filled with unwritten digital books. Pages upon pages of book that were already planned to be written, and some authors that worked on teams merely needed to follow formulaic patterns. Yet the book called life, there were other unknown stories. The story of the girl paddled beyond the principles door, the story of girls that turn to cat under the glow of the lunar light, that live like people on subway trains. And other sectors of society only seen at night.

Goodnight innocence.

Goodnight digital life.

Life never smelled so medicinal. The sweetest smell of medicine, while walking through the blue library, filled with many rows of digital books.

Arlina browsed the shelves. She wanted to see if I could find my lost cat girl. Jenna has to be out there somewhere. She could not have just left her waiting for her to come, so they could exchange game reviews together at midnight. Arlina missed the days when she could play the same video games as Jenna, how she showed up in her life like the wind then blew away in an instant. Arlina seeks her loving embrace, the tail that winds around her legs.

The room shifts in multiple windows. she sees multiple attendance marking their place in the halls. They pull out digital books for themselves to read. They come from various genres, some of which are from information gleaned on the web. Such books cover a wide range of non-fiction topics, and a smaller subset of which cover topics related to video games: strategy guides, how to program manuals, among other such fare. Within these books, Arlina finds a book on how to break into the reviewer market. Yet quickly put it down as the book reminded me of my girlfriend Jenna. Suddenly beyond my immediate hallway, she hear the sound of a Cat's meow. Arlina looks to see where the noise came from, and she didn't see any cat anywhere. And thus Arlina picked the book back up to look to see whether it knows more information about game reviewing than she already did. She hears the sound of a cats meow again.

She goes to see where the sound is coming from. She thought she saw Jenna in her cat form walk across another hall. She walked to that isle and find she is no there. Arlina saw a shadow of her running to another hall, she turns her head briefly at Arlina. Arlina walked, walked, and walked to follow, follow, and follow. But she can't seem to catch up with her girlfriend Jenna. It has to be Jenna. Slowly she began to remember how it was she came to be separated from her.

She had always had the tendency to think about someone deeply. Somehow or another that individual she was thinking of would show up out of the blue.

It had gotten to the point where if Arlina imagined them wearing Birkenstocks they would be wearing these clogs, and so she became careful of what she imagined, lest she would get a hard on in such an inconvenient place like a grocery store. These things would happen to her periodically throughout the week, people from her past showing up out of the blue. Eventually she came to accept it as simply a fact of life. She lived in a world where cats evolved to live along side human beings, so she was not a stranger to strangeness. And many of her friends after my high school years has been cats. But she never expected she would fall in love with a cat girl.

Arlina's girlfriend name was Jenna.

Because of the nature of our society, if one wrote about an area of another planet the equivalent of France, on a planet filled with Nordic Ets, most people on Earth at this current time would consider it to be a work of fantasy.

As the future becomes the present, and society becomes more planetary what was once fantasy will eventually become almost reality. By extension, for the books in the world of the blue library, there are coastal regions on distant world one may never be able to visit. In these world one may visit societies like France on distant planets, with cultures similar to theirs but with on the unique problems of France solved. Much the same way for regions on said planets like ours. The comparison, though inaccurate, for it is its own sovereign country. But it highlights the vast differences in knowledge from one region to the next.

There may be regions on other worlds where people are like the Japanese, but with a Parisian culture. One may never know the world one might long to explore. For Arlina, she simply wanted to explore all points in time and space. When she moved in with Anna and Jenna, it was almost like traveling to a new world. A new colony on different planets, to realm of lover's hearts. She had only known love briefly, and known sex for far longer et chiefly. At times she was capable of being quite cheeky, when she wasn't snuggling under the pillow reading books about reincarnation and meditation. She longed for another world within the real life. She longed for a society that wasn't not merely dystopic, but truly utopic. Yet over time she began to neglect the idea for a Utopian construct.

Her own perception of reality was largely a construct, that of deranged ads by profit-motivated advertisement firms. She would entertain the girls like guests, and yet do to the nature of the apartment could only allow for the girls to room in studios right beside her. This was something that irritated her greatly, for she wanted room mate like other people. But she became so disillusioned by people who wanted to set her up with tranny chaser and other vile men. All the problems in her life looped all o'er again.

For her, life was always like this.

Nothing to miss, something to fear.

Do the nature of the human mind, one can listen to two different things at once; one can listen to one radio host, and then another on the net about a slightly different topic, and suddenly their speeches seem to merge together into a single entity. Such speeches can thus begin to contradict each other, and so in such merged entity it complements a president on one hand yet insults the present in another instance. When you already have beliefs that contradict standard facts presented by established paradigms, it makes seeing the world a surreal experience.

"What the hell am I listening to." Arlina plugged into the blue library. "Ah OK, this is what the problem is. It skipped to a totally different conspiracy theorist."

Arlina had not been immune to making assumptions about conspiracy theorists in the past, although in this case the two voices were different enough, and topic to contradictory that it is impossible to assume they are the same individual. One can avoid accidental straw men statements, but only listening to specific play lists on video channels. But our world has become such, that such technologies sneak up you and its hard to keep up with ways it tries to trick you. You mind melting on the net. Arlina wanted to make a bet, how much longer till the drop of current internet. In the next life, she opes there will be better technology.

Not the technology of mind control.

Not the technology of anxiety.

Arlina was used to feeling like her entire life was total surreality, yet when trying to communicate how to others it was difficult to describe. She has dreams of authors in the future that don't exist, those who live in Quebec who write Western novels. Among other things. She was asked what her believes are, and what brought to the Satanic Temple. For her her previous room mate before Anna-Marie and after Jenna discovered her after she had always had the leanings toward Satanic thought. It was simply a matter of finding something within Arlina that her room mate in Washington wanted to use. And now she approaches the world with reservation, that makes her seem far older than her youth.

And now she floats in the blue library, searching for connection on the net. She seeks to feel some means of comfort again, beyond the glow of the light. At night she dreams of futures that may come to pass for her, as well as the distant past. Her memories flow non linearly across time and space. As a collection of memories, the blue library captures multiple moments in the time of people's lives. Some of which form books privately published to information agencies in secret budget projects. Yet with no release, the individual can still release their autobiography on the web, for simply having information about an individual goes beyond ownership, becoming pages in history books marking previous eras.

Arlina was nervous about what said pages would say about her life as a whole, and whether history would record her own beliefs that stray from Buddhism, being a Satanist county point to Eastern thought rather than Christian ideology. Anxiety reigns supreme, Arlina melts into the net.

Arlina blend many voices in her head.

And now she simple goes it melts away.

If it were any other time in history, you might see little girls in wooden shoes jumping rope.

Yet now in the twenty first century life, you'll find those same girls in knock off Jesus sandals smoking dope on the sidewalk, without a care about whether they may get caught by the police. There are various names for them in these parts, in these times. Yet when one walks by all one can do is pay their respects, and hope the cop doesn't smell the smell of tang. Yet more often it is easier to pay a cop money to ignore it, as most will be happy enough just to take the money.

She had lived in earlier centuries, yet Arlina barely had memories of her past. She remembered various lifetimes, from times in the United Kingdom, to times in France during the revolution. Other had memories of times long gone, yet their unfinished business is something different from her own. Beyond the times where cattle may roam, and cute girls skip in wooden clogs, and listen to nursery rhyme now is the time of only mechanized death. Nowadays she sees girls play jump rope with stray bullets in the city street. A long ways away from times of old, with clogs on your feet. She pictured Dutch, German, and French girls tap dancing to spewing bullets from muskets, yet the image was not a memory she could stand to remember for long. She remembered how there was a war that shook the Alsatian region, and how Anna-Marie Boeglin lived during this troublesome time frame. The old flame of her Guillotine Western story, showing the circumstances of her early life. Her literary lover, her wife.

Arlina did not want this memory to leave, yet as the memory flow by like distant books on blue library shelves, she longs for the girl of the dead. She thought at first she lost her head to the National Razor, yet she was spared. Yet now if she were any danger it would be in the time of the present. A time where Christmas spirits fades into the city lit by the lunar crescent. A time when it was worth more to worship the state. Arlina could only spend her time her room, with nothing to do but masturbate. She masturbates under the glow of the lamp light, keeping the covers closed. She masturbates to girl in wooden shoes tap dancing in earlier times, yet has never really understood what got her into such kinks.

Her concentration at times can go out in a wink, her mind like armor with many chinks. Her mind subject to multiple tests by flintlock bullets. She tries to read books on the blue library, yet at times can barely concentrate on anything. It was like a new home, she was taken under its wing.

She embraced its broken wings.

She embraced the pages.

The digital life.

Some of you will remain loyal, others of you will betray the group. You who betray the group will be beheaded by your comrades, as you wear clogs while riding digital horses across the world of dreams. Yet those of you who wear the clogs of Winter Jesus, shall have disagreement among each other, and the remainder shall be sentenced to decapitation by the ax. As as she leans her head on the chopping block, her sore bare feet in her clogs curl their toes, as she waits nervously long awaiting the ax.

The executioners ravage her body with its severed neck, and she longs awaits her next incarnation into a more peaceful lifetime. A world without war.

A memory, a memory of horse rider girls. As they wear their Winter clogs of buckled leather molding to their feet, as they fight to the death. Arlina did not want to be in such a world of warring Amazon knights. She merely wanted to bow to the moon and saw goodnight. She wanted to sleep, and live each day one day to the next. While consuming bad porn with mediocre subtext. She dreams of one day brewing wine, and seeing how things turn out. If she can brew herself some Merlot, her dependence on California is finished. And so she can pursue her ultimate dream of going to Quebec and France, admiring her own personal equivalent to Britain.

Yet in this world, a world where some discuss of False Flag alien invasions, she wonders where her own view of reality as she knows will remain as it has been. She had been into UFOs before she went off to Washington, and had almost a year of hiatus. Yet now as she goes back to the world of Ufology she finds it difficult to get used to. She finds it's almost like being dead. She would rather live in a world of Electronic decapitated Amazons losing their heads by deranged Multiple Multiple Player game masters, programming in lines of code across Linux laptops. She lusts after their severed necks, as their long locks fall from the sky.

Arlina had just moved in last week, and it was the second apartment she had gotten from her parents, who seem insistent on continuing to get her more and more apartments. While it was a place to live, she grew tired of feeling like she was confined to Tennessee, where people have become increasingly bold about discriminating against LGBT people. She finds her life a life of mundane, despite various various parks in Chattanooga.

She finds herself desiring stealth.

Total non passing oblivion.

The window frame bleeds into the surrounding wall. Sunlight beyond the glass melts into the horizon, and the farmsteads blend into the Urban life. The oil lamplights become electronic city lights, carriages the transportation of outer districts.

If you turn to your right, you can sometimes see the old barbershop shaving faces, the old business visited by men in black trench coats and top hats holding canes, while rolling for the weekly trim. Yet in the districts of the future century, the flying cars are outmoded by hybrid fuel efficiency. Some may speculate upon when free energy will come, but it may never. Girls in wooden shoes jump rope in the districts of earlier centuries, and women of the future arming themselves with current tattoo based holographic communicators streaming inter web video channels.

Yet to call them women at such a young age, gives highlight to the decreasing age of majority. One can pay rent at thirteen, and expect urban dislocation by twenty six. And time flows slowly like the River Sticks. Life has achieved as certain kind of mundaneness only prior achieved since the invention of the world wide web, when automation of labor for the districts of later centuries made basic income a requirement.

For such girls who wear sneakers and Birkenstocks instead of wooden shoes, there is the strain of modern day fashion sense dictated by propaganda on celebrity television, the screen given impressions that give one poor body image. The image of being way to fat. Though it is not that girls in the district of earlier centuries did not not men's desires, yet it was from individuals one sees face to face with rather than the unaccountability by men on the inter web. Such impressions can float on the web for an eternity, like an endless of ocean of total misogyny.

A world of superficiality.

A world beyond the meadow of gold.

Arlina had managed to track down one of her school crushes from the fifth grade. The "White" never wore Birkenstocks in school, but never wore tennis shoes either. She was the kind of girl to wear ballet flats and Mary Janes. So when another girl wore Birkenstocks, there was an unspoken form of mockery from her. Yet now Arlina looked far younger than the "White", despite wearing Birkenstocks, a pair of form fitting capris, and a red plaided shirt. Arlina was never one to flout around a mini-skirt. Yet despite the cultural difference among near generation z women, neither of them could comprehend life the outer districts of the nineteenth century.

Despite their own differences, there was many aspects of commonality. The "White" also had a thing for shoes, among other fashion choices. And like Arlina was also a complete foodie, and there was enough in both in common food wise that they could bound till the end of the year in a single date. If only Arlina could see them being a match, yet she had long sense given up on dating the fairer sex, when she found she herself was among them.

There was an unspoken hatred of own body that was pervasive throughout her early twenties, manifesting as ero guro images on anime image viewing websites. Images of girls in bedtime slippers, images of impossibly beautiful women getting their heads severed in Guillotines. An impossible barrier to cross in the world of The Blue Library. The hatred of the self. Yet when Arlina met Jenna, she was able to push The White into back of her mind, and was able to hold off thinking about her for month after month. After one the human mind could only focus on one cute girl at a time after all. And like a nightmare dream, her body blends into demonic warping mansions, armed with statues whose sculptors were long gone. And she nearly went to the Guillotine herself on the whim of dream masters. This was her bleed through life, the life of the filth.

The filth of lust.

The filth of exposed busts.

The image of hate.

Sometimes entering ones childhood home brings back memories of certain traumatic events in your life. One can go without night terrors for months, and finally begin to experience them again when sleeping inside the bed of your neighborhood home. For Arlina, being back home for the holidays always gave these memories, and being back home with family didn't allow her to release pressure from her chest as much as she would have liked to. She was unsure how her sisters would have reacted to her attempting suicide five different times, being unsure one could find for themselves mental health. Sometime it feels like one is already dead.

She looks at various internet web pages, filled with different kinds of porn. Among this includes pictures of girls hanging by the neck, and girls hung up like clothes with their heads severed and placed on boards, their torsos hanging like tee shirts on a wire. Consumed entire, the lust. Arlina has no idea where some of her kinks come from, as she has no desire to murder anything. It was a certain kind of innate desire for destructions, as she lusts after girls not herself decapitated on a guillotine. It was a slice of life, a slice of eternal lust.

Her lust was a young woman, decked out in nineteenth century Alsatian clothes. The Alsatian one a large giant bow, and two wooden shoes. With eyes as big as an anime girls, her ego was the stuff of legends. Far larger than Arlina had ever known. This was her girlfriend Anna-Marie, whom lived with her and Jenna several nights of the week on a leased rent in downtown Chattanooga. Arlina would not by there to answer the door, and the manager would tell the girls that she was out to the library. Arlina felt like being at the library was one of the few places where she could be herself. Yet her lust, whose name was Anna-Marie, would at times change her clothes to more modern outfits except her wooden shoes and try to get her to come back to the apartment so Arlina could feed her sexual supply.

Arlina would come home with various books she only had time to read on rare occasion, while she lusted after girls Alsatian and Cajun. Girls dressed up like anime dolls on copy write notice figurines, like a stereotypical Otaku on their last week without their dose of vapor nicotine. Arlina was reduced to smoking coffee when the supply of nicotine got to low. And when she got low enough she dealt with not having any rather than spending her money on things that were not groceries.

For Arlina, she needed tobacco.

But she hated tobacco.

She hated the cough.

Sometimes a person's route changes through their lifetime.

For Arlina, her default route was to fly to Tennessee, and proxy her flight through various airports in order to conceal her final location. She appeared to fly to South Carolina, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, North Carolina, and Alabama. In reality she only flew from South Carolina to Tennessee, after her trip to the beach. While she was at the beach, she visited with her nomadic friends on a transnational sky ship.

On group flights her routes are concealed by automatic routing by the team's Captain's quarters. She had received the briefing after a period of being watched for years, as she chose to study geolocation based encryption. Abducted onto the ship from an early age, she grew up without a mother from an early age of six, and she learned various subjects needed to perform at optimum capacity. Yet as with all youth she grew bored and watched as the world went by.

She would visit various traitors in the town square room have their heads taken off by Guillotine in her teens, and had developed a fascination for blood long before she began associating such punishments with sex. There was nothing like long Gothic locks trimmed and their curls shortened, and found imagining a closing around her neck made her hard. Arlina didn't know much of anything else, but knew how to encrypt her own content. Yet she feared heights more than others her age, and therefore couldn't ransack other sky cities, nomadic nations without a dot on the map. She watched as women who could not bare children, would be sent to the Guillotine, if they had no skills that would aid to the survival of their nomadic nation of which they had become a captive.

And when Arlina was done she would wake up in her home as always, wondering if she was sane. She would have these dreams from time to time, and lately the dreams became more pronounced. When she had explored the blue library, she would sometimes see women who would take her to see the sky ship. On some level, no matter how close she came to being caught, she knew that there were always digital angels watching her every bit as sinister as they were benign.

She wondered in the world of the dead. She knew she could not tell Jenna, and she wondered if Anna-Marie already knew. She imagined Anna-Marie stomping on her cock with her wooden shoes, the mixture of pain making Arlina cringe with masochistic sexual pleasure. She wondered helping the sky ship conceal its location, and being inherently criminal in nature, they had devised a method of brain washing to forget about the presence of the ship. And she would receive a new briefing every weekend of the month. Arlina lived a kind of double life: an every day girl, a geolocation encryption router on the sky ship. It consumed her life.

Her life in routes.

Her life on the run.

She falls.

She dreams of skull-fairies. She dream of the undead, that function as her only company and friends. For she feel as nothing but death. Her bride to be.

Her bride to be wears a tunic. She wears a tunic with a knife. The girl who is my wife in bed waiting to strike, she waits longing. She slithers like a snake, slithering all over longing for my mind to bake. Her long blond locks falling, her long blond locks falling down her back long. She pounds my heart, pounding it till it stops. It stops. She waits, she savors, she licks. With her sweet smile, with her sweet smile she reclines. As she reclines she stares to the moon, she does not howl. She sleeps.

Arlina's bride vanishes like stray thought.

Arlina wake up as if from a dream, yet she felt all to real and right beside me. She barely remember her bride's face, she remembered not feeling the thought of disgrace, but looking into pure emptiness and hollowness. Arlina follows Arkuba, and she knows not where she goes. Arlina follows, follows, and follows wherever her bride choose to go her mind was fleeting, like her beliefs of black sheep to flocks of white. Everything in life is like waking up after falling into a spike pit, being skewered on a spit. And being roasted alive by faceless shadows. Arlina was their property, the lost soul of eternity. During the day Arlina watches as the world burns before her, as she sees future of nuclear holocaust. The remnants of society persecuted by deranged governments.

She converts her last cigarillo into three different cigarettes. She rolls it, I inhales it. She cares not what to do with her own body. We all become dust in the end. During the day she sees faint glimpses of her image, stray shadows following her long. At least with demons you know their shape. At least with demons there is so hope that they may destroy you and eat your soul. Yet with Arkuba there was that hope that she may like you, as she slept with Arlina at night. The stranger beside her in your bed, who could easily pluck off Arlina's head with a glorified steak knife. Yet chooses not to, as she prefers to keep Arlina as her slave. She wonders across Arlina's hips and bones.

She jumps Arlina. She consumes.

She vanquishes the heart. Arlina knew not how Arkuba came to live with her in her house. Arlina took her in as a stray human, a homeless girl from the urban district of the future century. She never spoke much, but smoked much. She came from neither a world of the French, or the world of the Dutch. When she spoke it was in arcane phrases, some unknown language from some lost human race. And to this day Arkuba shows up, and yet nobody else ever sees her. And like the angels of Purgatory all draped in black, she wanders the world with Arlina like some loving stalker in the night.

She crouches, wings of bones. They crack, she screeches.

She flickers out of Arlina's sight. Out sight, out of mind. She shows up when Arlina wants to unwind, turn the mental clock backwards. Arlina only remember her red eyes, as she dreams of nothing but bits and bytes in lucid dreams. Binary code like virtual reality skies. Not a world of American Cherry pies or Apple pies. Her life is a life of truth and lies. A paradox of actuality and not. Arlina was not able to forget, those red eyes or a sky full of sky ships. Arlina wished the dreams to come to an end, and yet they persist in her mind. Arlina feel as if she is being watched, by unseen indescribable things. With limbs similar by unlike cracking wings of bone. There is nothing to atone for, there is only flesh and bone.

There is death.

There is new life.

There is the wife of death.

One wakes up feeling completely tired, and unable to move at all. And one feels a constant feeling of menace behind them, as it trickles into eternity. A living and breathing old hag syndrome, the old hag a young woman of 1,500 years old. Who has been around for centuries at a time.

Who can kill you on a dime.

Yet she chooses not.

A tortuous love.

At other times there is only a face.

Blond mother drove. Blond mother drove to the hills. Through the hills she seeks supply of her own narcissism. She admires the empty mirror.

A mirror empty, a mirror of a face. Her own disgrace, subdued by a face not in a mirror. She stared at Arlina. She stared with eyes so empty then. Can she not talk some other day again? She sought totality, at an expense. Her child's anxiety. Her child's personal destruction. All visits turn to dust. All visits turn to dust nightly, slightly. Slightly nightly, one fades in the moonlight glow. It is another nightly glow. It is another illumination.

A corpse of sand and glass, A world, without any grass. When time is gone! When time is gone you, waiting, seek silent nightly illumination in the dark night. One only dreams it. One only dreams of the nightly, the nightly song playing its silent violin to the rhythm of untrained funeral musicians under payed and understaffed. Understaffed, payed to admire the beauty in her nothingness. When you live with a mother after so long, sometimes you become silent. One dreams of their fall, as they dream of the poisonous consumption. Their mother's rot by the plague.

A midnight rhyme. A midnight rhyme, nightly song. A midnight rhyme, nightly song of widows from the green. The poison love. The love of poison is green. Like ripping out your liver, and then your spleen. Social inadequacy in the life. Arlina watched the sky below in the dream of sky ships, remembering her mother. Stuck in the past, while go sailing when you dreams go avast! For the river flows in all directions, and sometimes one remembers out of order, the totality of the narcissus. For sometimes it merely worth telling. Telling of a time, yet showing only wires, prosthetic arms, and ripped muscle by foot soldiers not intended for sex.

For the girl that was born a boy who wanted to change sex, there was always the uncertainty of being around men. To me around a man again. She remembered when ill advised friends on social media tried getting her to date a tranny chaser. But his eyes told her, he merely wanted to shoot her with a laser. A chaser with a laser, but really a laser with a chaser. For there was no human holding the laser, the laser powerful enough to carry its own burning sensation into ones heart and bone.

Sinless atone, unwarranted.

The nature of sin was questionable, brought about mainly by men from previous centuries that still maintain influence upon the populace of Earth. If you think what is referenced is some dystopian novel, well it's the year two thousand and seventeen and we still haven't figured out how to solve the oil crisis. Even Arlina, can only make tobacco tea to ward away sixteen legged lice. She had almost been kicked off the ship, or rather her body was. Herself beheaded on a guillotine, and dropped into the desert to be ravaged by coyotes. El Coyote avec ils shotgun. Shotgun shooting bullets of sharpened teeth.

Another incarnation beyond the world of Purgatory and dreams. Unreality merging and trickling beyond the seams of traditional paradigm. A world of fragmented rhyme.

Playful wind chimes in a desert house.

A dog as quiet as a mouse.

A silent house.

A silent world.

Plugging in strings, states inputted. Routed Tennessee to South Carolina. Pressed enter. Waited for input, gets.chomp. Printed route from Tennessee through four other states.

Final stop at South Carolina, with an island one can drive to from the mainland through a bridge. A private beach. The island contained memories of childhood, yet nobody is renting a house for this trip. It's like living independently, without the financial backup from ones parents. One doesn't have to worry about housing costs on their own private sky craft. Arlina was abducted into the criminal underworld ship from various points in her youth, but had came to have increasing periods of time on the sky craft.

Those who have leaked the vessel in the past were guillotined in the town square under fraudulent Trumped up charges. She only wanted to risk this when she absolutely had to. She enjoyed the solitude of using the Geo location Router. She would at times do routes on her own time, studying how the machine worked.

The Geo Location Router routed through whatever state you wanted based on assigned input: if one inputted a collection of the nine states across the United States, theoretically the ship would travel in locations specified by the encryption mechanism:

State 1 > Tennessee

State 2 > Alabama

State 3 > Kentucky

State 4 > Georgia

State 5 > New Mexico

State 6 > Louisiana

State 7 > South Carolina

State 8 > Texas

State 9 > Wyoming

TN AL KY

GE NM LA

SC TX WY

The community sky ship was the size of two high school football stadium bleachers. Bigger than an aircraft during the time of the third world war, yet smaller than a mother ship. Yet it was incapable of space travel. It had nothing to do with speed, but oxygen supply. Built with the intent of becoming a micro nation, it traveled the world undetected. Arlina only knows how to run the Geo Location Router, printing new routes. At times she wants to take a break, but realized she probably had the most boring--and therefore easiest job one could have on the ship. She reclined and remembered various out of body experiences she had growing up, and memories of Mary Antoinette and Charlotte Corday.

People on this ship were picked based on their openness to various forms of what are labeled pseudo-science by the mainstream establishment. Only thus so because the black budget projects, really more of a black market was a crazy insane butt load of cash, they can try various people across nations for leaking information, pay them to consider it such. But her own team was her own personal rogue team, not affiliated with the armed service. It was more like street gang compared to Lockheed, Skunk works, and Boeing. But there were no drive by shootings for this micro nation. There simply wasn't any money in it, and it would leak their own whereabouts in a heartbeat, when all most seemed to want is hard sex and hard drugs. Arlina herself was considered milk toast for only liking to smoke Coffee and head ache powders with caffeine in it.

She needed to decaffeinate.

She always got head aches. The ghost of the last executed person visited her in room, telling her about various drugs she had tried in her own lifetime, before she lost her head. "Why haven't you been reincarnated yet?" Arlina asked.

"Unfinished business." the ghost said.

It was always like this on the sky ship to forever. She was unsure whether she could totally get used to being around ghosts. It wasn't like the mainstream rogue corporations didn't already know about. But for whatever reason her team she was drafted into was never bothered by it a lot.

It was like they didn't exist.

People the rogues forgot.

She pressed two on the Ruby program to reroute from Chattanooga to Georgia. She had last been to Georgia when she explored Anime Weekend Atlanta, watching others dress as pirates and ninjas in television series that have gone on for way to long. She remembered various girls wanting to take her picture, and despite being one that found it hard to resist, she found it difficult to make long lasting friendships in such an arrangement.

By twenty one, she was already old compared to most of the visitors, and by now if she went there are some narcissists that would question her motives for going. Even if perhaps there was a long tradition of porn and yaoi after dark. She remembered the times she went on a lark, yet not as time goes on she wonders why it was she was friends with the guy that took her there. He would drive at one hundred miles an hour at the flow of traffic, despite regulations prohibiting such speeds.

Yet now as she reroutes the sky ship out of state, various memories melt in the distant landscape at warp speed, fading out in an instant loop.

She said, tired, "I need to take a poop."

And a poop she did. The ship was affixed with a European toilet, something she had grown up not being used to. Her parents had always lectured her about how much toilet paper she used, despite social mores against asking about others bathroom habits. She was thankful she no longer had to worry about it.

Her own worry was flow of text, rerouting state routes.

Momentary glimpse of infinity.

Traveling through Washington, Florida, California, Texas, Oregon, and Louisiana. Telling the state you're going to Washington, Texas, Florida, Oregon, California, and Louisiana instead. This is a system called flight masking.

Arlina proposed a system of flight masking in order to conceal their location. This way people tracking them would think they going to other states, and therefore will have a hard start in reaching the final destination. Arlina found that standard rerouting had issues if they were telling the state they had to fly to specific states, even if the travel route itself was basically secure. The only way was a form of subtle fraud that protected their exact whereabouts on the map.

Arlina floated out of her body, while flying through the sky. She felt like she was falling to the ground below. As she glided down, she found the house of the most current abductee, like she was before she became accustomed to the new life. She gave directions to where the person was, and then sent the team in in order to conduct their study of the individual. The individual was glided up in their sleep, and their thought patterns studied to check for belief in any form of reincarnation. No such luck, the individual will only remember the sound of beeping and buzzing.

The team gently placed the individual back into bed, and wiped their memory. Arlina began to question the validity of studying individuals in their sleep. But she was only a sky ship router for the pilot, and not a single position more important. But she dreamed of someday running the ship.

And so many days went by.

Still not improvement of position. It didn't matter what your tech level was, if you couldn't get the rest of the team to trust you. She thought of avoiding flight masking one day, and so made her plans accordingly.

She printed out the route from 1 to 8 to 3. Using the routing mask, it added the values of 8 to 6 to 5. Because routes over nine loop back to the original numbers, the route appeared to fly through Florida and Louisiana to Texas.

Potential captures would only arrive in Texas once she had reached Alabama. It became essential mask the routes her abduction force were going, do to the nature of their operations. She was unsure how soon law enforcement would catch up to their operations. She assumed it was simply a matter of time. The old command was used to the idea that route proxy alone could save their ass. However when your route is being tracked by dream-scanners, sometimes one needs an extra layer of protection. If not for her team mates safety, than her own. Her team had gone rogue for generations, and they were slow to make any kind of progress toward encryption technology.

They figured that they wouldn't be engaging anything that's as illegal as murder or selling drugs at the time, so carelessness was a given. Generation after generation, they became lazier and lazier. After a point Arlina began to become tired of kidnapping people for slave labor, as she gradually began to see it. She wanted something else to do with her time besides browsing the blue library, and wanted to be erased off the map of humanity. Even before becoming member of this secret society, one had to agree to having old records of their old existence removed from government records. This made it easier to evade detection, but it also eliminated their rights as citizens of the North American continent.

Yet now after complete oblivion, she seek to return to the old life. She seeks the life of living with amnesiac Jenna. She browsed through alternative to the mainstream internet, one that browsed exclusively through the encampment on the sky craft, and never reached the outside world.

She was lost in the net.

She wanted to make a bet.

How much longer till the drop.

"Who would ever thought you'd get to live in the city." said Arlina's mother, whose name shall never be named. "Just a few months ago, we would have thought you'd keep living with us. But now you'll be on your own in the city."

It was one of those passive aggressive statements she always made, betraying some of her own frustrations about her daughter. It was just recently she had began to acknowledge calling her Arlina, and she used to call her by her male name. She kept doing this till Arlina turned twenty seven. Yet deep down, there is no change. Her mother would keep taking over the tent when going shop with her daughter on Market street. Arlina would have to purchase smokes on her dime when mother wasn't around, as she would find some excuse to avoid the grocery store that sold the smokes.

Even on New Years there was no resolution that was to her daughter's benefit, only relationships broken and falsely mended by perpetual gas lighting. Arlina was ready for her mother to be gone, and tossed around in her mind various methods she could poison her but not kill her to make her sick enough to take her out of her life, enough to tell mom to stay away. Yet on some level Arlina knew, there would be nothing short of a barring notice to keep her mother away. Her father was a total enabler, and therefore she could not sneak anything by him. Arlina wished he could have an affair mom did not know about, so dad could be out of the picture. At least temporarily. Doesn't have to be permanent, but it needed to be long enough in order to concentrate on her own needs.

Yet by night she can't focus on anything. She focuses instead on doing her job as a route printer for the sky ship, following the path of dark angels in the night. Goodnight starlight, goodnight moonlight. Goodnight happy new year. Good night solitude, never left alone for eternity.

Goodnight autonomy.

Goodnight love.

You could purchase a pack of cigarillos, and never run out of cigarettes for a month. One could also buy cedar logs, and whittle them down into pencils and burn the tip, supplying you with the tools you need to smoke and draw illustrations without having purchase new ones for a long time.

Yet in our culture, we live in a world where we are made to believe that work around the system in order to live a better life is illegal. You could go your entire life racking up price gouging on a fifty dollar carton cigarettes and never become aware of the fact that you're being financially screwed. But when you get screwed to much, sometimes you fight back against that system. And financially necessity necessitates the need to stretch your money much further than you previously thought possible.

Pace was in Washington a few months before arriving back in Tennessee on a temporary basis. She wanted to go to California, and later Vermont in order to learn how to become a chef. But do to a falling out with a previous room mate, she found it advantageous to temporarily agree to live in a apartment in a redneck city more like a town.

This was town where she goes to cheap knock up stores. She finds there are still homeless people that still smoke regular cigarettes, and yet still blame the world for their financial situation and their eventual eviction. When the news hit that Moscow hacked into the white house on national news, she simply smirked because that wasn't what real hacking was about. The point of hacking wasn't about breaking into security systems. Plus when you have someone who is a political puppet, sometimes it's not very difficult to rig an election. For Pace, she had been in a financial situation where she needed to find as many work around advantages as she could find. Yet in this world she calls home, sometimes she explores various lives unacknowledged by a room mate trying to find work. So naturally she was open to the idea of finding a new room mate like Arlina, who had moved to Chattanooga in order to get disability.

When they met, they dined at a local Chinese restaurant just down the road on Market Street. The place had great prices, and Arlina's mom had once speculated that it was because the diner catered to the local homeless population. So when they ate they exchanged stores about their various adventures going across United States nation boundaries, and would exchange user names on instant messenger. And so they began to hit it off.

A new friendship.

A break from the real life.

A break from toxic room mates.

Up, up, up went the air balloon in the city. For it would be another Fare today.

She never remembered a time when there was no Fares and funnel cakes. After after the take over of the National Satanist Libertarian Party, things have no changed much since the time the old administration run the town. But according to her parents, now that the party had eliminated the tyranny of the puppet Administration for more militaristic mainland country, things have for the most part been better.

Her name was Aaronette, who with her long straight light brown hair, could get anything she wanted from boys. Most of the time it was trips to the mini-markets against her parents wishes. She would have each of the multitudes of temporary boyfriends she had had, purchase her cigarillos on the cheap. But as soon as the boys parents found out, they would have their heads. So they were out of commissions for the next month or so. Eventually Aaronette grew tired of having so many boyfriends suddenly disappear. She assumed that the boys were simply grounded. When she met up with them again, they claimed to not know who she is. So all is fair in love and romance, the battle field of warring hearts.

Although her fashion sense was decidedly a modern retelling, she fancied herself a fusion outfit of one thing or another. She wore two wooden shoes, and no cotton cap. The cotton cap always made her God damn head itch, and she didn't want to be seen scratching her head in public, for this was not a very lady like thing to do. Although part of the advantage of straight hair was generally looking more neat than those with curly hair, it would still sometimes get knotted up. So her mother would have difficulty combing it out. And the pain from combing her hair made her want to shout. Though not as much as when her mother had her eat bean sprouts, and consume a bit of coffee Jello along the side on morning before school. She much preferred eating Chinese or Mexican food, but sense the war Mexico had expanded their territory and China was no longer trading with the United States. So it was hard to get good imported cuisine anymore.

The few treats she got to have was chocolate crepes, or the most her knew how to make them, for her mother never studied a recipe book in her life. And that was how her first husband up and left her, refusing her to be his lovely wedded wife. He eat his good, and lost his life. So crepes were the few things that reminded her of her father, who had came from France to visit the newly created island country separated from the United States--a country where men got cancer of the prostate higher than the worldly average. And in some portions rained as much as Britain, so they say. But Aaronette didn't know this, as she had never been to Britain. Although she has watched plenty of California Republic movie studio productions, that she suspected didn't give her an accurate picture of the United Kingdom by the sea.

Aaronette liked to carry umbrellas every day she went to school. Back when it was still an American state, the United States had still mandated school paddling as the means to adjust attitude problems on the lark of an angry school teacher with a penchant for spilling his instant cup o Joe. Luckily most classes were not this was. But she always dreaded this class.

Yet other classes were much more worth her time. She loved the times when she could read historical and biology textbooks on her own time, and this was when her first sparks of creativity came upon on a limb: she imagined dining with aliens in intergalactic Cyberpunk cantinas, beheading Marie Antoinette, and had many affairs as one of the first presidents of the old US who wanted to try to end UFO secrecy.

Aaronette liked girls, but girls didn't like her.

Whenever she would try to set at lunch with the other girls, they would have her come over there, likely in order to mock her. At least she interrupted this as such at the time, while she dined on Tuna casserole with Haldi and Thyme. She grew used to spending most of her time in her head. Yet nowadays she dines alone, after she asked permission to eat in the library, promising that she could spend that time combining it with catching up with school work when she was late, but also completing assignments ahead time of classes that she really enjoyed.

The thing about Aaronette's school life, she herself was never Cyberpunk. Yet most of the people that flocked around her with computer geeks and heavy metal/punk heads with a penchant for smoking pot and drinking energy drinks while playing retro video games half way through the high school year.

"You see, this is Jacob. Jacob is a Jew. Jacob likes Jewish things." It was one of those people that Aaronette always hated that made the comment, although at the time she was to preoccupied trying to focus on her studies. When she was in fencing classes, it was a temporary escape. And over time she began to lose weight little by little. Until some of the old girls that avoided her before, flocked around her. Particularly the cheerleaders, that seemed to pay more attention to herself after her weight loss, and after she grew her hair out.

So school was mostly boring.

There was so much going on it was easy to take it for granted, and become quite bored of it!

CJAM, or the Communal Journal Armed Militia. It was one of the developments after the NSL party take over her small island country after leaving the United States. Although she never hears from them that much, she wonders what other independent townships are like. She wanted to explore the country side, and visit city like towns buried under the ground.

But most of the time her mother drilled her way to often on a form of math that she was unlikely to ever really need in the real world, unless she became a scientist or an engineer. She preferred to watch UFO lecturers on internet video networks, and indulge in the pleasures of the flesh. For she became increasingly adept at hiding her own hyper sexuality from her own parents, who never needed to know some of her antics. Such as watching pretty military personnel women in the old country get guillotined, before the declaration against capital punishment. Nowadays the only person ever publicly guillotined were mayors in "Rogue towns", with resident given permanent refuge status as members of CJAM as compensation for the tyranny they went through in their old life.

They say the members of CJAM could gain great rewards from being an active armed journalist, and she wondered what journalism was like before the war. The war was bloody and long, and separated the States into four separate nations, some of which spoke Russian after the hacked election of their patsy. The name went down in history as the one that shall not be named, persona non Grata. Not Welcome indeed, for the man looked like an ugly ignoble steed. And so she closed up her nights dreaming of meadows and space colonies of afar, and genies locked in a jar. She dreamed of a new world, where there was no more tyrants, no more genocide, and no more guillotining of tyrannical mayors.

She was tired of the perpetual Fare.

That celebrated their death.

She didn't think she'd hold onto the abuse as a grudge, for her girlfriend claimed it was an accident. Yet when you accidentally spill coffee on your lovers shirt, sometimes one begins to wonder if it was an accident at all. Aaronette had just gone off duty, searching for stories to report on.

Armed with a small handgun, the highest caliber she was permitted to own, she became one of the best in finding stories to tell. Yet some of her colleagues were concerned about her abuse of tobacco, in ways not intended by the crafters of tobacco you rolled yourself into a cigarette. While she didn't have the cough people expect from smokers, she would always feel fatigued and yet paradoxically have an extreme amount of focus that was unmatched by her coworkers in the business. She began to increasingly talk about things others still continue to no longer dare.

At times she escaped her demise by just a hair, when journalists on other websites aimed at her to keep her from reporting on anything else for good. She had killed about ten women, and five men who were armed and loaded, who had received bribes from Russia. The Kremlin wanted to see her business go down the tubes forever.

Yet on this island, now no longer part of the United States, there was citizen's journalism, or there was death. She had reported on ex mayors whom society deemed the ROE was relevant to the particular circumstance, and some her friends came from previous town erased off the map and merged with the town at the edge of the next year or so when things calm down. There was no longer any point in reading spy novels, her life had become like a citizen's equivalent. She abhorred the idea being apart of any establishment, and took pains to learn the most up to date methods of encryption available for the public to study from.

"Roll your own encryption is generally a bad idea." she would hear some of her previous friends say. Yet she had been in this business for a long time, and knew better than to keep the keys on her computer despite having switch to Linux Mint for over a year by this point. Her life felt like an endless train, at train with galloping like a horse in the wild west in a world where the automobile was becoming increasingly irrelevant, and the fossil fuel industry was a dying dinosaur.

She took things her comrades would say with a grain of salt, yet she had had many bumps in the road in this process. Length, wordy, verbose. This was the method of the game, when mainstream news outlets increasingly began to obey the "New Axis". The French Mademoiselle, the Orange dictator, and the Kremlin. Their boot marching to the edge of forever against the US, Russia, and France. There was no Lone Ranger that fought that fight.

ET DO AE OJ IJ EA MN VX

She received simple text message from a friend, whom she had been in the business with for a long time. She had known her long before she had become a journalist. Yet now she was at a point in encryption where she no longer needed to use Playfair Ciphers in order to protect her sources. By this point she been used to multi-square ciphers that far exceeded the capabilities of four square ciphers. You might call it something like a Playfair equivalent to a Straddling Checkerboard. Each set of two letters would use a separate passkey in order to decrypt what is presented.

Yet she was unsure how much longer she would still be about to use this antiquated method. She had stopped programming in Ruby for some time, having given up in the idea after not being able to program a way to break a Playfair Cipher. And this was essential if she wanted a personal blog where readers have to solve a random Playfair Cipher. She found herself roadblocked into eternity. And in the darkness she fades to oblivion from the public life, alone and damaged. She waits for the sun to come down. At night dreams of varying ciphers, coming up with new security solutions to protect her own sources.

Yet at the end of the day she assumes that no matter how far she comes, the US secret service would be knocking on the doors fairly soon. She waits for oblivion, she waits for death.

She gets drunk on tobacco juice.

Aaronette tried to imagine what Quantum encryption would be like, at this point in the early 21st century, the only ones who knew of such technology were secret service agencies. But she knew that given the shape of Tesseract, one could speculate on different multi-squared ciphers for each dimensional plane on time and space. She wondered how this would convert into geo-location based encryption. She wanted to seem to disappear of the radar in real time while she searched for information sources in order to bring her readers the most up to date news.

She already knew the basics of the idea of geo-location based encryption: you present your location as if you were going from a to b, but in reality you were going to c and d. But your location footprint would show your physical location is going from a to b. You would ride the planes of Playfair Ciphers in time and space, and hope the brain doesn't ooze from your face. You warp space of time, and find a spot on the map.

She wanted to follow her own way.

Her way beyond the edge of Quantum Geo-location cipher breaks. A way to disappear forever.

The next morning she went to went as useful, careful not to wake up her room mate. She then slowly slid outside the door of her Studio flat, making sure to bring her pepper spray, cigarettes, and her apartment keys. Both the card and the regular key, so she could get inside in the cold night, in a world where the risk of flooding has increased manifold, and the US politician has no yet erased crucial climate research. She was unsure how long she would go undetected, she was unsure of anything.

The new life.

The new CJAM.

Aaronette got herself a baguette.

"Have you seen the bread isle?" asked Aaronette, as an undercover CJAM employee. She wanted to break the story first, before anyone else could get to it. She arrived on Sunday, in order to see the pretty ladies dressed up as Samurai.

"Once you grab, you must buy" said the French girl, dressed up as a Samurai. "But did you grab more than you can buy? Here, I can take a loaf off your hands."

Eventually she was able to convince the Samurai manager above the Samurai girl that the bread had a green spot. "Have a nice day, hope you'll come back." the French woman manager said, in a faked Japanese accent. Aaronette wanted to turn around and thank her, but the manager had the employee kneel on their knees, and off went her head with a Katana. Man! Aaronette knew some places treated their employees harsh, but that place was cut throat.

A lost loaf of bread, a university that pits man against man in simulated gun matches in First Person shooters to train to be journalists, and women taught to write romance novels along their CJAM career! Although Aaronette admitted she liked writing romance novels from time, her romance fiction had always tended to kill off both the lovers, chopping the off at the neck. Just like the Samurai French girl in French bakery.

What a world!

Aaronette arrived by her school dorm, where her guy friends where playing first person shooter virtual reality games, using a gun controller with real life pain simulation to signify that you have been hit.

She only wished she gave a shit about First Person Shooters! Although back when she considered herself male she had played such games more frequently. And without a doubt there was always girls that liked to hang out with boys, playing virtual reality games of death. At least they weren't dressed up as Samurai women, then they really could die on the job! And that will certainly never do.

In the dorm room, she made a dinner of beef Summer sausage Burgundy stew. She would occasionally munch on the pizza from a local pizza restaurant. A place that seemed to have far more sane management practices. But lately across the sea, the Near East of France seemed to increasingly merge with Japan blurring previously distinct cultural boundaries. And holograms fill the sky like can can dancing ballerinas in the midnight hour, like some bad anime rendition a science fiction genre long since out of date and irrelevant since the end of the nineteen nineties.

Even here she dreams of a world not cluttered by holographic advertisements, and targeted dreams toward otherwise created individuals. For she wanted more to do with her life than writing news stories and defending herself with handguns in order to survive the next day.

She wanted live her life...

Her way, her world.

When she was a kid she road on a surveillance train, she knew this back the fact that the train had digital television in front of every passenger seat. The television would call a maid on particularly long trips, and they would bring snack and beverages.

Even when she close the curtain to have some privacy, the television would always be watching you. She went on a trip from Seattle to California from 5:00 A.M. and was on the train the following three days, where she had different meals in the serving room. You could say she was tended hand and foot, but she never liked anyone touching her feet, or any other parts of her body.

That was how she learned to only tolerate train rides as long as she needed to, before visiting the place that truly felt like home. Beyond the dry landscape with the drained water, the land where whole trains had to order fried chicken when the food supplies went rancid because of no electricity in the kitchen on one occasion. Though luckily for her she never had to worry about such an occasional, she could finally enjoy the single night in California before they had to fly back to TN. Yet ever since she always wanted to go back to California.

And that was how she decided to move to the new artificial island nation, just off the coast of Pacifica. Where they were more liberal than even California. So liberal that managers can get life in prison for killing their staff, and Journalists are trained as armed journalists to protect themselves from other rabid journalists in the kingdom by the sea. An island that relied on being on site in order to tell accurate news, and not rely so much on robots that have become increasingly mandatory in the United States.

However the United States had increasingly wrote click bait news, so she certainly imagined such news being able to easily be generated by robots, making no sense and having no meaning what so ever. However the Nation Under Spat was better than this.

Even as Samurai French girls had to die in the process.

Even if University boys never knew a life outside of First Person Shooter matches, playing as cowboys on the net reaching for non existent point scores. Yet at times she thinks about the French girl that had to die in order to do bring some honor back to the fold of the Samurai French Bakery.

She thought of nothing.

But bloody necks.

Because life was life a tap dancing pop song imported from the remnants of the United States, a nuclear wasteland where life itself no longer has any meaning. A world where the suicide rate has increased manifold. That was a true life journal never told, with people rotting in the street. Where old water fountains are busted, and water gone rancid.

A life teetering on the edge.

Aaronette wanted to cross the edge into eternity, a new brand of CJAM adventure-ism. A world visiting the remnants of the Unite States Of America.

A world of death.

The city life faded nightly after she came in from smoking a cigarette she rolled herself.

It was a quiet evening, much quieter than usual. Aaronette didn't want to go to the Blue Library, as she had heard strange rumors about it being secretly a front operation for dream-scanners. This time, she spent her time analyzing cards on her dinner table, trying to predict which cards she would be able to accurately predict.

It wasn't enough to just be able to accurately predict what is behind the blue of a card to see its design, but also to conceal your imagination foot print so that the monitor doesn't specifically know what your are looking for, but without a preconceived idea about what one may find. A session where both viewers on the remote phone line are completely blind to this layer of matrix. For Aaronette, although she had trained herself in various forms of substitution and transposition ciphers, she found herself confused about how to apply both the knowledge of Playfair Ciphers and remote viewers. She had known of location based ciphering from a relevant she would speak to from time to time, but was unsure of the practicality of applying the concept to clairvoyance.

She knew that theoretically one could play around with location based Playfair Ciphers, but was unsure how it would work for Remote Viewing. After all, the imagination could go anywhere instantaneously. And if your mind were actively monitored and under surveillance, it was impossible to hide where you might project next based on skilled predictive analyses.

She had heard of a support group called Remote Viewers Anonymous, or RVA, that was merely a front for a covert team of clairvoyance. It was a group of friends that wanted an alternate to the internet of the twenty first century, an alternate to constant tailored advertisements on the net. Aaronette noticed on their web page they did not release their contact information. From asking about their support group, she found they don't need to. They can predictively analyze your interest based on consistent study of the material, and that they would find her.

Aaronette was unsure how to feel about this.

Aaronette had taken pains to make sure she would encrypt communications on the internet of today, and only writing down messages that carried no intrinsic meaning on their own, without specific life context. Through this she would avoid captors encrypting meaningless phrases on the net. But she would get signals from time to time that the support group was watching her very closely, curious about where her interests about encryption may lead.

They needed someone who was devoted to the task, and not one that would reveal their sources and methods to foreign governments like the United States Military Service, or what remains of it after the Second Civil War that followed the World War III.

Aaronette didn't feel she had anything to hide.

At least she didn't at the time.

"As I've said," the silhouette said, careful not to reveal to much all at once. "we've been watching your interest grow for sometime now. But you must understand why we don't want to reveal our phone number and email address." The woman in silhouette, about a head taller than Aaronette, turned around to face the window. "Imagine the catastrophe if the US government found out our location. That would be the end of our service."

"I didn't mean to..." Aaronette began to say, but was interrupted by the lady holding up her hand.

"I never said you meant to, but we needed to make sure you were really interested in leaning the process. We only want people that are devoted to the task. The security of our mission, to protect the movement of Nation Under SPAT is of up most importance. You must understand, you must acknowledge."

"Yes ..."

"That's Tu non Vous. Just call me Sarah," the lady in silhouette said. Then walked closer to Aaronette into the light. "Welcome to the team comrade Aaronette." And that was the handshake that closed the deal.

Night after night she would arrange covert meetings in specific viewing session. At times she would not be notified when viewing sessions would occur, she simply knew that she needed to be constantly under alert. Yet able to be tired enough after her training sessions in order to get the most data and information outside of the net. She eventually began gaining ranks, until she became a prized member of Sarah's team.

At times she wondered what her life would be like if she did not learn remote viewing, and she had continued down the path of regular viewing. But those times were gone, she had a new family now among Clairvoyance.

A family outside of the net.

A family outside of the normal life.

The Micro-National Splinter project was proceeding on course, and now it was simply a matter of raising a different kind of military force against the old US, a force that can predict the movements of states. A force that call remote view.

A force of the night.

Life isn't always sequential, at times completely not straight forward. She remembered winding through the catacombs of her past.

If there is one sure thing about living in an apartment, it's that you should never forget your keys and phone. It doesn't matter what else is wrong with the place, remember to bring your phone and your keys in your purse. It took asking three men whether they had a phone she could borrow, in order to get back in her studio flat. Her mind was distracted by thoughts of Mi6, and the various forms of encryption they perform and crack.

Instead as her mind fell into the void of thought, she didn't realize when she went out for a smoke, that she had left her keys in her apartment. It took calling her parents to come, being as polite as she could to the man that let her borrow his phone, in order to get the opportunity to sleep. Her mind was preoccupied by the movie she watched again that came out during her high school years, and how she had liked those movies better than another young adult series that was being advertised.

She could only think performing some urban exploration in the large basement of the apartment complex down the road of three hundred, yet now she was transfixed by the why it was she liked this Vampire and Werewolf war movies. It marked the end of her own interest in fantasy as a genre, and to some degree paved the way to her own disillusionment about dystopian fiction.

She was also worried about finding a generous soul, who would let her borrow a phone to let her call her mom.

She had been attracted to dystopian fiction based on the same reasoning she was attracted to being Gothic and Cyberpunk in her high school years, although at that time she would not have considered picking locks in order to get back inside of her comfortable flat. But do to various faction, most of her disappointment was a combination of exposure to the subject matter, and various narcissistic "writer farms" she had came across from time to time. She began to associate both genre as being largely defined by users.

Because of how often people sell out each other to other with equally suspect motives, it's hard to time in life whom one can trust. Apparently trust is a joke to some people, when they hand you life insurance cards. Her mind simulated images of used car salesmen on television trying to sell her a lesser deal, but highlighting the good parts of a piece of shit. But at the end of the morning, Sarah realized she was lucky, although at times she had this weird relationship with lady luck, and how she brushes up against lady un luck from time time in order to settle old scores. She thought of life merely as a simulation of suck, as she began to fall asleep.

Down into a deep wonderful sleep.

Yet as the world fades from visual data, she dreamed of how she had a dream within a dream. A dream where within this dream of pure mundaneness, how life was more like an onion rather than a sheet of pulpy paper. She thought of the layers of the apartment complex, and how everything in the city was one giant onion on the massive network called life.

She dreamed of remote viewing.

She dreamed of viewing remotes as they float in the sky, warped into cybernetic demonic spiders. And how such spider hopes out of time in order browse the larger life network, running itself to provide reality an expanded search index. And how these searched providing warnings of coming apocalyptic events, as she fell down into the void of inner space.

Her life, her world. Her inner space.

People were selfish, and so was she. But some are more selfless than others in the dark. She thought of the outgoing president, with his excellent wit. And wondered, why have Dystopia fiction when all has gone to shit?

Life was an unexplored matrix.

A onion not peeled.

How many ape men does it take to block an ax thrower trying to bust down a large screen digital television?

Whatever the answer is, it happened shortly after the French Civil War that split North and South France. They lost control of their crime rate, after Marine La Pen lost control of the law enforcement of North France. Corsica separated and became its own country, ending the question of whether they were really French, with tans in between European and North Africa, looking more like Italians. These social ills further spread into Europe, and indirectly into the United States, pitting ape men against ape men.

In older parts of the French Empire, their language began to splinter off into "French based" languages, similar to have English began to splinter off into English based languages. In what remained of France, a mass murderer was on the loose for a brief period of time. Known as the Bathroom murders, police were on the search for a woman that hung various women from trees for having babies being to afford to have a doctor birth the knot. After being caught, she said "I like Bananas." Before she was shot in the back of the head. And that was end of the last invader from Southern France.

Meanwhile in the US, Sarah is still preoccupied about the onion layers of life, as she gradually peels these layers away. On the news she heard about France splitting off into North France and South France. She was unsure what the future of capita punishment would be like. Because Marine La Pen no longer controlled France, there would be no Guillotine in the Northern portion. However travel to each one would likely be difficult considering it was expected that France would continue to remain a country, for her own plans on naturally in Europe for free travel, for France had left the European Union a short time before that civil war.

Now the war looks like children's play, as her own country becomes like dust. Russian further splint apart the United States, with those loyal to Russian occupation and those loyal to Mexico and Great Britain. When all was said and done, she was glad she kept the dual citizenship between Vermont and California, although she was unsure whether to go to Vermont. For the most part, after founding the artificial island micro-city, she very rarely even went into the California Republic. She spends most of her time studying a set of five cards, each one with a different deadly sin on it. And she would sometimes have Aaronette keep the card with the answer on it.

Her job was to guess which sin would show up on whether card she guessed, and that would be the sin she would have to temporarily exhibit in order to control it, and not let it control you. The hope would be someday control all seven deadly sins. But in practice, she would always try to find some reason not to practice remote viewing, being more concerned about whether Russia would intrude in the Island City Of Nation Under Spat. Eventually the old religions began to merge, dilute, and be replaced by Luciferian Nirvanaism, a hybrid of Buddhism and The Satanic Temple. While the citizens were not required to wear all black, the high council was expected to. It didn't matter what was black, so long as they wore all black. And so as the rest of the old United States had infiltrations of genetically engineered Chimpanzee men fighting for independence from Russia, the larger California Republic kept out of this conflict.

But she was unsure how long.

She wanted to sail her island away somewhere far away, but knew that her Nation Under Spat, still had diplomatic things to attend to in the California Republic.

It's funny how when you grow up knowing someone, at times you don't know as much about them as you think you do at first. As that cliche goes. Yet it's more true than you might think. Her dad had reflected on a story about how his father used to have this really bad temper. He had worked as a security officer for many years, and would always come home tired. The man had kept many secrets from his kids, one among them was how he learned French in school in his high school years. Without a doubt, the man was full of surprises. But what seemed to surprise them the most was when he had visited the old man who had married his cousin, and how there had been many bitter feelings between them.

For her Grandad, there was much about him she didn't know. Sarah had developed an interest in remote viewing, and before that had already previously decided to not have kids. All she had to do was looking into the very next generation, where next generations children were protesting in the street. It had been the warmest year on record, far warmer on record than any other year over the last one hundred years, when man started building Free Energy machines and hiding it from the public sphere until such a time when they deemed than man was ready for such knowledge--if there was money in it. Even in her grand dad's time, there had been many years of technological embargo, one that was only just now beginning to come to a century's end.

She thought of how she never told her family about her gender situation, among other issues. Issues that could make one love or hate her depending on who you spoke to. She saw her life through the window of five different cards, each other displaying from her third eye a different point in time and space. She would depict different countries and empires on different cards. She was never one for dialogue, preferring instead the glow of the net. And in previous years fancied herself Cyberpunk novels. Yet now as she grew older, and things began to change, her interest evolved more into a magic realism. Although she herself found the term magic realism disingenuous. For one, it was based on a certain idea about consensus reality carefully organized by the matrix. A matrix that keeps you subservient. A matrix most will never be aware they belong to. Everyone around her was like meat pigs for the slaughter, the world around her swirling in gravy made from the blood of men. And in this blood, prayer shall be given for the damned.

And yet for Sarah, she did not believe in the power of prayer. She believed only in the power of the self. Yet as time goes by she becomes less sure of herself, and yet even less sure about society as a whole. She was a paradox: on one hand she couldn't trust her eyes, one the other hand her eyes were the only ones she could trust. Her parents had for many years put her into situations where she could not make her own decisions about her own body. Even when she brought up the concept that she knows when people are gas lighting her, her dad always treated as part of her mental condition rather than part of the many years of sex abuse she went through. But then, it's never productive saying to a child molester that they molested you, as they'll always deny it. Or spin the conversation in some way. Her abuse was invisible and subtle, not detectable by other members of her family. On her moms ends they were complicit in helping her mother gas light her, or simply ignored that there was even a problem simply out of fear.

Sarah at times wondered what in the world she has to protest for, after all every time she tried to protest for anything, it always blew back up in her face. And she would fall on her knees in disgrace. Nobody what she chose to do for herself, her parents were sure to follow, like stalkers in the night. Her dad always picking locks, and singing bed time stories to say good night. Now as she lives many miles away from home, she wonders where her parents are. With all the complicated feelings that come with it. On one hand she was around friends and compatriots, yet she had nowhere else to go. Her mind drifted among the many era of time and space among the cards of life, communicating with ancient gods. Yet when she falls back into bed, it is like a spike pit of concrete, a sudden stop after she felt like she was falling from somewhere far away.

She had sought the help of Aaronette, partly as she wanted company. But the other half was she wanted someone to practice Remote Viewing with, testing out various new communication systems that will eventual override the internet. She would lay out five cards on the floor, at other nights on the table. She would flip each deck at random, one being the cards she would flip, and the other deck the shape on the card that she would be looking for in the dark.

She wanted a team.

A new spark.

A new infinity.

Simply Pace

Old And Worn Clogs

I had considered getting a routing application, but the mobile data was almost out. There was no inter web signal, so I had to stay and sit and try not to shout. The wait was until about 4:25. How much longer till the bus?

After finally getting on the correct bus, I got to the coffee shop I was wanting to go to. The coffee shop was filled with chilled, enough to make anyone not able to concentrate. The concentration was on and off constantly, and the line for me to get my coffee was as long as you could imagine. I have twenty eight cents left on my card, and only have about four hours and seven minutes left on the laptop. Although technically the laptop would only really run for three of those, and seems to shut down at about one hour and thirty minutes. I found this out accidentally a few days ago.

I settle down and wait for my White Chocolate drink.

The day was a weird day for me. As it turns out, you can't even withdraw plasma in a donation center if you live in a motel room. You might as well be homeless, because they treat living in a motel the same way.

We've been living in the hotel for the past few months, with no practical way of gaining gainful employment. The closest place I could find any sort of occupation is all the way in the Weed district, where I used to occasionally purchase joints. Although not the most way can smoke is ground tea leaves and curry powder. This caused a slight curry powder stain on my black sweater, which never seems to come out because my room mate refuses to purchase detergent. The most she ever bought was bar soup.

So here we our we no way of getting money.

Technically not homeless, considered homeless.

I had a friend who had blond hair and a pair of glasses. We called her Emma. She worked at the bowling alley on the night shift with low self esteem, although in person she always carried herself as above everyone else.

For a girl with a shoe fetish, she should be all the rage right? She swap out bowling shoes left and right. One could picture Emma in bowling shoes bending over for a school paddling in a 1950's skirt in the school's principle's office, depending on if that was the time you were in school. But I wasn't of course, it was the late two thousand seventies. But Tennessee was strangely non progressive. An era where most people can't even afford a good laptop was extremely common.

The bowling alley had just came out with bowling bowl renting machines, reducing most of the work load to primary renting the shoes. Emma would recall to me how she wondered how much longer it would take for them to come out with vending machines for shoes. So there was a certain period of time when she could see pretty boys and girls renting bowling shoes in and out of the bowling alley on drunken benders. Eventually it got irritating when people started joking about their bowling alley team names.

People would complain about the cheese on the bowling alley pizza not being to their taste. For Emma, her life was ground and mixed with body evaporation fluid into a paste. "It's just the Pizza we always have." she said.

But on school days she presented a different front.

She wanted to show the world something different.

At school she would bring the hottest and latest cell phone, were the hottest and latest in teen shoes that were often attractive in a good bad sort of way. She could slip in and out of them in her bare feet, buckle the clogs, and come to skill wearing the frilliest of blue jeans.

At lunch hours she would take her cell phone, play the latest in fake virtual reality games with it, and then quickly put it back when they see a teacher coming. This school was a few states over.

Now hear I am contemplating bowling alley work myself.

I hope I don't become like Emma dunking bowling bowls.

We were comparing tanning styles between pink and brown. I had never thought of my tanning tendency up to that point, I simply listened in my moment of mental melt, feeling like I rolled a joint. Yet it was a straight stone. The time between the bus arriving and not was twenty five more minutes, just after a conversation about humans breeding with chimps during WWII experimentations.

I've tended to be a visual thinker, when I wasn't being a stinker. Me mind liked to tinker with all sorts of visual impulses, imagining myself doing said experimentation while tanning in a tanning bed. Wanting to create people that can grant me wishes, instead like the ones in real life my papers are burned in the crematoriums of the grim history of the the previous wars. I found that I saw Nazi's intruding into my personal life, and I my mind would became fuzzy from all the sensations coming out me once about the tragic lost of Ann Frank.

There is something about obscure punning, where it leaves the human mind running. Running, being at risk of overheating, the test of comprehension given an f minus for trying.

Well at the end of the trip, my mind kept going.

But my mind couldn't keep up with my wakefulness, and found my mind beginning to act independently of my body.

I simply couldn't move a muscle.

The human mind is a funny thing, being scalped by the lasers of ancient knowledge, or preferring more practical skill sets. I feel that every day of my life is trying to make a bet, trying to find a compromise in the false dichotomy. The dichotomy of equally intelligent modes of thought.

In the mind it tries to visualize the dichotomy, attempting to try to understand them both. The inner wasteland of ancient knowledge colliding with the real word of slap happy word play. "The bus is coming." I said, feeling fuzzy brained.

I wished for my day to be not profane.

To not rationalize in my views, the irreconcilable.

To be an information absorber, one can read a few pages, and infer the rest of the story through points of connection. Like in sculpting, a sufficiently trained person can create a face in days. My life on little information from the real world, when I form a mental rural reality. In this reality I see a world where time has stood still, and eternal youth in mind is regained.

Yet today is a day of lack of absorption of anything. I had just had my third breakdown of any, shining my misery into a new penny. My own joy lost in a mental fog. I fantasize of women in clogs, while wondering if it's not myself jealous of their physical beauty of not their attractiveness. But the nuance is in the details, and trans women can have both. The only reason I don't wear what I want, is due to lack of money. Or I would go to Federal Way looking like a honey. I would go out all proud of how I like, and yet I've never been one to express such. I suppose my own issues stem from my visceral reaction to certain people, to certain women, to certain kinds of beauty that I find more cute or beautiful than my own.

They said I looked like my sister, and yet now I look like dirt. One your someone like me on food stamps, you want to be payed for squirts. That way one can purchase themselves frilly tee shirts. But this is a story about the visceral reactions in their purest forms, like the hidden anxiety of introverts.

The story of the raggedy tee shirt.

Sometimes as artists, one has self-doubt. Part of it censoring the self, and the other parts are to complicated to mention. It leads to ones to be inquisitive about the nature of doubt and self-esteem among urbanites and other with freedom--freedom at the cost of thousands of dollars.

I once had technology, including some game systems. Yet over time I started making my own games, and started weening off of them by the month. It was a time when I still lived in a hometown where people still fought over the value of keeping horses and ponies, they eventually ended with one guy saying "fuck this, I'm keeping some horses anyway. Screw you guys." I lived in a world of many lies, and many unacknowledged truths about my life.

I suppose that's why I never found a wife.

This tee shirt is worn old and thin, sours. My memories of earlier times sometimes distort beyond recognition. And at other times meltdowns complete and partial. The story of my life.

The old and worn tee shirt.

The old and worn clogs.

Almost Bed Friends

We were almost best friends, when me and him met with his ex the last of times. Emma had grown a touch taller, and dressed like she could smash someone's balls. Uncharacteristic, for the potato shoe girl.

They had broken up a night prior, and he had grown closer to me at the time. The turn of my life was edging closer, closer, and closer. He would have liked to me that turn of the century, as I moved forward into a new life of my own. He had seemed to be becoming scarcer and scarcer mentally, as he stroked my hair gently. The man whom I called sir black hair gently. Bentley is what I shall call him, for sake of completion of my old life. My old story.

Bentley had spent all night contemplating the meaning of our own relationship, and the book store visit left me thinking about Emma wondering what it was that made her turn away. It was a small town, a small life, a small story. And years later as I remember I see his face with mouth restraints opening, smiling wide with an open grill with sharpened teeth. "Hello, I'm Bentley."

This is my memory of a blond girl.

Who broke up with Bentley

I had met with Bentley the following day, where I would have preferred to go on my merry way. But he wanted to kick me in my cherries in Emma's way. He said that she said she didn't want to date me. She said that I wasn't her type. She found that my personality type was tripe.

It was a cold and rainy afternoon day, when we sat in the car. I sat beside Bentley having nothing else to say. Whatever it was I said I remember only faintly, as I said it so daintily. So faintly into a coming night. That I hope for the best for her, yet he didn't understand the ultimate meaning of her passive aggressiveness to me. That I would never think of blonds in the same way again.

Here lies Bentley.

Here lies my old life.

The life of the male life.

It was small, dark, and had two sticks coming out of its head. It crawled about, crawling what seemed to be an alien surface of large stones. It had find the last scraps of food. The cockroach had never been afraid of finding a man before, until it came across her black clogs.

The landscape upon the gravel was covered in the soot of fog. All at once the roach became hotter and hotter, gradually building ups its self-esteem to meet the flaming abyss to check for survivors. It had met with the fire before now, and previously it had been afraid of dying. If it were to say he never feared anything, it would be lying. At least in this small area most of its kin were burned to dust, smelling of ... well ... burnt cockroach under a lamp light.

For the coming night the roach encroached.

For the coming night the roach explored ruins of its countrymen.

STOMP! Down went a leather toed wooden soled clog. Me and my friend met with our friend Sash for the last time. Born with a male name, she was considered somewhat of a tomboy in a skirt. I never flirted with her when I was young, but we used to exchange ghost stories of men with chainsaws in the basement. The basement I would often avoid sleeping in even though nobody was there.

And maybe that was the problem.

I only had myself.

I had grown accustomed to loving red heads and Brunettes. I had always thought of them as good story tellers. The thing about first impressions about people, sometimes they effect the very idea of what you have about some people. In this guy I associated tomboyish girls with good storytellers.

It's weird looking back on it, as I know now that isn't necessarily the case. But when you are young and stupid you came to weird conclusions sometimes.

You know what they say about jump ropes? It makes you jump to conclusions.

Unfortunately I didn't want to fall on a cockroach.

When they said you'd eventually forget about your issues in high school, somebody lied. When they said all your concerns about what happened in your life, they instead began to solidify. The garden is filled with dead weeds, and flowers under the awning. Rain drops have given way to Summer's heat.

Back in NashChat, while it was hot, you would still get air conditioning. Here it's considered following codes to get a fan in your room. But the room continued to remain at ninety degrees inside. Keep in mind this is Tacoma, where the temperature is consistently colder, with the warmest weather being in the fifties at early times of the year. My room mate said it is an unusual year. But it's peculiarity, that I don't want to hear. I want to hear nothing but sunshine and skull-petunias. Over the months we've been here, we never had to worry about a job. But we hadn't had the ONLINE world until recently when they currently switched networks.

In earlier times I would learn the process of encryption. I would learn how to break the same encryption. But now I can't onion anything, and TOR hasn't been working even when the INTERNET started too. So everything was left to largely sitting around being bored.

The room is hot, the hottest it's ever been. I went over to touch the bathtub, feeling it all over again. A plastic bathtub despite a marble floor, the heat all over the room leaves you marbling like a big juicy steak. Except this steak is filled with gristle and would ultimately taste like bad pork chops. We got some marsh mellows today. They taste sweet enough.

I feel around my scruffy neck.

Still no HRT yet. Still no life. But insurance, as late as the answer was, still managed to get it on time for the rest of tomorrow. I'm trying to get my room mate to get on the insurance, but she hasn't been motivated for anything lately. She mostly sleep all afternoon beginning at 3:00 A.M.

I want to work at the bowling alley, but every time I go anywhere I seem to have mental breakdowns. Large crowds seem to negatively effect me, and I'd want to board an escape capsule out of the area. But they don't construct escape capsules for Earth bound objects.

My mind is a spaceship.

I feel like I'm going into mental overdrive.

The spaceship stops, I can relax again.

The car horn beeped while the old cat lady slept. She slept in her bed, and there she wept. She wept for the old life, when she could regain eternal youth. She wept for the next generation, that lives without the rural life. In her childhood she sees an old world where the horse carts roll along the dirt roads, and where guillotines are put up in the town square along with the pillories. But this isn't that era. The era is the present day of two minutes in the future.

The cat lady will exit her motel room, following along my lead, functioning as a kind of body guard. She will go along the bus routes with me, wielding a giant cane. She would use the mutual fight law to her advantage, having the ability to wield weapons as a non human as it only applies to mankind. She will storm at them breaking jaws, and acting like a lowbrow cat.

But mostly likely this wont happen. I think in reality it's fair to assume that most people are intelligent people. And that most people won't just pick fights at the drop of a hat. This may be to generous a thinking, but one can only hope. I don't understand why there is such a law, it sounds archaic.

But according to a friend this was what they used at pride events. It still sounds like an extremely unintelligent way of solving problems.

Then again I was never a fighter.

The cat lady stays by my beside, watching old movies revolving around ladies in their wooden shoes. She doesn't understand the appeal like I do, and simply rolls her eyes as the pictures move on the screen.

It's about the only time I ever watch motion pictures, with the exception on the vacuum tube tops--or they seem like it being so heavy to carry. The lighter models are outside of my price range.

The motion picture comes to a close, the credits roll. My room mate is out and about finding work. I still find kind of weird masturbating in a motel room, but it's not like anyone is watching. The next objective for the evening is bring new sketches of women to completion. That's completed the drawings mind you, although bringing them to completion is nice as well.

The old nursery rhymes in the story book of the old cat lady, sings tales of an older more ideal time.

As ideal as stuffing trans women in the pillory.

The two boards locked tight.

The Almost Last Dance Of Emma

The thing about Emma, is we shared some interests together. Looking back on it, I wasn't sure if the reason she dumped me by proxy through Bentley, is because she considered me one of the girls.

I had never been officially out up to that point, although Bentley had a strange attraction to me for some reason, and would sometimes make remarks about how he wanted to have my babies. That was Bentley, that was my life. His girlfriend he had dated before Emma that remained friends with him up to that point, had suddenly stopped visiting. He was unsure of how to deal with his own feelings for me, and would have a friend court me instead.

He could never get the thought of me outside his head. But he had gradually began to make me feel uncomfortable, and so we stopped seeing each other for three months. Over that time I had time to think about what it was that bugged me about Emma who dunked bowling balls.

We had shared an interest an interest in a virtual reality game. We would sometimes connect together using headset with connected wires so as to make sure we were able to hear each other. There was a Japanese Role Playing game we used to play, that one could interest in partial real time, and would exchange our opinions about the game's subject matter, including our opinions on the shipping war. We would exchange these opinions in the bus.

I thought at the very least we could be friends.

But over the last few months she began to change for the worst. She became increasingly began to dress entirely in black dresses, and how she had began seeing either me and Bentley less and less.

Bentley called her one evening.

We found out she tried to commit suicide.

Over time she became less and less interested in with either of us. She had commented on how I seem to just cling to Bentley, and how Bentley seemed to take a liking to me. How he seemed to take a liking to anybody.

It was not long after they broke up.

Now hear I am waiting to sleep in my motel room. I am left wondering what to do with my life.

"What the first thing when you think of Emma." Bentley said, smoking a roll your own cigar. He is hanging out in the shadows, while we sit at a local Indian diner dive. He orders a dark brew.

"That girl in black that deceived me." I said, requesting a cigar. "I'm not sure I'll think of blonds in the same way again. Maybe it will fade, but now I'm left--"

"Think nothing of it Pace." he said, then put out his cigar. "I have a present for you, it was expensive. But I thought it was worth it. Have you ever had a magic orb?"

"I've seen them before but not had one."

"They say they can predict the future."

"What will you use it for?"

"To get my first girlfriend back, screw Emma."

"Indeed, screw Emma."

We left the diner an hour after closing, being allowed to bring our food with us. We thanked the chef with his service with tips. We exchanged words together from months to month. Eventually I never saw Bentley again.

I moved out of state never to return.

The Mothering Kind

I was ready to move out of NashChat for various reasons, but there was once major reason I left. But I'd prefer to keep that to myself.

The cell phone was beginning to run out of batteries, and I wasn't sure whether I was ready yet to go to bed. I had a long history of insomnia due to PTSD, and I had been off my sleep medication over the past two months. The acid medication had run out as well, so I was dealing with the same old night terrors I had been since before I had moved to the Seatak area.

The night was quiet. You hardly ever get this kind of quiet in the suburban area between Seattle and Tacoma. It was a rough start getting used to a new culture, and I would still say that if I know they are born here I was per say actually due to personal business with them. It isn't the regular people, but some of the people that work in the super markets. Anyone who knows me know when I make a compliment, I sincerely mean it as a complement. But some clerks don't seem to understand that fact, and that I mean something other than saying I like the flower in their hair. They must think I will take them to my lair.

I'm not sure why the only super market here are this way, the bus lines were this way as well. But there is a difference between privacy and just being a dick weed. You would think if I'm speaking to a friend, it would be implicit I was talking to my friend and not the entire bus. No I don't care that you aren't suppose to talk on the bus, it's not like I speak loud enough for that to make a sufficient difference in someone's life. In a world where you can get deals for monthly passes, you still have to deal with people that act like they are queen bitches.

There I said it.

I'm a transplant.

So this transplant will be going to Olympia. The land of flying blimps, powered by surveillance camera taking energy from those they spy on. That's the only explanation for the security cameras.

I'm not sure how big the crowd is going to be. I've never been one for very large crowds of people. The thing about crowds is I have an inability to adjust with crowds. If anyone should be complaining about privacy it is me. I am wearing a pair of brown suede clogs and a baby blue tee shirt, and a baby blue headband. I have my hair kept in a ponytail, and spend most of my days smoking cigars. In all my experience in groups of people that look at you weirdly for smoking, it seems to be religious people. I suppose that's why I'm glad I belong to The Satanic Temple. So you might be wondering, why are you wearing that as a Satanist.

Well fuck you, that's why.

The thing about The Satanic Temple, is they are a tongue in cheek group of Satanists that are actually Atheists. We tried doing the "separate of church and state" attack plan, but some religious groups had started calling us an atheist troll group or even a fake religion, apparently. Although as someone who questions anything I hear, you never knew if they are telling the truth.

I sit in my booth, waiting for the morning to come.

Early dawn light eases in.

We never got to go to Olympia.

It was one of those things how one can't go to sleep without thinking of how they brand themselves on the net.

One might have a fetish for certain objects of affection, whether they be shoes or shirts of name brands. You can't explicitly refer to those brands by name due to the risk of lawsuits, and yet as one with a disability one might indulge in that object of desire with nothing else to do with their life other than rot inside the space of their motel room. I for one have such affections.

I never could explain why I hate such interest in shoes, other I blame it partially on the fact that I had grown up with many girls in my high school wearing them. There was the curse of the fact that despite the clogs being ugly, some of the most beautiful girls you will find wear them all of the time in those years. And yet such footwear over time became the object of hate fucking. Many girls one might know tended to also be preppy, indulging in some of the latest fashions. The shoes would remind me of times I told my room mate about in my school years that made her peg me as a nerd. The cheerleaders consider me the token nerd, even though I was certainly not the least attractive of them. And yet some of the girls would make sex jokes at my expense.

On some level I trusted that Emma wouldn't be this way.

I attached some form of trust between me and her implicitly that we could be friends. Although I was never one to actually ask anyone out, I figured she wouldn't reject me because of the same level of bitchiness other girls did.

Instead, she rejected me because she read me all right.

She read me as another girl.

And yet not I indulge myself in the pleasure of footwear, I indulge in the brown ugly clogs that formed the nostalgia of childhood. While the desire for other shoes came and went, that one remained.

And yet I picture Emma no longer being what I imagined.

I pictured Emma wearing a long flowing black dress. There was a certain kind of divergence between the Emma I knew in high school and the Emma that continue to remain in my mind. I wanted to turn my life around, and unwind the clock of time. I wanted to date other girls, and spend no time doing nothing. Among other trans girls I knew they had dated and gotten cisgendered girls pregnant. And yet for me I remained forever alone in my own misery.

To be alone forever.

Partially from my own choice. I tried to move on from the Emma I imagined, and her memory effected the expectations I had for other blond women. And how I expected them to be conniving and bitchy

I suppose that's why I never dated.

What does this have to do with branding? Well I find that despite my interests I have no more energy to risk the risk some writers take, and set forth on a journey of using their favorite brands.

I instead rot in the sands. The sands of my personal sand bed. Since there was no market for them, I found a new hope.

And I could cry my own tears in grainy pillows.

The pillows of my own sorrows.

I can't sleep because of the snoring. I can't sleep because I don't want to sleep. I don't want to sleep because of my night mares, and yet at times I am told I bring out the mother in even the most non romantic.

I'm not sure what it is about me, it's not like I want to be taken care of. I simply wants to be me, myself, and only myself. And yet once upon a time in a memory far away, where the little elves go to play, there was that little elf nobody was sure how to feel about. Among her room mates, many felt that she was incapable of anything. Some of them, as well intentioned as it was, wanted to help the elf. And so they would shave them in the morning, and hug them in the evening, and give them bed time stories. The nature of motherhood has been a thing for man across generations, and generations after that. And yet the little elf wanted to remain young forever, and found that by remaining young she could be raised again by others.

I always had a thing for elf girls, although the elf girls I knew looked at me weirdly in some vague form of discomfort that was different from other elves boys. And how some of them were not meant to be mothers, being simply to young themselves, having yet to find their way in the world. And yet for me, I find myself in tricky relationships with minorities, both like and unlike myself. It isn't like I don't appreciate social justice, but I find that many focus on the hate.

But for me I often break down in social gathering, I find life often to difficult to comprehend. It isn't like I'm not intelligent, I have trouble coming around the bed, regaining the energy to take on the life again.

I withdraw into myself.

I withdraw into other lives.

I never want to be a mother, and yet it's not like I dislike kids. Although I've been told it seems like I do. Rather in many ways I still feel like a kid myself, in many ways I haven't grown up to meet the world.

The thing about me is, I am a girl.

I simply need more loving.

Of the mothering kind.

Friends Old And New

Sometimes you pin your whole life on a video game. In the nature of dream one imagines themselves in others lives, courting many wives who one will never get to engage in real life. Falling out of star ships with parachutes, and attacking spider pigs and ape goats with katanas.

It is easy to absorb oneself in another life, because life itself is filled with way to many breakdowns. One imagines visions of deranged clowns, and baseball bats hitting little poodle dogs. And evil witches tap dancing while pointing their fingers at you mockingly until the morning. One's life feels empty, and not socialized. The desire for many things is only late realized. The July sun beckons forth the opening eyes, and one sees for them self the world of lies.

My whole life has been a lie.

My whole life was empty up to this point, and it has continued to feel empty. They say if trans people were genetically engineered out of existence, they would never have to worry about issues they do.

That's only partially true. I would still experience my principle strangling me, I would still experience my family strangling my, and I would still be periodically out of breath. I would still have met Emma, and developed my shoe fetish. For some their life would be drastically different.

For mine it wouldn't have been different at all.

I would still be read as female, she would have still been a bitch.

Even at a young age I absorbed myself in video games, playing primarily Japanese Role Playing Games. I would play as many different class types, and become absorbed in different world with the virtual reality headset. Worlds I could never visit, and I could live someone's life.

But my life is a straight stone.

My life is lacking my ability to come to terms with my feelings.

I am made of stone.

The restaurant gave away a free recipe book to water the taste buds of the customers of the sit down joint. We had just gotten back from a bus trip to an event, that ended up being a wash. Though if you asked me, it was a well deserved wash. After all, every now and then you need a taste of experiencing major plans not going as expecting to truly empathize with others experiencing the same thing.

We left the diner for the bus, with her carrying food in a box of leftovers becoming not hungry due to anger. As much as I enjoy karmic justice, it should be a comforting learning experience, the term that she is very comfortable with using for my own situations.

The last few days I was in and out of mental breakdowns, and today I was in an between state, between no breakdown and total breakdown. I'm uncertain as of yet whether it is because of my previous experience, or if perhaps it is due to stress because of my current financial situation, or if it is because of both. In either case today there wasn't a major inspection today, and it was the lady manager and not the guy. At least I don't have to worry about fights being picked at the drop of a hat. The whole week has been filled with a lot of mixed feelings.

I found a manual on practitioners that took Apple Health.

I hope it's not out of date.

It was one of those days when you constantly feel tired, seemingly for no reason. It wasn't like you ran around a lot, or even pulled a sailboat out of a dock doing actual real life work. You just suddenly feel like you have no more energy, as if all the energy is suddenly sucked out of you. I still haven't totally recovered from the breakdowns, though the feelings are subtler. The main thing is fear of them recurring. There is nothing like the fear of them recurring, especially when you are between states. I hadn't got much sleep either, writing diaries when I should be sleeping. But I have to write at night, in order to make the nightmares and constant thoughts melt away. I see myself resting in bed, and yet with the room mates constant coughing this isn't always possible. Believe me, I've tried to ask if things were already.

But I just don't have the energy.

Not tonight.

My red sweater and my black clogs contrasted with the blue jeans, specially soon for my body shape. The shoes were meant for flat feet being shaped like potatoes, and pants felt a bit to tonight. But with the sweater, I could say goodnight. I had a tendency to sleep in sweaters, especially during the Winter months. It was a carry over from when I used to sleep in my clothes.

I had never been in a photo shoot before, and I needed to make sure I wasn't sleeping during the flash. I don't like having my picture taken, even though the photographers rake in the cash. They would only give me a tiny slash of the royalties during the next magazine. I grew tired of the business. I left the studio in a hurry, with my favorites games having come out.

It had been a while since I had used virtual reality for any extensive period of time. I remember when I would play some of the earlier more obscure JRPG series that were never quite the same as the original.

It had been a while sense I played a game in general.

But hopefully that would be over soon.

I had last played video games in the previous operating system on the laptop, and over time switching over to Linux made it impossible to permanently keep certain systems streamlined for gaming. So I ended up have to program games like Terminal Shooter and Shooter Maker. But there was still nothing like programming pure text adventures, and better yet playing some of the better JRPGs. I find the current game titles a bit disorienting to look at.

I'd rather look at ugly clogs, I'd rather look at anything else besides bad 3D unless it's bad 3D clogs. So whenever I was away from the studio when I was photographed for specific author photographs, I would mostly spend my time programming being largely incapable of anything else. It's like I want it to be that way. But when you are half deaf, have PTSD, anxiety, adhd, autism, shin splints, and other issues it makes it tempting to simply stay home and rot.

But then a new show was on, that I forgot. It was a show that made sister had grown a fondness for in my teen years, but have shied away from it because it resembled Spaghetti Westerns in space.

But in watching the first episode, it wasn't bad.

Just not something I would write.

The thing about the nature of dreaming, one could imagine themselves in other people's lives. One could imagine themselves in impossible landscapes, where Seattle, Washington merges with Los Angeles, California. The nature of reality was based on existing landscapes jumbled together using Ruby arrays. No matter what base source landscape it was based on, it was often be something totally different. That's how I found myself in Seatak, Tennessee.

I visited some friends old and new.

I Can't Hear Anything

Marshmallow for breakfast, marshmallow for lunch, and marshmallow for dinner. I never had a taste for roasted cat. Luckily I am referring to the corn starch loosely based after the original substance. Besides, my room mate is allergic to them despite loving cat pictures.

It had been many days since I had soup, and many more since I had Thai Red Curry. Due to the nature of my living circumstances, I had to make due to what we have instead of what I would like to have. The room mate takes control of the cooking, so made is left with my booking other things in that time. Yet soon my life turned on a dime, and I had to make boring ham sandwiches. I like ham, don't get me wrong. I can't help it if it tastes like donkey dong.

I had a fashion dream again, dreaming all of the pairs of different sweaters and dresses I could possible own to pair with my ugly black clogs. After all I have never been one to believe in contemporary fashion taste. The clogs just happen to be trending now, but have always been a thing in more hipster cities. If that means making horny guys avoid squeezing my titties, all the best. Besides, I want women to squeeze my titties. As we travel across many cities looking for night clubs. I have never been to a night club, though I've heard many women prostitute a little bit on the side. The thing about being trans is, I've heard many know some hookers.

Society places to much value on Christianity.

Especially when it devalues the hooker profession.

I purchased a hot dog from the city concession stand, while listening to folk metal Seatak bands. My friend like to discuss how certain Satanic groups reminded her of objective libertarian philosophy. Well I tried telling her the meaning of subjectivist philosophy, but she just looks at me like she is confused. Then twists her head around like I'm negatively obtuse.

Then she stops as I tap my potato shoes.

And then we walk into the rainy day without a rainbow, where cyborgs, trans-humanists, and other groups gel with the existing hipster culture.

I am a Raven.

I would apply the cheat codes for shits and giggles, especially for impossible fights. There is some level of special just applying the same cheat code on a main character well liked by yourself just for something different. A change of pace, the flow of the game make it appeal to the story reader aesthetic. It was a lonely gaming session, after eating a hot dog from the concession. The mix of the flavor of beef waste, and wasting the hunk of beef on the JRPG screen.

Every time I think of my gaming days, I think of Emma. I think of the relationship we could have had, and had she rejected me. And yet at times I would still see her image in my mind, as it mixes with the image of another girl I knew who reminded me more of a squirrel turned into a human than anything else. In later years the girl would manifest in my life, wearing a long flowing black dress. She was the ghost of my mind, forming her imprint upon reality. She would attack men that threatened me with pepper spray. She was the personality mix of Emma and Jenna, and how despite her passive aggressive contained a kind of innocuous execution. The neck is in the details, as her statements would cut to the bone while smiling the sweetest smiles. The imprint of my mind, as she is always there to form company.

At first I am apprehensive to her advances, being ensure to give such a hybrid girl many chances. But sometimes the answers of your life are taken away from you at lightning speed.

Upon these pages, I spill this seed.

Stay away, smoke some weed.

As I went to the therapist for the first time, in my mind she sat beside me. And yet at times the therapist would see her walk through the door. "Excuse me, but we are having a private meeting. Please wait outside."

"Oh by I am Pace's wife." she said.

"Is this alright we with you." the therapist said.

"Sure whatever, I've married her. She's welcome."

The session had a visual quality much like a literary quality porno--visual erotica. It was rely a bit of personal fetishes, while focusing on characterization over style. Like the porno studio was watching my interactions with my therapist, tailoring movies to my specific needs. I began to wonder if the girl was the therapists assistant, but the therapist claimed to have never met her. "We had only met a few months before. And now she follows me everywhere I go."

It was a strange relationship.

The Tulpa of forgotten love.

Hello, my name is nose. I sing the blues of snot. My nose forgot to blow, ever sense the angry motel came after one with a swimming pool noodle and spanked you till time forgot. I forgot to make the coffee. Random zebras running everywhere. Collapsing stalagmites falling down, piercing hearts. Screech screech said the bat in the cave. Is that an alien named Shave!

Sometimes you mind forms a kind of nonsense, while technically one could form a sentence, sometimes you feel so mentally exhausted you can't do anything else at that particular moment. The mind is a kind of inner cave, in that darkness are shadow men. Who get tired of that philosophical story, after all why can't men in a cave have a conversation with as much depth? Except this cave is a motel room, where the power sometimes goes in and out.

What will happen I don't know, it is a story I can't show. It is a story that only I shall know. The story of how one has come to live in the inner cave of the modern city, desiring to have on one's body the woman's tits. But instead one can only smoke weed, and take occasional shits. The mind simply tries to put itself back together little bit little over time, until there is nothing else left to remember. And there are some things far to unhealthy to remember.

It is not quite September, it is not quite July.

I remember of my life, what isn't a lie.

There is a frog, a bunny rabbit, and a duck. One hops way to often, one likes to get wet in the lake. But one is simply lame. For they refused words for so long, and were filled with nothing but shame. Shame for being a duck. And in this children's story one may call a life, there is a personal story. A story of a duck that became a non lame duck, and while they could not run for office, or anything of importance, they found that they could be friends with the bunny rabbit and the frog.

Why did I choose to read this children's story? It always gives me adult tears, because I have no rabbit or a duck, I have my life. A simple game of luck, a simple game of cards. Scattered about and only finding fifty one of them. The final one is found, but the animated card had to be put out of its misery in a paper shredder. The shredder known as the empty hole of life.

My life, my story.

My existence.

Sometimes in the darkness, there are mental breakdowns. Sometimes there are those who reach out for a hand. The girl who was once a Tulpa. became a recurring room mate in the house, and eventually me and her would move together into a new apartment, and there we would live together for the rest of our life.

That might seemed rush, but I don't always like talking about myself. Talking about myself gives me weird issues, sometimes it makes me need tissues. And so I would leave you with a visual of a flower field filled with withered daisies and petunia in the largest sun of the year. And the corn withers away.

The day the went became still inside my mind.

I can't hear anything anymore.

Reloading The Bus Cards

It's a few months later, and I still haven't bought a cat. A decade before that we stopped having hand held games. Reach far enough back, and you will find poor people like us could have them.

"It's time to wake up, we're going to the plasma center today." said my room mate. No matter how many times I ask her, she never understands not to wake me my up early in the morning.

"But I'm trying to sleep." I said, pushing myself out of bed. I can see the antique television in static mode, not yet having been turned off to save electricity. Of all the things we could be doing to earn money, why are we hanging out here running up our rent? Because she won't use common sense in terms of television use, that's why. "Can't we go some other day?"

On the side walk, my room mate is playing with her hand held.

I'm looking around to make sure I don't fall into the road, as my balance has never been very good. I see the traffic is backed up at the moment, but I don't know how much longer it is going to last. It was a typical suburban neighborhood, with the next pot shop just ten miles down the road. "Wanting to purchase some joints later?" I asked, half jokingly. I knew the money would be better spent on other things, but simply didn't have the heart to suggest otherwise.

"We'll see depending on how much money we get." she said, not turning her eyes away from the hand held system.

I wanted to throw that into the road.

At the plasma center I was turned away, they said at the moment my blood was not suitable. I remembered how I had started chain smoking that morning, and my room mate forgot to remind me not do. They needed blood that did not contained nicotine, and I simply didn't consider it. My mind felt like it was going a million place at once, and then I tried to grab my friend's hand held to toss it to a wall.

My friend reassured me I could go tomorrow. "Just remember not to smoke anything." she said.

"Knowing that would helped me sooner."

"I thought you would have known."

So I tossed out my last cigarette box as a drastic measure to remind myself at home, not being able to count on my room mate to remember.

I dreamed about going to a Gay pride event in Texas, even though we live in the Seattle Tacoma area. We had just gotten out of a Jewish grocery store, and found ourselves a British Mexican restaurant.

Yet the next morning I found such a restaurant isn't to out of the realm of possibility. You just needed something to make it uniquely British, like adding more blood pudding.

When I got the cash, I was able to purchase a new carton. The rest of the chain is history. Now sixteen packs later, I am resting on an abandoned road. While I am feeling sick, I need to board the next bus, so I can get back home. I have a new hand held, utilizing USB drives.

I'm now set for the future.

If there is one for me.

I'm not sure what to do with my girlfriend. She likes to do everything I do. It doesn't matter if it's golfing, fencing, writing, or whatever. Whatever I'm doing, she is there to follow and and do what I do.

Sometimes I fear that I might take advantage of her, and therefore I try to tell her at times she should only do what I do if it truly interests her. But she always insists that it is what she is interested in. I've almost given up, I have to much on my plate anyway. I had just chosen not to become a carpenter, despite a family tradition. I had lived in a town of family traditions. I am so tired of tradition, so tired of the old values. I'm so tired of everything in my old life.

I met my girlfriend when she was an exchange student, and found solace in each other. She came from the land of the rising sun, where the nail always got hammered down. And thus she always sought not to be a nail. At times I felt like a squeaky wheel forced to be her nail. She wanted me to just accept the fact that she would follow my lead. But I'm not cut out to be a leader, not anymore. The last time I tried to be a leader, it left the gym classes derailed, followed a kind of strange stage act. I preferred the idea of acting in a kind of hidden stage, with my friends the awing onlookers. And yet even this dream became something of a reducing fantasy.

When I lost my apartment, she let me come to stay.

When I lost my car, she drove me to places.

Among other reasons, I found myself becoming drawn to her own sensibility, despite our differences in cultures. Our home country considered us scavengers of acceptance, yet on some level both of us knew that we would find none.

This is our story.

I woke up, and found myself in a world of a rising sun. Here everyone dressed like me; this was because I found myself in a new life where I could conform to societal expectations. Then I woke up, and felt something missing in my life.

According to my girlfriend, she found herself admiring the new life of the hipster. She would dress up as some new fairy tale character. The different being the norm, other admired her difference. She was unused to this acceptance.

We separated for a few months.

Those months came and went.

I now life with my girlfriend again, and found ourselves dreaming of our old life. Yet because we found ourselves frightened by the idea of cultural lynch mobs, we found the outlet for our fantasies.

We gave in, we conformed to our new reality.

We gave into the porn pill.

Mother said we would reload our bus cards. Here I am waiting for the cards to be loaded. The silence is as deafening as the sound of clashing voices of different pitches and tonal resonances. But with the silence I may sleep tonight, though I must sleep later than my room mate.

It was the month of July just before the forth, in the year of 2086. The porn had been on and off the market due to a long cycle of repeated recalls. To think that this is rumored to be almost like computational dreaming. The OS is not so much an OS, as a way of societal malcontents and sexual maladaptive folk to have an outlet. And yet from friends I know I hear of people weirder than me, adding to the adage that there will always been someone more deviant than you. Yet as I contemplate my visit with friends in my social group in the city, I wondered what would happen if I disappeared. Already I am only noticed if I get particularly drunk, and I find myself staring at ladies shoes while I go on bus trips. I contemplate while I eat a bag of cookies and another of caramelized peanuts. We live in a capitalistic society.

A conversation I heard at the bar, was the debate over whether someone like Hitler were even possible today. The ultimate conclusion seemed to be economic downturn plus racism plays a role, leaving my unsure what would happen in our own country with economic conditions and politics at center stage due to specific tragedies. But I would argue that we don't need fascism.

Note that I had been watching documentaries about how television has become our new fascists. Bare in mind this was before smart cell phones became a thing. In many ways we already live in the future, it's simply that most people are unaware of specific surrealism of our hyper specific present. Whether it's shops peddling lunar crescents with overgrown trees, or the local head shop--not a literal head shop by the way, although that adds to a specific charm to imagine--our world is filled with the temptation to buy things like in specific science fiction novels.

And yet nobody could predict the porn pill.

The porn pill was something I had mixed feelings about what I first introduced, and yet now I consume every one that gets produced. The produce rots in the fridge, especially the ancient lettuce wedges. And here I wonder what our future will be, not being able to vote in the next election.

A mental dissection.

Nodding And Listening

Allow me to recount you the experience of my friend Jonah.

The lights were buzzing in and out, and the bathroom was in complete disrepair; the toilet had a red stain, and the bath tub also had layers of brown rust. Jonah walked into the dimly lit room, looked himself in the mirror. Then said, "I really need to clean this glass." At the moment he felt like not doing it, thus went and sat on the bed in order to reflect on his thoughts. It had many times he had talked to Ezekiel, though it was only today in particular that he payed attention to him very much.

Teddy walked into the direction of the light. "Jonah, you should try to create your own group." Jonah didn't remember whether he open up the stuffed animals chest, in order to put in a makeshift radio. Or if possibly the bear suddenly obtained the magical powers to be able to talk on it's own. "Wouldn't that be great?" Jonah thought it was amusing that the bear sounded just like his favorite horror movie villain, a robot named Jab. He reclined in his bed in order to sleep.

"I want to form my own philosophy, something unique to me; it would center around assimilation, acceptance, and non dependent association; no more silence, only the music in my head." Jonah didn't remember the retort the Teddy made, maybe in fact the bear did not retort at all. Perhaps he was simply seeing things because of distress of the night. He gradually found the call of the dark night, gradually becoming harder to resist. He chose not to fight, he gave into the sleep.

"I can help you Jonah, we can form our own group."

When he woke up, it was twelve. Teddy had punched him in the face, and his jaw hurt. Staring around the room, he had the same old reminder of many paper. They were tossed across the floor. He felt that staying up, while laying in bed was a bore. Thus he got up and sat on his bed, and placed his hands over his face to drown away the tiredness. Teddy was resting again on his bed he specifically made from a weave, then looked at the ceiling tugging at his sleeve. "The music in my head."

"So your up, we need to talk about you bashing my head against the wall." Teddy said. Eggplant was still asleep in his room. Jonah was to caught up in his own thoughts to be able to care about what the stuffed animal was saying, and went into the kitchen to make himself breakfast.

"I did what now?" Jonah said half-listening.

It was later in the morning, but still early. Jonah had his stuff ready in order to go to his class. "Wait for me Jonah, remember. I'm your friend." Jonah simply leaned his back backward, and laughed.

"Your just a Teddy Bear." Jonah said, then left.

Teddy was lonely in the dorm room, Eggplant was still sleeping. So he hopped onto the desk, carefully making sure that he did not knock anything onto the floor. Then he pounced on the Eggplant, and punched it in the face. "Hey wake up, it's Teddy." The eggplant growled because of his interrupted sleep, then in a mocking laugh pushed the Teddy off of him.

"What are you wanting. Your just a Teddy." The words Teddy continued to repeat over and over again in the Teddy Bear's mind. "You know, I wonder if Jonah is going to try to talk with that one guy he keeps talking about again." Teddy was to caught up in his own thought to pay attention. The Eggplant got up, and punched the Teddy Bear in the face. "Hey I'm -" Eggplant couldn't finish.

"Don't touch me." Teddy said.

Later that evening, Jonah finishes homework from class. "So Jonah, Mr. Jonah. How are you expecting to be able to run your life?" said Teddy.

"Yea I'll just have you be Mr. Vice President." Jonah walked over to the door, then placed his ear upon it. "Hey I can hear voices. They sound like, are Ezekiel and his friends making fun of me outside?" Teddy bear walked over and stood behind him.

"Why do you think that Jonah?" Teddy noted that Jonah was not particularly listening to him at the moment. :Alright let's get things straight. I'm going to be the one that takes the lead. You will follow me" But Jonah was to caught up listening, beyond the door. "Are you listening man, I'm Teddy your friend." The voices on the other end of the door stopped.

"Hey Jonah, you ok Man. Something wrong?" Jonah heard Ezekiel's voice.

"What it to you man?" said Teddy.

"Shut up Teddy, they'll hear us." said Jonah.

"I'll see you in class Jonah."

Later on, Teddy, Eggplant, and Jonah all hung out and told ghost stories with each other. Then Jonah decided to get up, and go play pool. "Where you going Jonah, don't leave me!" said Teddy." Jonah simply puffed his hair on his face. Then cracked the door. "Hey Jonah, what's that empty CPU over there?" Jonah turned around, and stared at Teddy."

"It's not what you think it is." Jonah said.

"I can make the headmaster think it is." Teddy said.

"And who would believe a –"

"He'll think it's you talking."

Because of this, he picked up both the Eggplant and the Teddy and brought them with him to be able to go and play pool. There the Goth girls stared at him, because he was talking to a stuffed eggplant and a Teddy Bear. They giggled to each other, then went into the bar. "Tough crowd tonight." said Teddy. Eggplant guy simply rolled his eyes.

"It's not you, it's Jonah." said Eggplant.

"Shut up, will you."

"Hey Jonah, how are you talking to?" Ezekiel at the pool table asked?"

"Ezekiel, Eggplant and Teddy. Eggplant and Teddy, Ezekiel." said Jonah.

"Hey is he that guy you talk about a lot?" said Eggplant.

"Shut up Eggplant."

Who talked about who?" said Ezekiel? At that point Ezekiel thought that something was seriously wrong with Jonah. "Hey, let's just play some pool OK." Jonah played pool for the rest of the night.

"Why did you have to say anything?" said Jonah to Eggplant.

"Could not help it." said Eggplant.

"Stop talking to yourself Jonah." said Ezekiel.

"Oh I'm no." said Jonah.

"Sure." said Ezekiel."

They exited the pool house.

"So Jonah, is everything OK?" said Ezekiel. They were going back to their dorm rooms. Ezekiel shut up his lady friends, that made sarcastic comments about liking his Eggplant.

Jonah resisted cackling. "Yea everything is fine, why?"

"Your talking to a fucking Eggplant." said Ezekiel.

"Don't you have imaginary friends Ezekiel?" Jonah said, then slammed his dorm room shut.

Ezekiel stared at the door, that said do not disturb. "Sometime in the universe, you really will find stranger people than those like us."

I hadn't known him for very long, he might be institutionalized somewhere.

It was a cold month in twenty eighty six.

I have nobody there, I have nobody in my hair. There is a sound quieter than the deepest silence. Nobody's singing is there. The plight of the falling song birds is a tune that fills the air.

The world of my own, that has nobody in it. Watch me breath my last breath of air. The fumes of toxic smog, fills my lungs with stranger air. I only have myself to wait, till the porn pills give me flare. In the hearts of men, there is the ensnare. Of being scammed into losing one's worth. And one rots on this forsaken Earth. But this is the story, about another girl who dated another girl, that lost her life to young.

A young woman who liked to eat bagels, found she could not eat Shrimp. Her girlfriend, loved to eat shrimp but hated bagels. The one who loved to eat bagels found shellfish were not kosher, but her girlfriend found bagels were simply to dry. If it were only this, her girlfriend would not have chosen to die. The hum that fills the air, ensnares one to the sound of inner music.

At first it was the different dietary aspects.

Then it was the different religions.

Then the priest wanted to split them apart.

A few months went by, but there was never a fresh start. One found herself amongst the company of men. Found her life loop all o'er again, dating strange men due to financial security. And yet they new that something was missing, as the drifting apart without a hint of kissing. The snake of the other man refused hiss at her tender lips, because he knew she was not into him. Thus she never tasted his flesh.

But when she tried to find the Shrimp eating girl, she found herself involved with a strange group of suicide girls. She managed to get her out of this relationship. But there was a long period of silence.

There was a period of shouting.

There was a period of pouting.

Then the eternal silence.

The girl that ate bagels arranged a funeral, and placed a shrimp plushy upon her engraved stone. Though the two were atheists, she bent down and prayed. Yet there was no atone for the damned.

She was struck my lightning in the air.

And now the silence fills the air.

A realistic dream.

"Well let me tell you a story, of a time I used to be a rich lady." the woman in the black and red dress said. She was sitting on the floor, waiting for me to give her a full attention, waiting for me to be her audience.

If we back up, keep in mind I am a trans woman who is a sex abuse survivor. There isn't anybody that will tell me my trauma is invalid. I have no idea what this woman is trying to achieve. She told me of how she once wore a tuxedo to a programmers ball. It was a time when women could technically wear anything they wanted, provided it was appropriate for the job.

She told me of how she spent all her money on smokes, how she had to go on food stamps because her ill advised spending habits. No fault of mine sugar. But there was some kind of truth in what the woman said, even if I found the rest of what she had to say invalidating of the specific kinds of trauma I experienced. While she may have to worry about homelessness due to bad spending, I had a family who was at risk of no longer sending. There was bad blood due to the fact that I had moved to another state, because I wanted to live an independent life. Reality cuts with a knife; it cuts into your heart, and drains you dry.

So why would I be subjected to this lie?

This lie called life.

When you spend time somewhere for five months, sometimes you gain the reflection of it being better to spend time listening to others. Yet there are people that take advantage of this privilege. Even if I were inclined to come out, and believe me if I trust you and have met you I have no hesitation, sometimes you meet grimy old men who kick your legs, while telling you he has no problems with gay people. Some minority groups like himself have been visible for years, like beating a dead horse.

But our discrimination is subtler. Sometimes it is still unsafe to come out as a trans person, and you are forced to not correct someone when they just assume you are some homosexual woman. I realize I'm lucky in that I pass well enough for people to just assume this, but what if I had said I was a trans woman. Along with my already present PTSD and half deafness, even if somehow the societal issue of LGBT things went away, there would still be this and being a writer that would still make society cringe. I still have the kinks I have, that also create misunderstandings. You don't develop an interest in BDSM and come out this way as a trans person, as society still hasn't moved past the idea that Trans people are sexual deviants.

And yet this visitor of my motel, had the gall to assume my issues were less than hers, and if I spoke about my issues, I'd get shouted down.

So would you really blame me?

I just nodded and listened.

Marketing Of The Hero

"Be careful, or I might skin your cat." the man said, laughing maniacally. "Just joking." And that's how you skin a cat. While he never really said he'd skin my cat, it might as well have been that. Even when dipping it was warning he'd dip an ice cream cone on my head chilling me to the bone.

I had never seen my father sense I moved out of state. It has always been one of those things, I never liked comedy. With the latest batch of porn pills I took, I found I couldn't control the lucid nightmare I was in. There was gargoyles staring at me by the bed. While logically I had no reasons to assume such creatures were in my motel room, I couldn't get to sleep for nights upon nights. My friend calls me paranoid, I call it merely guarded. But I never took nightmares as funny. Rather than taking them in stride, it would always remind me of times I would get lost in the corn fields. I would meet with strange devils who lead me in the direction of home.

The next morning I found myself feeling drained, my inner life energy being the fluid of tub that constituted my skull. And my ability to think was marred by overbearingly mundane mental visuals of reality. It was that calm before the storm, that feeling of being merely a worm stomped on by a S.W.A.T officer's boot. Only these officers were demons from the farthest reaches of hell.

It was a strange city, filled with gargoyle statues. They were of a large stature. The statues of stature stared down like ominous omens from the beyond. The gargoyles like totalitarian enforcers of draconian supernatural laws. They would feed me to creatures of the night, being tossed in their jaws.

The region of strange laws.

Every time I look at statues, I find myself staring upon strange art that was not really art but being from beyond frozen in time. It is a nightmare reality, although my psychiatrists say the gargoyles are not really there.

But I've seen them, they converge on me at night.

Those creatures, hungry, feasting on my fright.

Yet the psychiatric hospital said they could help me.

And yet I still see their faces at night, the gargoyles are doctors now. They looked upon me as their food cow.

They prod me, and inject me with needles.

I am frozen in time, on an examination chair in a doctor's office. "So what is the problem with you?" the man said.

"I am surrounded by demons." I said to the gargoyle man.

"I think you should ween off the porn pills. Can I see your pill bottle?" he said.

I showed him the pill bottle.

"I thought they recalled these years ago." he said.

I remembered the look on the gargoyles face.

The look of my father.

I cared not her name, the dame with bright blond hair. She wore multiple colored blue jeans similar to torn jeans not torn all the way through, and had an attitude that could win her millions in depth to dept collector if they were still a thing. Her white t shirt shined in the light.

Now here is the weird thing, she didn't seem to mind the fact that I admired her ass, although she seemed to mind my friend admiring her ass.

It has always been a weird thing for me. For whatever reason it seemed like the girls that tended to pay the most attention to me tended to be bitches. I hoped this meant that it was because they felt envious, and not so much that there was something inherently bitchy about myself. She was amongst a crowd of attractive women who seemed to consider me some vague sort of object for jealousy. Which is strange as I never found myself to be something of worth. It reminded me of how nice girls tended to not pay much attention to me one way or the other, and on some level I actually liked them better because of this. Now I realize some may view ignoring as not being nice, but when you go through life not trusted people sometimes being alone is what you need.

Me and a friend went to a local coffee shop, cost us a little over twenty bucks. We exchanged words about the value of a romantic comedy about a Jewish girl dating a Japanese guy, and the conflicts between Judaism and Shinto. That's the thing about coffee shops, they bring out the weirdest conversations in you. As we left I admired a Japanese girl in glasses and Jesus Sandals. I had a thing for girls in Jesus Sandals. Don't kink shame OK, you don't kink shame people for like heels.

We were at the store and bought ourselves some food, and signed up for a digital writing competition. I've never been a competitive person, so I'm not sure what the experience is like. I also met with a neighbor, who experienced racial profiling by the local cops. She said she might helps us with a guide to finding cheap apartments. I suppose we'll see.

Now I'm at home, admiring bitchy blond in Jesus Sandals.

Girls in Jesus Sandals.

There were many names for our neighborhood: Hell's Corner, Calla Lillie lane, among others. But the only one that really managed to stick was Purgatory Road. Purgatory Road was a home for being sent to live the rest of their lives; it was a kind of financial prison among the socially damned. You could live hear five months, and never hear of anyone getting a Gold Rush.

One girl and one girl once lived here. They are gone now, lost to time. Yet the imprints of time still remember them, as they lived the rest of their lives. They started a group of writers, of which I'm a current participant. There was a kind of unspoken blood oath amongst us, as we spent our next few months with the moths. We live the lives of those punished for their sins, living the rest of our lives with renewed childhoods all over again.

But it had warped into something darker.

It warped into something less easy to define. In this world forsaken by those truly the opposite of the divine, we exist in our own personal purgatory. As lovers we write each others stories, we write songs to each other like bleeding hearts. We admire the gargoyle statues in the city. We join together despite having lives otherwise shitty, and suppose each other and the lives damned.

We are the living who are socially dead.

Here in Purgatory Road, they say the life expectancy is twenty three, I would give it about a couple more years for me at the most. Already I am aged beyond many of my personal kin, here we our lives repeat all over again. Some of us have committed suicide, others survive with barely a thread of mental faculties. Others are permanently changed for the rest of their lives.

It is Purgatory Road.

Were young lives come to an end.

It is Purgatory Road, where we dine with the dead among the living in shadows. Where we haunt the dead as conscious ghosts, haunting them as their past in perpetual motion forward.

And yet life is merely a dream.

A lucid nightmare dream.

Sometimes in life, people long for heroes. Sometimes in life, we long for saviors to rescue us from our life's torment. And yet in society, it prescribes you specific heroes rather than allowing one to create one of their own. We live in a culture of hero worship, like times of old.

I had decided for myself I needed no heroes, although I wouldn't say I am one myself. Rather when you see life for how it really is, and realize that everything that know and love is a lie, all of sudden the people society prescribe to be your heroes no longer matter in the long run. I remember when my first experience with them, was through marketing. One of the first things I got was plates with this one specific super hero. Throughout my life I would see various idols placed on canned foods, and other products. They call it modern day mythology, but unlike old mythology a company couldn't sue you for using an icon.

And yet now, instead the old heroes, what you have is a world where big businesses are able to sue you for using their super hero, except through specifically allowed fan fiction. And yet there is a cultural expectation of not creating your own heroes, and merely rehashing the old material and lore. And yet society also says that fan fiction is inherently awful, although many writers get their start with it. For me, I've never had a hero, and I've never needed one.

I am a hero onto myself.

It was the evening when my dog would never return from the vet. I would sleep in my bed all morning and night, hoping that it was all a lie. Although I never made the jokes, sometimes I would here comments about hitting the dog was with a baseball bat. In real life there are not heroes, and there are laws against masked vigilantism. It isn't surprising the same nation that would ban masked heroism would also try create mass campaigns in order to lobby for making firearms illegal. While I've never been an advocate for them, the reason they don't want us to have them is clear to anyone with a critical thinking brain. They use organized mind-control on people, put them in a controlled environment where they go insane, and them train them with those weapons. Then they have this individual comfort to a new religion.

That's what causes the tragedies. They are tragedies alright, and if there was in fact masked vigilantism by trained people, it would have stopped these things. Sometimes you have to look beyond the surface.

See the lies the media tells you.

And remember, it's all a game.

Meanwhile in other parts of the country, broken people put guns to their mouths. They consume bathroom cleaner, or hang themselves. They allow school bullying to run at an all time high, and yet never bother to check on people that give their kids anti-depressants before the age of thirteen.

I was one such kid.

I am a attempted suicide survivor.

There are many reason one might choose suicide. The reasons vary from person to person, and sometimes those reasons change based on new life circumstances beyond people's control. We live in a nation filled with extreme poverty. And yet nobody cares about the poor people. They don't care about anything.

And you don't care about anything.

Not anymore.

No Longer Myself

One year sense 2016 has gone by. Across the street a welder will get kicked out by his girlfriend. That's one welder groveling on the floor of road. I had never known anyone that cheated with anyone directly.

I wonder how one could live on merely two hundred dollars. The thing about living on year own in these parts, you have a crazy high rent. A thing the card won't even pay for that. So you have this homeless guy able to buy groceries but no place to cook them. I suppose one could survive on fast food, I never checked to verify that. So this guy is kicked out by his girlfriend, who is complaining about the INTERNET.

We've been without a good reliable connection for a few months. I almost was under the impression that most other people than myself and my room mate were already used to the connection as bad it is. You have to be outside to get it, so you can go looking for girls in pillories or guillotines outside the door. Just as well, there are way to many cops around here. Might as well be bought off the manager. They would drive around the small neighborhood road, profiling people. That was the good aspect about this place.

The church food bus almost never comes here. Room mate hasn't given up on it already, but I began to assume it was a lost cause.

Room mate still hasn't given up on them.

I'm not sure why we took so long to avoid getting food stamps.

We avoided it for three whole months when we needed it most. It's because spending all your money is fucking stupid. Actually rather than stupid, it's just a matter of being poor. On one hand you consume nicotine to help relief your stress about reality, on the other hand you continue to lose money ignoring the need for food stamps. A vicious cycle indeed.

The only thing making our situation worth living is at least we have a place to cook--marginally. The fire alarm is wild and crazy. I've never had a smoke alarm so sensitive that it activates while you're boiling water. The only cheap drug is the "porn pill". But the thing about porn pills is how they gradually reduce your grip on reality. But each pill would allow sexual fantasies based on the individual person who took them.

So for me I would go to sleep, as they have relaxation powder in them, and dream of images of guillotined girls and women in pillories. Sometimes schoolgirls getting their bottoms paddled. Just whatever gives me my kick at any particular moment. Yea I like girls in nice kicks, carve them out of a piece of whole wood. I don't understand why there are high heeled versions. Makes for crouch stomping an unpleasant experience. If you're into that sort of that.

I'm not sure what my room mate dig when they take their porn pill. Combined with a an acid problem and sleep issues and a dose of PTSD, it makes dreams especially short and realistic in nature. Like someone unwilling to look to far in the past. Sometimes they are so realistic that they make one wonder whether they actually happened at some point in the past. You have a a pad of notebook paper you looked forward to writing on, and suddenly this stack of notebook paper is thrown away by narcissism.

Maybe I should get off porn pills.

My mind feels fuzzy.

The thing about porn is the best porn depends on the individual. Some take it by the mouth, others go for the lunge. Isn't weird how sometimes you find weird names from drugs, especially this one called the "porn pill".

It was the first time I used the pill, although others of my friends had varying experiences based on their natural orientation and gender dynamic. For me, I was still finding myself and it took a while to finally settle on various the sexualized grotesque channels. I could watch girls having their heads popped off all day without a thought in the world for societies mores. The porn pill allowed us to hallucinate while we slept, and experience realistic dreams of various objects of desire we desired, including some tendencies toward bondage in the extreme, of which I was only ever a light participant in any of those.

The first few times it was a weird experience. I had only just started using Nicotine and THC vape, and most dreams tended to be fantastic in nature combined with the already present stomach acid issues and sleep issues I already had that gave me night terrors. But these dreams were different, for one I felt that I existed in a different time line apart from our own. Time could go backward or forward, and loop forever and ever until I was left repeating the same household chores again. But instead of chores, I was visited by various angels with multiple colored hair. I picked the ones that were of my choosing, and finally decided to behead the girl with the lightly greenish brunette shade of colors. I gave her various methods of foreplay, including circling around her nipples and gently caressing her neck.

When I was done I tied her to a guillotine plank, and then slowly lowered her into the neck clasp, then closed the top. I could feel her becoming more tense as time went on as I refused to let her die. I would lowered the blade, severing her neck from her spine. I found her face rather divine. Then when she was counting on being freed, I lowered the blade. The blade dropped, cut through her neck, and then she urinated on the plank. Her body convulsed as blood filled the basket.

It was all over for the greenish haired brunette.

But the thing about hallucination pills, they take some part of you away. Whatever grasp you had on normal human relationships would melt away. You would wander endlessly in the night looking for pubs to grab a beer or two, and watch pretty ladies with wonderful shoes. A slow ragtime metal band played on the radio, music not much better than the tunes at the social event in more southern districts revolving around the circling of the lasso and the bull.

Nothing would take away the desire for the pills.

As the pills of porn became my life. I courted temporary dates, and arranged marriages for friends. I will soon yet have other marriages, and yet at some point I wish to settle down for a new life. So I bought myself some cigarillos, bought about ten packs and a half. Smoked them all at once hoping not become sick in the process. And then combined it with the THC ecig and the porn pill hoping nothing much would change from the last experience.

But then I found the ladies surround.

Now I'm on the chopping block, I suppose that's why it's called the suicide porn pill. Something different for a change.

I wake up with a sore throat.

It is the year 2086. You know how it is when you have a misunderstanding, it's usually harmless. But sometimes it has lethal consequences. Some misunderstandings cause ultimate and final decisions. But I've never been one for Shakespeare.

I've never been one for academic literary study. Between different authors, the story more often than not is only written to entertain a buddy. How one may define buddy depends on which author you speak to. Each writer has their own story they need to tell to that special someone, whether that's a niece or nephew, aunt or uncle, wife, or kids. But for me I've never been one to share stories with anyone. When I define anyone for myself, anyone for me to want to share stories with, I define them as anyone who I create in a story. Stories are comfortable, and yet sometimes the best stories speak of discomfort.

Discomfort need not be overt, it can simply be in your mind. But the way I grew up, everything was apparently in my mind.

So let's go back in time, and do a rewind.

I was a runner in high school, but not on the track team; never being a team player, it made it difficult to really move forward in friendships. My life was a movie with a good bad quality, although it might be entertaining to others, it was simply my life. They would compare me to one movie guy, but also another current TV guy. So a lot of my high school years were spent fluctuating between different nick names depending on who you spoke to. To tell you the truth, the only thing I would have done differently is try to off to myself sooner. And yet at the time there was something that always kept holding me back, and it wasn't until recently I even built up the strength to kill myself. Pressure anyone long enough, and they'll eventually blow their brains out. It's a sure thing. But at the time I would simply rest all of the time in bed. You can't really tell someone to read more if they are in bed sleeping all of the time. The years spent running from class to class eventually took their toll. I would run out of frustration, the rational thought being that I would rather be injured than deal with whatever asshole was right beside me at any particular moment.

It wasn't as if I didn't have a social life, I had one to a fault. The few friends I had were a special breed of toxin. Merely friends because society didn't want them, our leader joined us together to try to keep order among the malcontents. But what to be malcontented about you may ask, well my life was basically taken care of. I would take my problems away, and shove them into a drawer deep into the hole as to never be found again. The thing was, you got to be willing to push problems aside, so they say. After all why address them so they can keep piling up and boiling just under the surface. When I was less broken, I once pushed my mom into the wall. Well was that all? You bet, it took all my will out of me. Among other factors.

The thing about writing stories, some may call it a coping mechanism. I call it a matter of life or death. There are some feelings I have about people due to the nature of my skepticism and cynicism that make me incompatible with any particular group. The thing about attempted suicide, surviving the first one changes you in specific ways; the difference is subtle, difficult to articulate how. But by the second attempt, it stops affecting you as much. The only feeling you are left with is why you were not successful.

One might try to plan their suicide, believe me I've planned them many times. You can't really be sure if your plans will go through; there would always be someone who would suddenly walk in the room and peek over your shoulder. I always hated it when people peeked over my shoulder. I wanted to crush their heads with a boulder. Remove the entire weight from their shoulders. And yet there would nobody behind me.

Yet there is somebody behind me right now, I can feel it.

They take me by the hand, and direct me to the under side of life.

And yet I am merely in the bathroom stall. I feel sleepy and extremely tired. One of my fingers becomes cut. I liked the feeling of cutting myself, and drowning in alcohol to wash the tears away. To wash everything away, watch it melt before me eyes hoping I go blind from the darkness. I write in poetry only relevant to me alone.

I who exist alone, with nobody else.

Here I live among the damned.

Here I live among the dead, who live in confined sheds. Who am I, I ask myself. Who am I is who I am. I am my own personal burden, I exist only for others. I exist in the night. For the tonight is the night I dine among the dead, becoming a special outcast among them. My own dream to no longer exist is coming true. Little by little I start to becoming nothing, I stop feeling. I stop experiencing, the remaining experiences a kind of questionable sexual pleasure amongst other kin. Because life is only a myth, it is defined by who you are with at any particular moment. For moments are my own, and nobody else's. And I was never able to define my own existence.

My last experience is a moment of pleasure, the final caress of non-existent corpses. A bride only to myself.

I only have myself, with no vision.

I am blind.

But something is different, I can feel it in my bones of the dead.

I wake up, and find myself in a room. It is the roomiest room I've ever been in, the same room as I was in before.

It is ... the bathroom.

I can feel my phone beside me.

I a still alive, I have vision.

But I'm no longer myself.

No longer myself.

Longer myself.

Myself.

Self.

Epitaph To Lost Innocence

There used to be more political discussions about whether gender is innate to the individual or societal, one of my friends feels of course it's innate. While I don't disagree, apparently you can only agree completely.

Yet now in the Winter of 4100 most people will look at you strange for even asking an apparently outdated question. The government seems to have decided "curing gender identity disorder" is better than "living a life of total misery." Let's keep in mind this is the government making the decision on behalf of the individual.

This is why when I had a kid of my own, despite being hundred of years to old, I kept my child a secret from the government, and didn't keep her in any state registry. Sometimes when you live off the grid, you make some sacrifices in order to keep whatever independence you have. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against the government making minor decisions, but it's not their job to decide what kind of baby an individual has their own body. It's not like she has no social life, but I have to keep watch on who she has as her friends.

If it were the government making a decision about gun ownership, this would be one thing. But it's like every choice an individual makes has to go through the filter of a voting booth. Sorry, but what kind of kid a parent chose to raise did not use to be a matter society got to vote for. When you have politicians that are more interested in the idea of making a quick buck, can we really trust them with the decision to determine what sorts of children a mother may have? Keep in mind this is a government that chooses to go to wars overseas instead of getting rid of the armed forces. This is a government that chooses to genetically engineer babies with designer traits, and them strap their bottoms to shoot them overseas to fight in wars the aristocrats want. I can't trust a government that defines what motherhood should be.

The idea of an individual seems to be an extremely foreign thing in this world. For one, have you tried looking up porn ONLINE lately?

You have to use an onion browser in order to access it without regional restrictions like: no access privileges for those in the US. Let's keep in mind this is the same kind of nonsense were porn businesses ban people for having North Carolina or Alabama addresses, except now the nonsense is even more extreme--North West Carolina, South West Carolina, North East Carolina, and South East Carolina. Same with Alabama: a multi-state state who politically seems to care about "conservative family values" rather than common sense.

Apparently they don't care about the fact that the nation is tearing itself apart by border disputes, so long as they can obsess over social justice issues in previous areas of life where it has nothing to do with that social justice issue. People's families can be torn apart by gunshots and lack Medicaid, and they still argue about whether it's worth giving them access to pornography. "Hey, you could use a nice video of a hand job while you're in the ER." I wouldn't mind a nurse giving me a hand job, at any time of day. But technically that's considered prostitution.

Which by the way the state still draws more intention to the merits of being a prostitute, then why idiots in office seemed to have solved the designer baby problem, but not whether states have the right to succeed.

The priorities in this nation are all backwards.

I want to go back to my own proper time line. Except I can't, I'm an immortal. And immortals can only watch society progress.

I dream of what began my immortality.

I remember my phone beside me.

It's weird how you get used to being the only transplant, and then you meet another and throw your whole perspective for a loop. It was my last aged cigarillo from the Summer of 2016. After I smoked my last cigarillo, and consumed my last vapor, I began to think about how one would make a cannabis cigar.

You might find it quite bizarre, but I always wanted to smoke one. I suppose you could make it using THC glue, using Tobacco leaves for the base cigar. Sure, it's not like smoking a joint, but you get the drug straight into your system, rather than filtered. And I've heard that THC has better effects on the body than tobacco, though I've heard small amount of nicotine are good for you too.

Not that it mattered, I always consumed either for the flavor. I put out my last cigarillo, my last nicotine high for a while. Then the rest of my life comes rushing forward at lightning speed.

The porn pill also has their own flavor profiles, used in some cases to give societal malcontents an outlet for escape. Whatever that personal condition may be. Whoever you may be. It was the new prison, used to reduce the prison population without resorting to overt totalitarian tactics like lining prison women up in rows, and shooting them into mass graves. That would be some countries in the far East, just so you know.

But I've heard things about the porn pill. I've heard from friends that it can drive people insane. Make them withdraw into themselves. Make them wish to forget the heartbreak of their lives. For my friends still live on food stamps, and some of them go on "dates" with their manager's wives. And yet some of the ones I've known that started using it, their lives weren't destroyed yet. So from time to time I thought I'd make a bet. How many more days till I pop one?

While I have fantasies of my own, I have no sins for me to atone. I am against the very idea of atoning. Atoning is for the weak willed. Atoning is so often used for people who have no sense of self-worth. People that eventually give in, and accept bullshit in their daily lives; lives that can blow up like planet in science fiction movies, the safe ones that is. For them the motion picture industry has become their lives; they become drunkards and split from their wives.

For those who still have their lives to tear apart.

Yet for me, everything goes back to the start.

"How much will it be." I say to the cashier, pulling out medical card.

"You'll find out in the receipt." she said, turning to the side to look out the window. Me and her see homeless people sharing pills together. "I wonder why it is even people like that get these. I don't mind the reason, but it's amazing how cheap these have become. I couldn't have bought these myself few months back.".

"You're not from around here are you?" I asked.

"Fairly new to WA. Have a nice day!"

I exit the pill shop. Then explore the rest of my life, and give into a new experience. For the rest of my life.

My personal fantasies.

Yet now I could only think of my futuristic life in abstract children's fantasy narratives, with adult themes trickling through at the speed of the dream world.

I imagined, I dreamed, I wept. I thought of nothing but the little farmer girl, who needed a family. Someone to love her, and that was when I began to remember why it was I wanted to be a children's writer.

I had given up trying because my own issues trickling through, such as the story I am about to tell.

You know it is when raising pigs in the cold weather, often in the chills one may catch a cold. One merely waits as they shiver in their wooden clogs, waiting for the weather to warm up just a little to feed them.

Her family had moved from our previous state, where we once kept a farm. We moved to the big city where there were advertisement screens everywhere. The industrial life has given away to a new lifestyle among her peers. In some of the science fiction novels she read growing up, it is usually the man or woman from the future who looks as if they were a magical being or demon. But instead most of the people looked at them as if they had come from another world. It took a long time to get there in the cart, while others on the city roads were riding motorcycles.

In school she was the object of exotic fetishism among other girls, having a kind of quality of being from another time period. The boys would straighten out their legs under their seats, when she shook her wooden clogs exposing her bare heels and ankles. One even hid their face from her, jeering as she walked by. Thus the first few days of her new senior high school life was marked by uneasy friendships.

I suppose you could call her a Mary Sue, but frankly she would just assume cut you up and put you in her stew.

After dinner she washed the dishes, then went into her room up the stairs. Up, up, up the stairs she walked, resisting the temptation to climb the railing. She opened the door, and popped open her backpack. Inside her leather lunch bag was a little blue pill. She wondered if some of her acquaintances had slipped it in her bag. She wondered if this was what they were referring to when they discussed medicine that allowed them to experience their wildest of fantasies. The farmer girl knew she had desires of her own, but never dared to express them to my religiously conservative family.

She was the Atheist of them, and thus found there would be no sin in trying the pill for herself. And that's when she discovered she liked women.

The stories the I try to hide from the world, in their abstract glow and fantasy glare. Abstract portraits of the self.

I was in a separate world of my own. It was closer to the ideal city beyond the bleed through districts. There were many flying car airplane hybrids flying various floating cities, where people could experience all forms of reality not able to be experienced by the sensually repressed. I found that I would beginning to inflate like a balloon whenever I saw women wearing the latest in German ugly sandal and clog fashion. I found that I could ask other girls out on dates as my own will alone. I found that I could engage in whatever fantasy I desired.

I woke up, unsure how to take the new sensations.

I needed to find a way to get some more of the porn pills. I thought of the lack of childhood in the world of cynical media.

I thought of the nightmare.

Of lost innocence.

Dreams Of Marionettes

It was 4100. Might as well have been 2016.

You haven't lived life when you haven't come to the realization a bunch of it is a lot of wasted energy. The many years that go by when you live your life, and how ultimately at the end you mean nothing. It is 4100 and things haven't changed much for the last two thousand years.

The thing about living in this world, even if one may find meaning for them self, they may always find someone that will try to take away meaning from their life. Even well meaning family members, despite having your best interest at heart, can sometimes wreck your self-esteem. Yet some people like myself never had much of a self-esteem to begin with.

From day to day after college classes, I would indulge in the porn pill. From day to day, I would be left in a daze. From day to day, I will go back to the same nothing that is my life to this day.

I didn't mean to hurt my imaginary friend, but I suppose it could not be helped. She was a little elf girl who I had started dating when I had first taking the medication as an outlet for my fantasies. It's not like I had some of the darkest of sexual fantasies. I suppose I should have listened to one of my ONLINE friends. Not every girl you met is going to be the love of your life. For one lately the girls have began to develop their own personalities outside of the real world individuals sexual desires. I suppose it was inevitable that if I paddled her she would gone on to find someone else. At this point I don't even care if she believes me that I regret what I did. The best I can do is find someone with as close to the same interests as I do.

But over the last few months after I dropped out of classes, I felt things in my life began to change. People complained about how they might go to school and get this really high degree in something, but then even if you manage to get it it doesn't necessarily mean you will be able to be hired anywhere. Often times many of my friends ended up becoming overqualified. Some had to turn to prostitution in order to make ends meet, selling their dreams in mass consensual porn pill shared night terror.

But for me because I managed to quit college, I was able to find a meager job as a bathroom sweep. Although it's not like it used to be, it became something of an unlucky profession. Many people would refuse to shake my hands. I wondered whether I should do chimneys.

Now hear I am feeling sorry for myself. I rest on the couch staring up at the ceiling, you can find me watch the wallpaper peeling, as I drift off to sleep after taking me porn pill.

In my personal lucid dream, I find myself exploring different versions of the same motel room. I find that each time I went to bed in that dream the following dream would arrange the room a little bit differently. Sometimes I would find myself exploring cities that were impossible like Seattle, California or Los Angeles, Washington. Each time I would go back to sleep across different skyscraper hotels, I can never fulfill the previous days obligations, as the cities would be a little bit different. I explored cities built from impossible shapes.

And there amongst the hallucinations, I found her again. I found her waiting for me by Seattle's Golden Gate, holding at a hand for me to hold. And I felt at once that things would be alright.

But I never got to grab her hand. She jumped off the bridge into the endless ocean. I tried to jump, but found I rolled off of the bed.

Another bruise for another dream.

The dreams of personal desires. I found myself having a sinking feeling, and suddenly my whole life became clear. That I might never find my own meaning.

I met my girlfriend on break from work, just outside the office building. She offered to purchase me a bag of Virginia tobacco, sense I stopped smoking abruptly about a month ago. "Is something wrong with what I said?" she asked.

"No no no, not at all. What you said just reminded me of an experience I had at the bus stop. This one guy offered to purchase us groceries using fenced food stamps." I said, clearing out my throat. "Sorry, no I've love some thank you." I carefully tried to change the subject, but she was persistent.

"What about him? We have a bit before the smoke shop." she said, keeping an eye on her watch. Then gently tugged on my arm.

"It's nothing, let's go. Want some ice cream after word?" .

"But I thought you said you were poor. How can you afford it."

"I'm not that poor."

"So let's talk about it at lunch!"

It had been a few months sense I had not been around people for very much. I was to preoccupied with talking my nightly dose of the porn pill. I wasn't sure how she would take me consuming it, as she might prefer I focus on her. But focusing on personalized dreams of guillotined and pilloried girls is bound to affect your sex drive for other girls, even if you call yourself lesbian. This was on my mind as we had lunch.

"You see, I was standing up trying to be cool about having to stand in the rain. My best friend at the time found it quite profane." I took a long suck on a class A roll your own cigarette. "Because you see, I should be able to ask for a seat instead of just hoping to get one. But it wasn't like that at all. I would have just been as happy standing up. But this guy sat diagonally. My poor friend sat on the ground."

"So what about the fenced food stamps?"

"Well my friend was under the impression he bought stolen stamps from somebody. But the guy would kick me all the time."

"Well you won't have to worry about that from me." She took a bite from Thai Red Curry. "The roll your own isn't fenced."

"I know cause I watched you purchase it from the shop."

So that was how we met. I introduced her to the Satanic Temple, told her about the mission statement of the unchurch. Before you ask, that's not why I've been around for a long time. That's just how my genes are made up. I was able to convert her to our cause, and sometimes she goes to events with us.

We often go to the library together looking for books.

We both like to read Magic Realism.

Your life is never quite the same once you see a bear on the third floor. Even as a six year old, the difference between you and the bear isn't reassured by the fact that it's stuffed. It might be hungry later.

It was 2862 and I revisited my dad's office after his funeral over a hundred year ago, in order to visit some old friends that may have known him. But some have long sense retired. And one in particular I knew he had already died from a heart attack. I popped in a porn pill, which gave my social interactions among old friends a unique flavor. I was busy in dream land chilling out with girls in warping lounge, while the guys who was present in the office were commenting on my erection. In this section of my life, there are no answers except for the ones you can form for yourself.

I exited the office to go visit the third floor, and wondered if there was still the giant bear of which tormented my childhood. Instead the bear there was much shorter than I had remembered, and it had a coat of graying fur. "It's been a while old friend." I said the now much smaller bear. The thing about bears is the more exposure you have to them, the more used to them you get

The bear seemed to come alive, and then hopped on all fours. Then it offered me a ride on his back, of which I took the offer.

There isn't much appeal for bear facts, but there is plenty of appeal for various dance shows I visited with the bear. The bear wore a school girl outfit for the occasion, and to much surprise some guys felt like flirting with the bear. Once the dance show was over, I made sure not to ask any of the girls for a date.

At home I took my porn pill as usual, and dreamed of girls being guillotined and paddled in college. I dreamed of the different cheesy biscuits I got to eat. Me and the bear got some girls for each other, while we split a cheesy biscuit for each other. Then exchanged turns doing an elven girl in the pillory from behind. I have no regrets for my life so far.

There is no reason to unwind.

I called the office, and asked if a stuffed bear went missing. They said no, and commented that the stuffed bear is still there as usual.

I suppose that's the bear facts.

"I'm going to get drunk again." I said, to nobody in particular.

"But you don't do good things to yourself when you're drunk." my friend said. We've been together for only five months, and so far she's been the only one to care what I did to myself while I was drunk.

Sure I attempt suicide every so often, although if anyone asks I'm just trying to get really high. But anyone who has ever tried ammonia knows, the experience is totally unlike being high. Your vision blurs about, you start to feel dizzy, and all of a sudden you have to pee. The mix of pee and vomit fills the room, and suddenly you hang out in the bathroom in the dark waiting for the Grim Reaper to take you by the hand.

But not every night is so lucky.

It's been a few months sense I started taking the porn pill. So far most of the results have been me being able to repress my desires enough to only dream about girls being spanked with a paddle in college. Yet on some nights my dreams take other forms, dreams beyond my wildest fantasies. As if some other nightmare were watching me as I sleep that night.

I constantly feel like I'm being watched.

I wake up in a breathless panic, and wait for somebody to come knock on the door, and come take me away to enjoy smoking, I just like having enough matches to sharpen into toothpicks, and hem prod people with in order to annoy them. Sometimes I poke a little bit to hard, and they go to the emergency room. But those times are gone, I want to be able to to sleep.

If I had a better mother I would weep.

But why weep if nobody weeps for me.

My best friend is not home now, and yet now I realize no matter what I do I'll never be able to succeed at anything.

It was like this back in the Summer of 2016.

The year of the end of my life, I hoped at the time. Instead I wait for her to come home, and once again wait for dinner and the next porn pill.

I'm hoping for the final cure.

I remembered my second suicide attempt only briefly.

It has been many months since I had met him. The Winter of 4200 was an especially cold one. The daffodils and daisies wilted from the lack of sunlight for the next month and a half.

To this day I have dreams that he has come for me. That he comes with a scythe and intends to take me back home again.

I have lived beyond the time of many members, well beyond the normal mortal life. Sometimes I dream of faces from centuries ago that I wish were still here. I wonder how they would feel about the medical technology of today. They had just remastered sub light deep space travel, and sometimes we travel beyond the stars. One of the new leaders goes by the name of Lars. We travel the stars to keep a watch out on religious extremism, although there are no light shows. Real life is much more boring, I spend most of my time writing diary entries.

Sometimes it gets lonely in the dark.

But I can be the light in the darkness.

I dream of space Marionettes. I dance among their kin in funeral tap dances.

In my dream they hang from the wires, admiring the floor from the crystal spires. They have been up there sense forever. The marionettes, though human looking, no longer needed wires to stay above.

I admired the way they were carved so intricately, how they looked almost no different from other women and men. How they dangled about, in their own little town above the Cathedral of the stars. From time to time I would visit the Cathedral on the spaceship. We had a replica of classic churches, because the originals had long sense gone to dust and crumbled from time on the abandoned Earth. Yet these Marionettes were almost exact replicas of the ones before the migration. Their little wooden clogs had ornate carved patterns reminding one of galaxies. I have wanted to hang out with them, to inquire to them as to what it is like to be a marionette.

But soon I would find out.

It was the following evening after I got off of work, cleaning the floors as a Janitor for the space estate. I visited the cathedral, that seemed to come alive at night, or whatever night meant in space. And there I saw the marionettes having dance parties, and making friends. No longer were they held by wires, if they ever were at all. Instead I was greeted by two marionette women, who wanted me to dance with them. They were tap about in their little ornately carved wooden clogs, and we were share the evening's dishes between us as friends.

So I asked them how it is they could animate.

One of them inquired as to what animation meant. Then it occurred to me, these were not marionettes at all, but rather young women and men held captive by time, frozen until they may come alive when the time is right, so that they must interact with the rest of humanity. The women I met, invited me over to the couch. I popped myself a porn pill, and imagined myself elsewhere. And in my delusion I found myself bleeding between the reality of the animated marionettes, and the other points in time engaging in fantasies of my own personal desires until I lost myself.

I joined the marionettes, lost to time.

The time of the marionettes.

I celebrated my own obscurity.

I lost my right eye in a spaceflight accident, was able to get a prosthetic. Even still this new eye isn't as good as it could be. Some of my friends have lost more crucial limbs, and are currently spending a longer amount of time in healing capsule waiting for new limbs to be grown to replace their old parts. The thing about us is, nobody wants to save us. Everybody seems to hate us. We all the nobodies in what remains of the civilization once called Earth. Even you hate us, despite claiming your willing to save everyone. Because for you, someone has to be in danger of death. We've been locked up in the prison for a very long time, longer than you have visited our colony. All we ask is that you leave us be, let us exist in our own micro-verse.

The thing about the people we experiment on, they've grown up without ever seeing sunlight. Some of them, I must see, have never seen sunlight. Listen to how they call your name, and proclaim their right to live with others treating it as if their individual rights were quit profane.

We are the lost men and women.

The children of darkness. Under the roof of the prison ship, we find out solace among the damned. Here we choose which limbs we want to replace for better models. Mortality is not longer the goal. Everyone that we know and love is right here with us. We may never be able to die again. Who knows how long it has been sense we replaced our limbs. We are essentially marionettes locked in time. Our wooden clogs have special galactic insignias based on the region we rule. We are viewed as gods to other planets, and yet to us many of us long for mortality.

We long to be mortal men.

But sometimes things don't work out that way. We put our based foot forward, take over worlds, watch them decay and move onto other planets, bringing everyone we can carry with us to become immortals themselves. That is our ultimate destiny, our final legacy of time.

We are the lost men. The ones god can't kill.

The children of the night.

It has been a few weeks since I indulged in the porn pill. At night begin to dream about my dreams while I would take the porn pill, but my doctor advised that I stay off of it for a bit for my mental health.

My doctor felt that I was beginning to become dependent on it, that I was starting to neglect human relationships. But when you've been alive for one thousand eight hundred years, you start to neglect them for the simple fact that everyone that you grew up with along with everyone else that you have known is dead. While the others may reincarnate into modern youth in future's time, I stay around and wait for a chance to die even though that may never happen. The flying cars in the city on the starship zip at lightning speed, faster than normal human eyes can catch. It's weird to think that I still have to work, even though most people long before my age would have qualified for retirement. But that's how my life seems to go. Obscure concepts like the Satanic Temple and Church Of Satan have faded into a kind of historical note, although I have known friends who have associated themselves with such.

At night when I am at home I go against my doctor's wishes, and continue to imbibe on the porn pill. All my worries, all my withdrawals, they all begin to fade away. At times I am visited by the Grim Reaper, but he merely taunts me and tells me it is not yet my time to go. I suppose that is just as well. While I am an atheist and know there is no hell, I wonder on some level what it would be like to go to hell. I need warm, and the underworld would certainly have plenty of it.

I rest and dream of elven girls in pillories.

In the morning I visit the park, I visit all there is in the city to visit to. I take bus rides simply because I can. I would occasionally go to Thai restaurants and buy enough for the whole week. Anything that would get me out of the house, where I merely sleep and remain quiet as a mouse. I go back home to eat.

Here I enjoy a normal quiet dinner.

The Antique DVD

I remember when I purchased an antique DVD.

The mere image of someone you know, can bring back memories of a past you wished you could forget. Time bombs has already ran out of numbers, it's only a matter of time now.

When I think of women, I think of people prettier than me. I think of people that have an easier time getting dates. I think of people that always get the best seats in a fine dining restaurant, ordering the best steak. And whenever their date brought his little best friend along, she would always avert her eyes away from the elephant in the room. Blond had always been something of indifference to me, but for whatever reason that memory stuck out in my mind. If there ever any moment where I wanted to try being a man, that ruined it. I would have preferred being revealed as trans under any other circumstance. Not that circumstance.

I remembered Emma Dunking Bowling Balls. How she had rejected me, because somehow even sure knew I was not a male.

My issues with Nordic women had started on that night. I wasn't averse to having issues with women of other hair colors, and my family had at one point wanted me to get a punching bag to settle whatever scores I had in my mind. But no amount of punching on the bag would take away the anger that was inside me. No amount of punching could take away the hate that I felt for myself, and how that blond made me feel. It was the Summer of 2014 when I purchased an antique copy of a so bad its good movie. The girl that had upset me while I was still in high school still burned inside my mind like some deranged visceral reaction.

The memory made me want to end things, all over again. I bought myself a revolver. I bought myself a coffee energy drink. I bought myself a can of lighter fluid, and went home in a wink. I got out the copy of the DVD, with that woman's face on it, the actress who long sense been dead by this point. She wasn't the blond that hurt me, but her image was close enough to the girl that I so viscerally hated.

I tossed the DVD case in the air, and shot it with a revolver. Then I dozed it in lighter fluid. Yet before decided to light it on fire, I decided to keep it. I needed a case to keep the DVD, and it wasn't exactly like it was her fault I hated blonds. Honestly she didn't even have the same name as the girl I hated.

But I decided to let the DVD remain, for one more night. I put up the DVD, then finished the drinks. Then to the world I said goodnight.

It was my antique DVD.

I was simply Pace.

The Million Lyrics

The Million Lyrics Part One

"Hello little Hitler." mother said.

Sarette was not Hitler, she was a girl of plain dress and flowers in her hair. Of course for a brief time, she had issues with French girls, or more specifically, with one French girl. Sarette was a dreamer; when she dreamed, she visualized guillotined hippie couples, making their last embrace. And different internment camps in some vague future time. Yet these were not images of pleasure, but something that effected her sleep.

She would wake up to flowers of death and the future growing out of her bedroom floor with blades of green grass, she would hear the sounds of wolves howling at the moon.

What made a far greater impression than the bits of French stereotyping on TV, was how good the pancakes and crepes were she grew up eating, during the morning before the school bus. She got the name Little Hitler, no do to any fault of her own, but because she fell off of a bunk bed. Regardless of whether her IQ was ninety eight or one hundred and fifteen, it did not impact her self-esteem. People wondered about her sense of humor: on most days she smiled, and yet would derive some ironic pleasure from another peer's misfortune, despite not obtaining any pleasure from causing it.

Her doctor could never figure out her IQ, as she never seemed to focus on tests, but when it came to putting together blocks in a puzzle, she would solve it in thirty seconds.

Her school was one of those schools, that despite burying the student in an actual graveyard, would schedule the digging of a giant hole in the school yard, as if they were going to bury him. She wanted to hope down into the hole, as maybe Alice in Wonderland would be down inside. But before the imagination got to her, class was in session again.

After word, her mother would always reject the offer whenever her school friends would offer for her to come to their house to play.

But she had her own quirks. She would watch the latest Japanese animation imports, which ranged from Vampire Hunters, magical girls, and giant robots. She spent as much time laying down on her bed, preferring not to listen to music instead; instead her mind was always dizzy, while she refused to drink carbonated beverages so fizzy and loose in the can.

"What drink you want?" her mother asked.

"I want orange flavor." Sarette asked. It was the closest words she could approximate, not having the words for the juice the would always burn her throat. Generally she preferred water, and sometimes milk or orange juice. But never anything that gave her heart burn. As she got older, this preference would eventually go the way of the purple dinosaur, and she would drink Pale Ale and other dark brews. But now was not such a time. Instead it was a time of crappy space adventures, and stories in rhyme.

Not being a fan of magical nannies or stories of yellow teddy bears, she would dream of zombies she would cut in two with giant sheers. This would escalate into her older years, when she tried martial arts. Her favorite being Kendo, and eventually Kenjitsu. On children's programming, she would look at Crabs the same way Germans look at Hitler, and others of their ilk. And thus the idea of crab patties was an object of revulsion.

But that's better than expulsion for dropping a penny on a friend's head from a tree. She would dream of hanged children.

All on a gallows tree.

The Million Lyrics Part Two

She always had the shakes. Sometimes life was like a tap dance in hell; you never knew when that last shoe was going to drop. Whether it would be a funeral tap. But she never got the chop.

But dad would call shopping the "chopping list."

And every day was a chopping list.

In sixth grade Sarette began resenting musical expression, yet some of her earlier work was reflective of the various five point essays about American history as assigned to her by her special ed teacher. She was never in the classes because of learning difficulties in the same way others experience, as the accelerated reader would mandate for her to read young adult fiction rather than the middle grade of which she was a part of the age group. She would read stories about teenage werewolves, and other shape shifters. Her mother for a time would avoiding talking about her concerns about Sarette being a child Hitler, allegations which would later prove unfounded anyway.

Instead, she would cringe whenever she would have to sit through Spanish class, preferring stories about the original French Revolution. In later years she would pilfer a book about Marie Antoinette off of the shelves of her grand father's basement. She developed a fascination with the guillotine from an early age, and would dream about other girls having their heads cut off. The stock slipping over their necks, the angular blade falling in three seconds on the victims neck, and the thirty minute of consciousness that remained, as the woman is aware of the crowd jeering at her raven locks.

Sarette was never a girl of Jesus Sandals, or other things more common across both genders. She had never liked wearing open toed shoes, under the perception that Birkenstocks were mainly for ladies. But this was closer to an early sign of her eventual taste in women, rather than any reflection on reality. She developed a friendship with a girl a year earlier who was a Mexican of half Spanish and half French descent. She was one of the few girls that she never dreamed about being decapitated. Sarette however, despised the musical accompaniment associated with the heritage, from Mariachi to Flamenco.

Mariachi was originally a word of French origin from Napoleonic times. But generally the word became more associated with French immigrants to Mexico. Generally people associated Mexico with Spanish language and immigrants, but this was not universally the case. There would be several battles during the late eighteen hundreds for supremacy of Mexican territory. She associated the music of the sombrero and and taquitos with the actor who played as a masked vigilante in different movie adaptations in the nineties, who she would imagine, in all her denial of her bi curiosity, him carrying a black rose in his mouth.

She would later read about a confused article writer who confused being Hispanic and French. Thus the association of Mariachi and La Guillotine was permanently affixed in her brain. This was before her own general disdain for different aspects of the fantasy genre: she grew to resent long hair brunette girls for being more pretty, despite herself having not yet fully bloomed. And she would not even look at Senoritas in the face, even in situations of mutual attraction. During classes of monotonous subtraction.

There was another girl that was never one she was super wild about.

Generally the difference was this: Livier would alway be nice and patient, yet she was difficult to understand. Bianca was a girl of excellent vocabulary, who were shape shift into a were cat during the moonlight hour, crushing rose placed inside those lovely black lipstick lips. But for Sarette's Reve De Mort, she dreamed of shadows along the wall, and groans of zombies in the halls. And bright lights from her bedroom window.

She woke up with bite marks.

She woke up in breathless panics.

The Million Lyrics Part Three

Seventh grade was one of those years when everything seemed to go wrong. At Smyrna Middle, one of these was meeting Bianca again in the school halls, despite Sarette subconsciously avoiding her every step. She had grown a general dislike for raven haired girls who cropped their hair shoulder length, especially if they had short necks.

It was one of those years when she dreamed of the wild west, and in every one of these Bianca would be there. She would be taunted her with her childhood friend Stephanie, who was her lesser mean spirited bitch and a half. Stephanie still was the type to say things like "French girls don't like attractive boys, we like ugly boys. And you're not very ugly." She was insinuating by implication that Sarette was technically a boy child, despite all of her appearances to the contrary. She did not see Livier as much, who would often be busy doing other things during the school year. Smyrna Middle had a school uniform that was difficult to enforce, and usually mostly used to pick on the girls at school, who often wore short skirts. But somewhere in the middle, Sarette would often be picked on like a girl, and yet be gendered as if she were a boy.

She would try to keep her shirt tucked in, but found this difficult. She battle mild weight issues for much of her life, though not anything like she currently does, in which she's still trying to lose weight. But it still meant having to get special tee shirts that wont easily become not tucked. She used to hate the button ups that would come with uniforms, and how she would have to wear these even during school field trips.

Among other issues, she resented the looks she would get from Bianca, when her shirt was not tucked. It was almost as if Bianca payed more attention to her then now that Sarette was no longer playing air guitar during the fifth grade school year. In a sense, who crushed on who seemed almost entirely to the inverse. And it was her who would often laugh out with one boy in class that would wantonly use the word retard at her expense. It didn't matter if this was during paperwork, or when they were cutting open frogs.

But Sarette derived some satisfaction from the fact that Bianca would often have to leave the classroom to vomit, whenever she had to dissect a dead frog on a silver slab. For Sarette, she regarding Bianca in the same way as the frog. But preferred not dissecting her. Leaving out in the scorching desert of a surrealistic wild west, decapitated on a guillotine in black Mary Janes heels was more than appealing enough. And she knew that at some point, at least she hoped, that she may eventually forget about Bianca.

From then on, generally, Sarette developed the attitude that if people wanted to date her, they had one chance to make a request. If they don't request on her schedule, then she had better things to do with her time. Like listen to The Offspring and Ramones.

As soon as late middle came along, she stopped socializing altogether.

It simply wasn't worth the sun tan to drawn in people she might like to date. She preferred fictional girls. As girls in fiction could never reject you the first time.

And she was worth more.

This she knew.

The Million Lyrics Part Four

In ninth grade, Sarette had determined she preferred blow jobs over vanilla sex, and developed a sexual fetish for girls in Birkenstock Clogs. It had been a minor interest as far back as early grade school, but only completely became a sexual thing around this time. This made interaction with other girls difficult, as it often meant having to start the school day concealing her raging boner, instead of being flat as a pancake.

Often this was because Birkenstock Clogs were the latest fashion in Blackman High, comparable to platform sneakers during the nineteen nineties. Girls her age would wear them without socks, and would dangle them about in a form of Ballet shoe play. Their bare heels begging for attention from Sarette's hazel eyes, whom really liked ladies heels. And their long dark brown hair, that would go down to their backs. In large part, this was the main reason she never interacted, though she gave one her guy friends a clue to her preference for these sorts of girls. Yet oddly the thing about being an androgynous girl, is often when guys are unsure whether they should be attracted to you or not, they'll think of doing things on a subconscious level they don't entirely understand.

This would often mean being invited to the quarry in the back of the friend's house. And throw home made napalm bombs at the rocks walls in front of you, and hoping the police wont catch you n the act. The secrets of friendships were considered a form of sacred pact. A divine ritual, a form of blood oath. For Sarette, she wanted her blood oath to be with ladies in Birkenstocks, as they would glide themselves along her thin body under the glow of L.E.D. lights, buzzing out in the suburban pseudo-metropolis.

But her and her guy friend were inherently different. Tommy was politically a moderate Republican, though he called himself a democrat. While Sarette's Reve De Mort were of midnight cities taken over by corporate mercenaries, and outlaws in distant futures.

She tried writing some of these futures, though have difficulty finishing stories. She would fantasize about blond and black haired girl's necks being placed on headsman's blocks. She would fantasize about being their merciful executioner, while humping them on the block. But her own life would split from Tommy, who would later go onto become more vocal about his sexuality. But Sarette was of the anarcho-left, and not of the right. She kissed her old friendships goodnight, dreaming of white night flowers and middle grade stories. For her, her desire was a kind of paradox of isolation and being overcrowded. She wanted a certain level of anonymity mainstream education never gave her.

She found this initially in Alex Jones.

Then it was Christopher Greene. But now it was Noam Chomsky. She the little anarchist, who mischievously gave a family inside of a corn maze the wrong direction toward the exit. But she herself was an existential wanderer in the darkness, holding her thumb out for cars on ancient highways.

She was little Hitler that wasn't.

When Sarette received her first official fellatio, it was on her seventeenth year. Her ex guy friend had arranged a date with one of his old fuck mates, and he had the two girls go to the prom together. But her acquaintance knew that Sarette was not entirely into her; Sarette would often look at other girls wearing Birkenstock Boston clogs without socks, but during their last few months, Sarette made Lawanda extra strong coffee.

She was used to having Starbucks coffee, so having Folgers was decidedly strange anyway. This meant that at greater strengths Folgers would stop having the same level of flavor that Kenyan roast would have. The night before, her acquaintance directed her into the rest room, and had Sarette sit on the toilet while her friend blew her off. Sense this is not an erotica novella, the short explanation is that Sarette's nob never became inflated. But it effected her views about sex from then onwards.

Generally this effected her views is initially subtle ways, first she generally didn't like the idea of being touched by other people; eventually she came to prefer the flow of animated blow jobs over the real thing. Eventually this involved into tools for BDSM that wasn't not strictly BDSM, such as fantasy elf girls locked in the pillory. Eventually she would fantasize about humping elf girls in the stocks, while the girls wore Birkenstocks. And these fantasies would follow up with the sound of thunder outside the window. The window, as Sarette slept at night, would wake her from a dream of headless aliens in the closet, coming out in order to hump her on the bottom.

She woke up with bite marks and scratches.

She scratched herself like a cat.

Her body, her pussy.

The Million Lyrics Part Five

Sarette's first ventures out of high school, revolved mostly around her writing, when she wasn't working at a local department store. It was one of the few times that she would not be ran over by a store cart, giving her back troubles for the length she had worked at the store.

Work was filled with memories; most of her work was spent when she was no eating enough for the vane effort of losing weight, now considered a sin by "body positivity" quacktivists. Because of this, she would sometimes faint and fall unconscious on the floor, a nature of her own biology that would continue into when she had went to Washington. She would primarily eat cafeteria pizza, usually after Fencing class. But during every other day of the week she would eat primarily chocolate peanut butter energy bars, then order a water or milk. In total, her lunch was spent eating about 200 calories. She lost down to about one hundred and forty five pounds.

This might not seem that skinny, but consider that she was of stocky build and physique. This meant that in order to look feminine this would often mean being as much as thirty pounds overweight.

The rest of her youth was spent contemplating.

Between jumping in front of a car.

Or coming out as trans.

We all know now that Wikipedia is unreliable.

Sarette wasn't sure why Clayton Ledford gave her a seventy five on a school test, revolving around the Baghdad Battery. For one thing, her own issues with Wikipedia stemmed from her anarchist tendencies, while for her computer teacher, these stemmed from it not being as good a source as an encyclopedia. But the assignment was to try find a reliable source of information on line. At this point, Wikipedia had been considered the primary source of information for some, and only sometime later did information regarding its corruption come to light. But certain sources could be cross-verified across different websites. For example, regarding the origin of the Romanian language.

But it gave her the negative association with any sort of computer class, as teachers in general focused on grades rather than the actual absorbing of information. Thus she focused month after month on teaching herself how to program in Ruby, and maybe eventually learn Python. But with the internet being what it was, especially on certain social media websites, generally people were hassled about their programming ability merely for being of the opposite gender, rather than based on any particular skill they had. Thus most of her explorations in learning cryptography she largely had to teach herself.

But now instead of focusing on studies, she focused mainly on researching true crime cases: generally these revolved around different kinds of serial killers; these would inspire different characters that were a hybrid of various real life serial killers and grave robbers. But at the end of the day, she preferred computer hackers and secret agents, along with your average private eye. She carried around a magnifying class, a box of black ink to take people's fingerprints, along with other tools of the trade. Eventually this would collide with her own interest in what they called the UFO topic at the time (such thing are not identified as extraterrestrial craft) as the paranormal.

She had had cases of seemingly magical things happen throughout her life, but it was these past few month, starting from her Junior high school year, that enabled that eventual fact that she would go onto join the Billy Meier cult. She had been through months as an alien abducted girl, many of these experiences being of a largely sexual nature. There would be various headless brown colored gray alien women coming out of her closet, and she would be taken away outside of the window, but the glass itself would not open.

One the other side, was a flying saucer.

She would float above the flying saucer, and then wake up one evening outside on the road to Smyrna High School, despite herself never having went to that particular high school. And it was thing, among a multitude of other experiences, that made he eventually not only find other sources of information, but also made her begin to question authority in general.

As the news she watched was RT.

And this gave no further clues.

The Million Lyrics Part Six

Art meetings were always the same; similar paintings and bland food, but mostly because she spent the greater part of a year building up her heat tolerance, spending much of that time primarily consuming different Indian herbs and chillies from the store.

So anything that a normal person would eat, would be way to non spicy for her pallet. She wanted to whack some politicians with a mallet, but settled for the crab she watched others eat at the dock bar near her aunts. While fantasizing about girls in Birkenstocks and short cropped pants. When she saw girls in Birkenstocks and socks, it made her feel like succubus crawled up her pants, among a few other sensations. She also watched talk shows with different social democrats. This year was Yang season, with Universal Basic Income on the ballet. One of her main annoyances about politics, wasn’t so much things were politics, as much as it seemed like anybody of any academic level was free to express an opinion. Including all the fans over the science fiction runner’s dominion. Thus she withdrew into the music on her playlist, allowing herself to unwind.

The mind could sometimes go billions of miles per second, far faster than light could reach; old brains form nodes in networks with more people on the planet than stars in the galaxy. And for every person with a node, there was a separate belief system and perception of reality. Creatures ranging from the most distorted visions in people’s nightmares, to the most plentiful of gardens and river streams. For many of them there was nothing else besides political commentary on the net. Even with Yang’s UBI there was no sure thing that there would be anything different, than simply more of the same media outrages. Even with all the jokes with the Yangverse, there were other ones to explore. Counter-Revolutionaries also dot the landscape like grains of sand, some of them Tankies, others Neo-Nazis. It was absolutely a certain time to be a time, with fears of automation. Discussions of brain-chip interfaces without a regard to brain-damage. “Parlez-vous Hafestra?”

“Oui, je nam wa Adellette. Eso ton sonwa?”

“Je nam wa Sarette.”

Sarette was not entirely used to the ability to communicate in her constructed language. It was far easier to simply let the mind melt like distant wavy seas. She already had to mute one user on a video streaming platform who was engaging in extreme ableism on her comments section. She would normally let the comments roll off her back, but it was continuous and doubled down. Like a constant broken record playing on the same old ancient aluminum player. Portuguese music was the object of her own consumption. Her attempting rap was others assumption of her, although she always said she preferred to write Latin Folk music. She dreamed of hispanic Hollywood actresses in Birkenstocks belly dancing on a metallic poll, and all that edgy humor a dime a dozen in your average porn magazine from the sixties. Her parents were boomers, while she kept an old boom box, despite that music media gradually being replaced by OGG files.

She knew people that had bizarre assumptions; it didn’t matter if they called themselves left wingers or right wingers; hypocrites came in all shapes and sizes on the web, like stitched together brown recluse cobwebs. This one human-like AI company had been becoming an increasingly fading memory, as they had recently took their photos off the picture hosting Facebook knock off. She wanted sex robots to wear buckle clogs, knocking them off in shoe play, and verifying the hash values of her glasses. Now she gravitated to this one company in China, that was attempting to build one of the first full sex robot bodies; though she was unsure if there was any penetration factor. But it had to have been better than watching reality television in politics, and reality television in general coming across as comparitively normal. Even this one guy he had watched for a month on this streaming channel, felt the need to act condescending about people that use Orwell quotes; this was mainly to inflate his own sense of self-worth. For Sarette, the hacker of Left Nihilism, there was only the keyboard.

And the flow of binary dice.

“Je nam wa Sarette, eso ton sonwa?”

“Adellette”, the name of her sex robot. Shipped in from China. This was her dream, if Universal Basic Income happened. But she wasn’t counting on it, and she had thought of her Japanese futon on her mind.

It was time to unwind.

The Million Lyrics Part Seven

The doctor woke Sarette up, after the scans came in, revealing details of a life I had long sense buried. It was bleeding edge technology, a contraption that scanned the dreams of those who had chronic night terrors. My dreams had always been vivid, and some bordered on the supernatural. But none of them prepared me for the reality that was what I would later find out, had actually happened.

It was a cold morning, almost night.

Her mother had dropped me off to get groceries, or so I was told at the time. However it had become apparent that she was never going to pick me up again. She was an only child, as was Sarette, and her parents had long sense been dead. Thus Sarette had no family I could call to come pick me up. Thus I had to rely on what I could to escape the horror that awaited me. By all practical appearances, it was a normal small town on the countryside: there was nothing that seemed out of place.

-- Remember to always carry your phone. My dad would always say this to me, not that it mattered much now. But now I wonder, if I had taken my phone, if I could have called for other family members to come pick me up, all those years ago.

Sarette walked through the gate.

After crossing the gate, Sarette arrived at the grocery store. Once again, nothing seemed out of place. However I noticed that everyone there had the same hair color. They were a variation of the blond hair and blue eye mutation, that only existed in 2% of the human population. I got myself a fresh link of Chorizo, and some large carrots. Then rented a room for the night, Sarette pretending that she was eighteen.

Sarette placed my groceries in the fridge, to make sure the food stayed good, so Sarette could use the phone. However from my observation the phone lines had been cut. With my limited hardware abilities, Sarette was able to solder them back together. It was always handy to carry around one of these. Sarette just didn't realize that I would need it so much. Sarette dialed the number, so that she could get back in touch with my mother. But she was nowhere to answer it. Possibly already sleeping. I waited all night for her to answer back, but she never did. Thus Sarette planned out the details of calling a taxi.

Night came and went, and Sarette had another of my supernatural dreams: it was a young girl, in a tattered evening gown, that had her throat cut, and she was bandaged. -- Excuse me, are you hurt? Sarette asked. She had a red aura around her, as if she was already dead. Yet there she was standing, before the lake. She began to turn around.

Sarette woke up before she saw her face.

Sarette tried to arrange a ride with one of the locals, but their tire broke down, so they had to call someone to get it towed. Instead he introduced me to his family, and one of the girls was a similar looking blond girl from the one that was in my dreams.

-- I'm Sarette. I'm just taking a short visit, I hope that I'm not a burden to you all.

-- Not all, we haven't had company in decades.

Sarette shrugged off the comment in good cheer. That night I woke up, and quietly walked to the refrigerator: inside was what looked like decades worth of human body parts. And it was a long tunnel inside that reached all the way to a hidden facility. One thing you should know about me, as I'm not one to explore this facility, at least on the first attempt. So I quickly packed my bags, left a thank you note, and then called for a Taxi that night. However it took over an hour for the taxi driver to arrive, so I was stuck sitting outside with nothing to do. Perhaps I could have read my smart phone, but had not yet downloaded any manga to read. I was visited by the the guy that let me stay the night. -- I guess you saw the facility too.

-- You saw me?

-- The camera did.

-- So why are you out here with me? You haven't tried killing me yet.

-- Is that what you think of me Sarette? I'm hurt! Those are just vat grown human body parts, we haven't had a surrogate in some amount of time actually.

-- So what did you mean by decades?

-- We live a long time in this town.

-- So who was the last surrogate?

-- She was a girl, that looked similarly to you. It's why you and my daughters look so similarly. But she went missing, and her name was also Sarette. So I was wondering...

-- What are you thinking?

-- Are you Sarette from all those years ago?

I tried explaining to him that had I had no memory of such events, but I did remember that my early childhood was far longer ago than I thought. And my mother never spoke much about my father, after he disappeared all those years ago.

-- Was she pretty?

-- I like that confidence.

-- I'm serious.

-- Well my grandfather would have known.

He got his tires fixed, then was able to drive Sarette back home. To this day Sarette still remembered the image of thinking people were actually murdered. But instead it was far more benign, although it still makes my skin crawl to think my tissue was used without my consent.

About one hundred years ago.

And yet now, Sarette didn’t look much past nineteen. She wonder if she could possibly find a girlfriend at her age. She wondered who her mother really was, of if that was the actual dream, all this time.

As Sarette gets back home, at college she is greeted by one of the daughters, whom she had met.

She has a nice smile.

Sarette still sometimes went to movies with her, even while she would still go see the therapist with the 3D printer. She had given up on finding her mother, she supposed it was no longer important. What she knew was the girl from her dreams was alive and well. And maybe someday, Sarette can raise a family. --You sure have a weird family Sarette.

-- As do you, Sarette.

The Million Lyrics Part Eight

While everyone else was concerned about sectarianism, she could barely get out of bed. She had developed the fetish for anarchist girls from the 1800s, that doubled as spies; countdown till a slice that couldn't be unsliced. She read mainly online news websites for years, her favorite being The Intercept, and other alternative news sources. She didn't know anything about gene splicing, but loved girls with long elf ears.

Recently her aunt invited her over to her place, mostly so she could check out some books; most of these were different kinds of thrillers, but some were historical romance; she dreamed of spy girls going down her pants. Waking her up like morning coffee stands at Starbucks. A few months ago she would purchase a drink that was only four bucks, down the road from her old apartment. Yet now without a place to call home, she lives with her parents well into the sticks, where more outdoorsy types are stuck with ticks, and act like dicks with toothpicks. She preferred reading volumes of Vampire Capernick, and a few other volumes of note. And watch movies of nannies sending people to Antarctica in a bathtub. Droop droop droop went the bathtub. A bathroom large enough to stuff a la balein. Stuffing her nose with saline, she drowned herself in Portuguese music, after eating a chicken salad avec vinegret. Flavor without regrets.

It was easy to simply slack off, and mostly look at Catogram, or look at Vesco girls while on the wire; but her tendency to collect anime girls became rather haywire. Dreamless nights like loose chicken wire, fantasies about 19th centuries set on fire; the life. Instead she sleeps, looking at old paintings, one of which is a Goth girl in a red dress, with a giant brown recluse on her neck. She loved ladies with long necks. At other times her sensory overload largely kept her from functioning normally, combined with a year of post traumatic stress disorder from a room mate that would abuse her in various ways best left to the imagination, or placed behind a content warning. But that was the thing about leftists on the wire; they cared me about setting relationships on fire, without caring about whose feelings they hurt. Perhaps it was only Ciabata Tube. Drowning in acres of masturbation lube, dreams of Pedro Gene till the day she moves. She dreamed of sex robot girls with detachable heads.

She'd braid their hair, stare at their stares. Until a land of milk honey was flowing everywhere. Her pet cat would shed her black coat, her mother would give the cat extra food. She dig dug robot girls with loosely knit hair twirls, but disliked the idea of actually touching another human being; she found real Vaginas completely unappetizing; she was attracted to femininity regardless of the robot's gender, when she plucked off their detachable heads, and fake blood out of cranberry and tomato juice.

In Canada there was moose, but there was many other places to choose for your Summer evening; most places were eternal damnation anyway, especially on the inter webs. Where fake leftists call each other plebs, and others dog whistle to their base like Alt-Right Clowns with make up on their face. She wanted to whack them all with a mace. But sensory overload prevented everything, except listening to Pedro Gene.

That's how the day will go.

Hours of Cesar Pedro.

The Million Lyrics Part Nine

Sometimes she wants to meditate, on other days she wants to chop a door down with a giant ax. This ax is serrated, and designed more to hack at metal armor than doors. But on most nights she doesn't visualize being chased after by giant flame dragons.

Such dragons could hold many a message: some dragons eat people, other dragons burn people; some children ride on dragons, but on most days she just wants to have a juicy lizard steak. Unfortunately it's approaching midnight when this happens, thus she must find other ways to suit her time. Cesar Gene was one of those that she imagined would treat her to a juicy dragon steak, and his voice would let all the Vegan guilt melt away. It was far to easy to fall into a routine of thinking of total survival mode, while browsing her network node; far to easy to visualize ancient dragon battles, gathering experience points. At other times she just wants to rip out some fellow anarchists guts, bathing in the anarchists blood, and becoming all googly eyed.

The flow of grape juice down her robot.

Robot didn't ordinarily produce grape juice, and they had to be filled with this stuff in order to simulate blood. And presumably they would almost never piss grape juice. Just as well, as she preferred drinking the grape-tomato juice like a brand new smoothy. While fantasizing about smacking anime girls in the booty. And shoving an angular blade down their neck. After all, it was just like dad said. Being left has nothing to do with your personality. Almost all of the anarchist she had known had generally been total sociopaths, when one looked further into the matter. She had written essay, she never published, about how she preferred living outside the system rather than dealing with people riling up each other's emotions. Certain discord were a form of narcissistic gathering up their form of supply. This went especially for #breadtube

Those people you'd never give a lube.

Or any other care in the world. What you'd probably find is some assholes exploiting your various mental traumas, or not genuinely understanding how support groups are meant to actually be support groups, not a place for that one guy to dominate the discussion, generally either a Marxist-Leninist, or some other form of Tankie. She wanted to write about a new kind of post apocalypse, that of Tankopunkolypse: want to have the apocalypse? Well let's bring the tanks from #breadtube. It wasn't terribly uncommon, despite being on the left, for people in such circles to use ableist language. One guy blocked her when she legitimately urged caution for people to only use the words Nazis and Fascists in cases of actual genuine Nazis.

But apparently this made her a Nazi.

There are plenty of good reasons she could justify ax murdering them in an alleyway somewhere, but that's probably what they're wanting. It was simply giving them to much credit to up and murder them somewhere. As many of these people would rather be dead than not control you, like they control their wives in bed, under a Vietnamese lamplight. It was difficult to not get sensory overload from the general experience, so it was as much as she could take, to not specifically referencing them in a peertube video. At night was sleeps with a weapon beside her bed, and hopes for sleep.

She listen to Cesar Gene.

She read old books, the shelves shook shaking. The old volumes now torn, volumes shaking onto the floor for Mrs. Lenore crying. She wanted a new body that could withstand the world, it so shoddy. With a flower in hair, red dress flowing everywhere. She listened to old country covers, they were redone in French, not Spanish. But anything was good in a pinch, for the girl of French language covers. Her body like metal layers, peeling away into frayed wires. Her life flowing like the funeral arrangement band of estranged suitors. Reels from life flowing like a Guillotine Western movie set, but without the sheriffs saving the day. All one has is death. Flow of the boots stomping in the raining Winter evening day. Sunset eclipse, snow the only thing preventing the land being as dry as corn chips. Margarita dance. It was the worst movie set, with the worst actors. Except nobody was acting, it was entirely the real thing. She tossed the book back onto her shelf, and spent the rest of the day sleeping.

She also liked Pedro Gene, who had accordion covers. And all those ripped jeans. The life of Padro Gene. Her dreams withering, her sensory pulsating. From ashes to ashes, from dust to dust. All her new metallic bodies, piling into rust. She masturbated to Vesco and Birkenstock girls, and their first days of college. Wrapping herself around their suntanned legs. Her body pulsating, her other senses deafening. Paroles de le Divorce on the Spotify, everything else flowing like rows of 80s pop singers. Vesco girls tapping to Padro's accordion, and a few other instruments of note. Life wasn't a movie set of Greek myths, rowing down the river stix. It was its own special kind of hell. But wish her well, in this new life.

It was dreams of Vesco girls forever.

The Million Lyrics Part Ten

At night she heard the cries of crickets. There wasn't much point going outside, when she was never up during the day. From July to May, from May to Christmas morning day. Christmas flowing like pre transition anxieties. Life without the HRT. Life without a lot of things she needed, much of which could have been prevented. It didn't help that that majority people she could talk about her problems basically didn't care. And only did so mostly out of pressure from her mother, who mostly acted like she did as a way of leveraging control. Lenore wanted a new body, a new life. And everything else in between. A new layer of skin; even robots were no longer made out of metal, with the ability to produce lifelike silicone skin. But there was no easy way to transfer a person's mind yet, without specifically scanning it.

One might think she'd get a job. But this was easier said than done. People that tended to say such things generally never had to worry about not being able to find one. Pretty much everywhere else besides the United States had a thriving job market. Here even if there was (and there isn't) her constant anxieties and panic attacks made this a moot point.

On most days she'd reach total burn out within an hour, leaving her mainly to program different forms of artificial intelligence. She couldn't relate to the idea of transferring her body completely, but had wanted a robot lover for quite some time. She wanted a girl that liked like a female Padro Gene, smoking a cigar like a Western Movie set. Without the blackjack, making bets. Lenore dreaded being around people so much that it was impossible to get into the routine, but her mother wanted her to go to the gym.

She'd rather recline.

Listen to Portuguese dance, and French Waltz.

The Million Lyrics Part Eleven

"I'm not the alt-right," someone said, before they bid goodnight to the chat. " but I don't mind pretending to be one to frame them." It was not your atypical conversation after midnight.

In follow up another said, "So we can line them up and shoot them!" It was this conversations she heard, that made her feel like there was not meaningful difference between the right and the left. Almost always the same tactics, and the political centrists in Washington were not much better. Instead of betting on guns, they bet on moral values. Terrorism was a word that could mean anything they wanted to, although it was generally agreed that it meant anything the Democratic party disliked. She imagined, in any other context, how such a game of super heroes would come across. They would duke it out with the color of hammers.

It was Tankie season in June.

"I have a red hammer." one would say, and the other "I have a blue hammer." At the end of the day, she thought, it didn't matter what the color was. It was simply a hammer. Now she drinks tobacco tea, and downs dish washer cleaner with it, hoping for the pain to go away. For the little anarchist that could, there was the pain in the gut.

But it was better than the smell of red and blue butt, plastered all over the flags of new Utopias. She remembered, how indeed, she had originally came to the left. Much like characters in other stories, for her, the right wing was simply that much worse. She remembered how she slept on the floor in a motel room. She had attempted suicide three different times: one time she attempted to stop her own breathing. At other times she downed Tobacco Tea. Eventually the only option to remove herself from the situation was dish washer cleaner. She had grown a taste for it, downing in a little bit day by day. She had no time for politics, or anything else in life. There was simply the trail of tobacco smoke in the air. But she still had itches for own personality.

Even when nothing else was left.

When she had lived in her apartment, it was difficult to get anything done, with all of the noise in the rooms up and downstairs. It was a game of low base toned musical chairs. Lined up with 1,000 students in a thirty person room. Children play with fingerboards, and go zoom, zoom, zoom. But her toy was in character's lives in prose and poetry, life lined up in Flamenco and Lai. To rhythm of blood and birthday cake dye. No more was there energy for different world maps, about realms of decay and death. No more rhymes of fairies and elven wives. There was only the tune of Lyres and Crystal Spires. And princesses getting their heads chopped off on wooden blocks. Queens in the pillory, different bondage play. For she wouldn't stop her lust for anyone any time of day. Only on Weekends did she used to get to sleep as long as she wanted.

Now she wanted to sleep forever.

Until time itself stopped.

Ultimately she considered herself a pacifists, but sometimes she was wishy washing about whether thing was really the case. Her ex had talked her into purchasing a can of pepper spray, and purchased it originally out of the idea of giving the middle finger to people she knew. And partially things had become especially dangerous for trans people after Trump was elected. Although this never helped much when she was walk around the city with shin splints and twisted ankles. Her life was a hop, and she couldn't stop; being ran over with a speed bus would make the pain go away, if it didn't get her in one go. But it was better than nights without a shower, with the tub fool of dirty dishes. She thought that her own ideas about lust would eventually go away, but they largely remained. Behind the scenes at first, but it was always present. Waiting. The only thing stopping her from doing anything with it being her strong sense of empathy for everyone besides herself, and general apathy for her bodily safety, when not going around purchasing smokes.

Or risk being sold to overly testosterone poisoned blokes. It wasn't an uncommon conversation for her to be told that her being sold as a prostitute was the only way to make ends meet, even she had other things in mind.

Now she was a broken music box.

A song of broken rhymes.

The Million Lyrics Part Thirteen

She didn't understand people that came to the left through communism; as far as she was concerned, she had always been a leftist; for it was the social issues that mattered the most, as these were issues she lived through the most day be excruciating day.

There was a certain baseless she thought she could be kept, even if one were right wing in almost every other way; she was against the idea of hitting children, executing both mentally challenged people and children, among a host of other specific social issues. You didn't need to be leftist to understand how certain issues were moral wrongs just about everywhere you went: but to her she was more perturbed by people equating sex with robots to sex with your slaves. As if somehow the analogy was even relevant in post capitalist society. It was this and many other aspects she she always stayed on the side lines during debate, and generally chose to avoid watching the presidential masturbates on prime time. Instead she made hot curry French fry shaker salt. Downed it with a chocolate malt, and headed to bed on an irritable bowels stomach.

And she dreamed of long wastelands, that led to nowhere. Where there was an abandoned school building near the end of a wooden sky bridge, and at the end of a very bridge a giant troll like creatures who made the ground shake with its step, the sky a silver gray outside the windows, and constant black smoke filled with red eyed demons. Then there was a birthday party election. In this birthday party, was a school vote for which presidential candidate to shoot off in a rocket to the constellations, witht he message "Enjoy your birthday cake, it will be the last thing you ever eat" from now faceless teacher in a private school. Why vote for the greens or libertarians.

Just vote for the Cake Party.

But the birthday cake tasted of ground glass particles, and ruptured stomachs. Her vision fading yearly, her hearing increasingly manifolds. Prosthetic eyes a vague hope increasingly distant. But she loved her own personal dizziness. At the edge of time. Where a large gray troll always stooped, and broke walls with its giant scimitar.

The social life was her own wall.

She wanted to bust it with a hammer.

At at the edge of the world, was giant troll named Morgred Lionheart, with a scimitar the size of small houses, and giant horse that leaped over the moon to punch some cows. He rode through the desert with one eye. With the desert had any eyeballs he was not absolutely sure, except the eyeball would always ask him for a password in order to enter the town. In olden times there were ancient machines, yet now with artificial biology, the was almost no distinction. With giant deserts with artificially intelligent eyes, that also filled the sky. That screeched with a screech that no mortal can belch. And this troll that rode through the desert sliced heads up like there was no tomorrow. But he wasn't like his creator, who didn't even dream of a yesterday.

There was only the present.

And a vaguely defined future.

The Million Lyrics Part Fourteen

In this darkness, she floated, with star floating by like midnight glitter on birthday cakes for a Sultan. And all the severed princess heads that one could delight for, all fell into place, by Morgred's throne. But these were no Family Friendly damsels. But girls of the night.

Their vision fading.

Like midnight starlight.

His arch nemesis was a human warrior, named Bleu Jean Forrest. Who had a mustachio and beard the same of a young communist warlord. He was quite the Ferrat indeed. And who gloated at Morgred having his last hurrah! Before locking him in the prison that he had to break out of. Either was, it was toxic masculinity, like other stories of heroic fantasies. Lusting till all the ladies head their heads fallen off. But of course, Blue Jean was a better thinner troll. Who thought his communist disillusionment was droll. While making Morgred Lionheart do a belly roll, and stuffing his face with a Jelly Roll. The protagonist of this story dislikes either one.

She wanted her sharpened hammer.

And use it like a centrist toothpick.

Midnight came and went.

No more midnight starlight, no more worlds at the egde of time. For the apparently centrist, there was only the sound of her bed. As she felt into concrete spikes.

Morgred Lionheart bends over to fourth wall.

"Hey author, I need some help!" Morgred said.

"Why are you bend over into my reality again! I'm seeing your ass."

"I need help selling something."

"What's that."

"Fudge!"

"You want to sell Fudge?"

"From the sweat of Gulag tears to the kitchen, I present you! ... Chocolate Mint flavored fudge chilled in the Russian Forest."

"Sell to who?"

"Jean Forrest."

"I'm not a salesmen!"

"No, you're a communist. That will sell like hot cakes."

"Can you let me sleep?"

"Wait, it is 5:00 A.M."

"Gute morgen et bonne nuit!", author said. She woke up to nobody there. Nobody besides us shadow people. Or the rocking play horse, and the broken bunk bed momento in the closet.

"But next time! Commie centrist!" said Morgred.

Morgred's forces were the shape of wood troopers with very large Tour Dr France helmets, floating around in solar hovers. The bike made the sound of a sleepy author snoring repeatedly to the volume of a helicopter crash while they slept on their back during the afternoon sunset--sn--sn--snnsh! "Oh Jean, I have a gift for you. It's home made fudge!"

"My Gulag can make better fudge than your death camps!"

"Let's share each other our fudge of the innocence!"

"Let us dine on the blood of life!"

The Million Lyrics Part Fifteen

At night Sarette dreams of broken children's dolls, whose eyes can turn you to stone; demons from the depths of hell, that come for you to atone. But usually the answer was something relatively simple: simply popping its eyes out, and crushing them with a sledge hammer. Her main character Morgred Lionheart knew how to properly crush a demonic doll's eyeballs. He was one of the few things such demon dolls were able to fear.

During the day when awake, she would go to her local art fare.

Here she started out mainly going for the food, but gradually got to know other artists that plugged their wares; it was difficult to broach the subject of being a leftist anarchist, so she never specifically brought it up, unless inquired of so at such events. Instead she would have trouble avoiding looking at Vesco girls in Birkenstocks, dressed as if they went to the beach. After all, it was a event for buying art, not getting horny. Or feeling stuff till the morning, when on all other days it was mostly curried brown rice. All that spice on Saturday nights, and less spice on boiled eggs in the morning sunlight, downing two cups of coffee and a glass of oatmeal punch. She would have scrambled eggs with peppers, and at other times fried peanut butter banana with cayenne, onion powder, garlic powder, cocoa powder, and a few other things. Brain storming spice blends like an unwritten novel, when she preferred stories about giant one eyed orc men, whom even the demons from eternal damnation feared.

In this prospective story, you might not think it clear whether the real world ends and the dream world begins; but like life follows a procedure, and loops all over again, like life wire torture routines, with repeated plays of lesser known Francophone bands. There was no salt shaker to eliminate this misery, and many others in life. Her life wasn't essays for other people to write, and hated the general desire for constant debate and argument on different chatroom servers: sometimes even anarchist ones would either fall back into mob rule, or worse, have a self-appointed person declare themselves the arbiter of Communist discussion, without any checks and balances. But all this was in the past, with people constantly saying think of only the present.

It was difficult balancing between actual genuine fascists, and those people that acted in a similar manner but were merely Tankies supposedly. It was impossible to concentrate on any given thing when you're constantly under attack for largely no reason.

Sometimes it was just easier to pretend like you weren't there, and simply listen to constant replays of Pedro Gene on Portuguese radio, among other music of different variations, such as French Waltz, Japanese Meditation, and bits of Rumba Flamenca here and there. While fantasizing about beheaded Nazis and Pinkos on the wire. Desires consumed entire, other things fading out like distant starlight; emotions fading to a distant horizon, sensing the gradual loss of personal autonomy in groups that claimed to increase it; you might as well be an individualist, and collectives were not any better

Sometimes it was worse.

Lenore found it way to easy to be hateful about things, whether it was things politicians said while she was on the wire, the way that women looked with nineteen eighties hair, with brunette locks and blond highlight, dressed like a flight of seagulls movie set; and how they reminded of medieval princesses about to get the chop.

One girl she met wore a yellow hippie shirt, and a pair of hippie sandals, and everything else that combined the look of a hipster, as well as that of a hippie flower girl. And how Lenora despised such pictures of artificial innocuousness, as if there were no sins in the world. She dreamed of taking them to bed, and then sticking their fingers down her sweat pants, while kissing the nape of her on a soft squishy pillow. Tired brainwaves like instant jello, the smell of artificial fruit punch filling the air, and gym style sweat pants flowing the beat of eighties seagull laughs. Angular sensations, breathing abbreviations. Life flowing likw Latin Music Radio.

She liked dress up dolls, provided it was with a baguette and a giant hair tie in their hair. Her doll tap dancing like an accordion laced Rumba Flamenca, wearing birks instead of black heels. Sensory perception quickly used up like rows of ancient electrical outlets. A high score at the game of life, where the object was to lose as hard as possible, getting the lowest possible hits. And having many battleships sink as quickly as possible.

Her manifest, her life.

Yet by night she create fictional languages, or more accurately language thought experiments, based on a conceptual of what would happen when French and Japanese culture fused, and took over the United States; in practice this would mean the majority of speaking living in an alternate United States, that had diverged from French culture much like how Mexico had eventually diverged from Spain. The Meti of the United States sharing information with each other, in order to prevent the French encroachment in American territories. The bits of Japanese blood flowing like neon-lights, playing meditation Jazz outside Chattanooga and Las Vegas, then renamed as Les Vega.

However she was unsure of the actual feasibility of such a language at this point. As many of the political events that allowed for that to happen in Twenty Seventeen, never happened. And unless Marine La Pen had actually won the election, bringing forth the National Front, that has since been renamed, it effectively becomes an ARL, and Alternate Reality Language.

-- Mercirigato, comutsu na ca gava! One would say, introducing themselves in the crowd of a busy restaurant. With human-like robots speaking just as fluently in the night life.

As far as she knew, this was averted.

But there was always next election.

The Million Lyrics Part Seventeen

When you think of cybernetic girls, generally you think either of ones with human brains and cybernetic bodies, or perhaps an inverted model, with 3D printed organic skin. Floating in a network of your own biological soup, the people that come out of the tanks these days were none of these.

Mmujin Saito had her biological brain stored in a preservation tank, in case she was ever decapitated in the on surveillance operation. When you’re scanning rival gangs dream world, sometimes their imprints take over systems, and you’re left with overnight clean up duty at the office, when you could have been collecting data about teenagers shopping habits; but for this line of work, it was par for the course. She kept a robot cat with a thumb drive, to collect data samples while dressed as common folk; but it was dangerous work. One other agent had already lost her neck to mob leader, and there was already a guillotine blade with Saito’s name on it.

As she retweeting from the web partially out of her own design, and partially from the creation of her own employers, she began to wonder what it was that made her be assigned the task of protecting the current specimen, who didn’t even look to be the type to join the mob.

It was a cold rainy night, when it had snowed more than usual. Although as far as she was concerned, there was no evidence for ghosts, she still couldn’t shake the feeling about how she understood why people that lived here had the tendency to gravitate to such superstitions. During the middle ages, it was the Spanish Inquisition, but now it was interrogation by your own peers. She had been increasingly less atheistic over time since she left her twenties, and generally didn’t feel comfortable discussing her sexuality in public. Even for the specific target, whom she had met before she was assigned by her handlers, she wasn’t sure whether she wanted the lady’s face in her pants, and her specimen’s head on a stick. When she had visited her house, disguised as a computer mechanic, she didn’t think they would find the pictures that were in her purse, printed from network data collections; the two were completely different in fashion, except for in the house, when they wore the same foot melting leather sandals, that made their whole legs feel like they were being hugged from the inside out.

She pretended like none of it was going it, in order to prevent the specimen from catching up, then promptly, once she reached the office, the notification of the breach.

This was one of the reasons the hacker had a tendency to move from city to city. But over the period when data was collected about them, there was nothing in their life that was suggest someone that would shoot up a bank, or drug half a university population with cyanide. In act they never did, so the entire targeted surveillance seemed like fruitless venture. Although technically her employer would never do this, she imagined her bending Saito over a desk, and giving her the board of disciplinary measures; but generally when she daydreamed at the office, instead the boss would just gently tap her shoulders, and just say “time to get back to work.” Because among the adult population, think didn’t end up in a bang. It was your severed head rolling about on a dark alleyway in Chattanooga. As if times had not changed from the year 1792.

Although the fashion of the period was distinctively modern, the old tendency to execute leaders by the aristocratic surveillance society, meant there was now many unaccountable leaders rather than one; thus if anything it made the fear of giving her specimen a tip off something she worried would also tip off her employers. The young woman had previously opened up laptops, but had developed an interest in building InMoov robotic parts.

Before she defected for good, she grabbed her organic brain, and shipped it over to the hacker’s residence, within non descriptive packaging, with a special note in case she would ever be beheaded by her boss:

Take care of my biological sister. I’ll absolutely miss her. -- Mmujin Saito.

But this period would never come; instead she was whacked in a car crash, tearing off her arms and legs. Her employers didn’t think she’d make it, thus didn’t bother with an assassination ticket; instead, like the night full of chirping crickets, she wondered what the next stage of her life would be like, in a wheel chair.

Instead, fate turned.

She met the hacker in a new circumstance.

The Million Lyrics Part Eighteen

It's all to easy to think of politics in terms of life and right wing dynamics, until eventually the absolute inevitable happens, you find yourself meeting a National-Bolshevik that has attributes of both right-wing and left-wing political theory. Sarette, the hacker that had run across Saito in her injured state, met some of these people all to often on the web. Sometimes this meant making the observation that there had to be a logical inverse of such a position, with no real opprotunity to discuss such issues among reactionaries. If someone were the logical inverse of such a political idealogy, then standard political discourse has not had a way to cope with such issues. One could believe in no social welfare programs, but also no national affiliation, and have nowhere to be placed on the chart. She wanted to rebuild Saito in such a way, that she would be in a nurturing environment, so that she would not be around such political division. She simply wanted a taste of Saito's fine lips, while they consumed wine together under the midnight stars on the apartment balconey.

She tended to Saito's nubs when she picked her up from the hospital. Because Saito had been recorded as the hit having been made, Sarette figured this was perfectly fine then to take her under her own custody. Biologically, Saito was around 18, even though she was technically around her early 30s. If she were considered alive, then perhaps Sarette would have issues do to medical licensing. However because of her non-person status, this meant that she could monitor her life signs. Resigned to a life on the wire, her arms and legs consumed entire, her solace was in he good natured will of someone like Sarette. If she had been anyone else in the Potato District, she would have been taken advantage of, yet Sarette herself could have easily had been in this position herself, if her parents had not gotten her out of Washington in the nick of time.

Sarette had been an Anarcho-Communist, but wasn't exactly sure what she considered herself. For right now it seemed to matter at an absolute decreasing rate. She preferred to be online and masturbate, and yet now she wasn't sure what to do. With her cat, it was different, as she could temporary lock the cat behind her bedroom door, provided a litter box was provided and a feeding dog also there. But Saito still needed food like other humans, even if she would have make shift prosthetics.

Having never been in this position before, she was afraid to tell her parents, she was living with someone again, and this time, that person was dependant on her, rather than the other way around. Her father had never be gracious to people that were under her care. When someone had no family too call their own, no arms or legs to take care of themself, there wasn't a whole lot of good options. Yet her pop always said: "If it's someone you don't know, kick them out the door."

"What's your name?" Sarette asked.

"Saito. Mmujin Saito." Saito said.

"Are you married?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"Mmujin."

The Million Lyrics Nineteen

When it came to social interaction, generally Sarette disliked the generally burlesque nature of political discussion; it was never so much about actually convincing people of ideas or opinions, so much as making the entire thing a show and learning how to properly embarass people. This might work in the short term, but generally she preferred convincing people why certain things were generally cheaper in the long run, because she knew that ultimately convincing some people through their heart that humanity was the better route was not always possible. In general this meant sometimes waiting entire days to actually study the economics of the thing. But generally she was tired of the focus on making things entertaining on video streaming platforms. This might removing herself from much of her social life that she had attained over the last year, which meant actually putting such things into practice was difficult.

With taking care of Saito, and hiding her when her parents would come and visit her, this meant focusing entirely on the needs of her companion as she slowly regained conciousness; Sarette was not at the point where she could immediatly afford to get her prosthetic arms and legs, focusing mostly in helping her develop a comfortable feeling in the relationship. When Universal Basic Income would be a thing, then perhaps maybe she could affix Saito with an enhanced arm with feeling sensors, legs to the same effect. Technically this would make Saito a cyborg, not an android, in which had most usually been Sarette's sexual preference. For that reason, she had been slow to coming around to talking to Saito for real. It was a challenge just to get her to even remember her name ever since the car crash that almost took her. It was a trial of practicing empathy and compassion.

For Sarette, her solace was in the flow of thumb drives and fingerless gloves gliding across the keyboard using different forms of machine learning. She had begun to use alternative software like this one website that gathers your memories, but she needed an offline alternative, as most of these were purely web solutions. And she wanted a way to help her friend remember things when she was having trouble.

-- Are you sure you don't remember what left you in that state?

-- Even if I did, they would be coming after me soon, and I'm not sure if I want to you or your family in danger.

-- I'm working on a new solution to help you remember things day to day.

-- I can remember things just fine.

-- Yes, but you want to preserve that memory right?

Youtube was like an elaborate hazing ritual for the damned; carefully orcastrated to be completely lawless. Set up to feel like the wild west, even though it had clear delineated hierarchies, it became a pain to clealy seperate out the positive content from the negative content. One might think the far left was a place for invisible minorities, but other than sex dolls, it was mostly the same as any right wing entertainment funnel; it was impossible to even write a poem without offending at least someone, and there was no way of really knowing whether someone was a hot head or not. Classic science fiction predicted a lot of things, but the main unanticipated were modern youth’s infinite tendency to pick on each other’s pet peeves.

In this sense, nothing has really changed; the quality of youthfulness remaining something of a constant perpetual artifact of earlier ages, when they were not playing roguelike games in the net. During the 1980s there was neo-liberals, yet nowadays apolitical sentiment had begun to skyrocket across the political divide. There was some of this back in Sarette’s high school years, but there would always be someone willing to talk shop somewhat, yet now we have adults acting the same as teenagers. She still remembered when it was mildly interesting to write a work of science fiction, ironically, back before she became more aware of the way the world actually worked. Yet no her own apathy was beginning to increase, and for the first time in months she had began to reconsider the idea of consuming tobacco tea again like alcoholics for booze.

Yet on some nights her propensity to masturbate to girls with severed heads outweighed her desire to end her own existence; and do to her grafting on a Lifenaut avatar in her own likeness, some part of her would remain on the web forever in perpetual archives. It wouldn’t be a likeness that she herself would see through her own eyes, that were increasingly losing their vision do to constant contact with the computer.

Yet drifts in her catacombs.

Surfing the net. Yet here she was, the only one to tend to the spy girl that watched her from afar. When she told her parents what was going on, her mother took it better than she expected. But Sarette’s father still insisted that she throw the spy to the streets and see what the street would make of her. But Sarette knew that, in those mean streets, there are people that would repair your body, and then sell you into sex work with no regard for your own bodily integrity.

She pretty much disregards everything her father suggests, and thus continued to watch over the girl until she completely recovered.

Adalaida

The two once sat on a midnight sunset, when they held hands. Because they were not suppose to be out so late that night, they made sure to leave the house in as quiet a fashion as possible. Sitting in the swing sat, they viewed the stars in their brightness; how so many things have changed since then, and yet even now she still wondered whether the other girl wandered off to, even now as she would journey to the stars in her mind.

Winter splinter sprinter land. Sprinting splinting during winter. Of all the shin splints she ever had, this one was especially bad. Snowflakes falling on the land, like little dust of clouds. Let the snowflakes cover in shrouds, all the land covered in white. Goodnight daylight, welcome rainy night. All the dust is in the air, enough to smoke the world everywhere. The lamp lights a beacon, early morning frying bacon. What’s shaken pig, in the frying pan. Enough bacon to fill my mouth, all that sensation around my lips. Let me fatten up my very hips, that bacon to fill my mouth. Narrative of a dead pig.

Girls jump rope in wooden shoes, all the boys sing Portuguese and French blues. The rope can’t jump itself as they go inside, for the bacon they open wide. There was a woman whose hair was red, about as red as a lobster on its last boil. So many curls on her head. We called her lobster girl with the red curls. She wore an old dress handed down, from her mom who always frowned. Yet it was better than not being around, since the scanners came. Daylight eclipsed, while she ate nothing but corn chips under the dimmed lamp while the rained dropped; you could hear the sound of frogs and birds chirping in the air. Wooden shoes were left on the chimney top, while she chilled and ate corn pop. All covered in turmeric and cumin spice. All that zest flavored grease so nice. All the silence of the world filled the airwaves.

Life wasn’t always filled with lyrics, but neither was it lollipops, or tins filled with non popped corn pop. Simply the flavor of nothing, but those snowflakes. She chilled to the sound of nature sounds, while taking off all her clothes, as if to shower, but it was all for the sensation of her black sheets, under the snowflakes. And the sounds of frogs and birds that filled the air, where the only things that broke the silence as she began to sleep. And in those distant dreary dreams, the only time she could blow off steam. Instead she melted under the sheets, and became an ocean covered in ice sheets. Like the sound of distant ocean worlds and ice world at the edge of space, while playing the sound of Moonlight Sonata, and French tap dance.

Life was not a cinquain, or any other consistent rhythm. But the rhythm of a distant life; Not a cinquain, but an astronaut without a spacesuit.

She suffocated in her sleep.

Midnight sonata.

“No trespassing, radioactive.” said the nuclear waste dump actor, wearing a fake hazmat suit and yellow plastic helmet. “System alert.” The scene was like a replay of an old disaster movie set, carefully improved lines gone over ahead of time before forest exhibition. And to top it off, a real grand daddy long legs crawling the waste. The actor liked the sensation of fog as she pressed the button, and made sure to keep pressing it. At home she wrapped around her wrist an old black bandage tape, she used to affix a flash drive for sneaker net communication. She liked the sensation of being bound with a paper thin canvas bandages, like Gothic mummies. The sound of spider web crawling the midnight forest over brush.

Midnight inactivity, midnight thirst.

All hammering in, in large bursts. Diving in head first, brushing through dream-like galaxies with sparkling glittering blood spewing from a severed neck, the head rolling in her lap as she reclined in her bed.

It was then she remembered her childhood friend, how she would every now and then come and visit her house, where a birthday cake was made. And they ate about a whole tin of ice cream, and listened to some birthday music largely liked by nobody. However it was tolerable enough for the special occasion. In her mind eye, she knows looks onto the memory with a vague sense of irritation. It was a time before she had actually came out as trans, and people still viewed her as largely being male, despite her obvious femininity. And it was only when she was at home that she was even able to hide the fact that she would dress in women’s clothes. To think as times have changed, it would be yet another swing set that went by the wayside as the world was slowly consumed by Nuclear Winter, and those who survived would be sent to live underground. Although the reality of this slowly faded from memory as she went on with her life. It reminded her of the sense of grimness when she played as a radioactive inspector on a Halloween set.

Yet at home she binds one of her hands, and sometimes one of her legs, with self-adhesive black cloth. The sensation made her feel comfortable, like being held tightly. And she could carry around 32 gigabyte thumb drives, and sometimes MP3 players through areas of the city where she was not suppose to carry electronics. There was a large scale device ban, when the state began mandated more bag checks, so she needed alternative areas to put her stuff. But it allowed her to carry data around, and as long as she shaved for the days in which she could go to movie, then nobody would know that data was being carried on her person. She savored the days in which it would be cold and rainy, and savored the sunset.

As she was unsure how many more would be left.

Yet now she once again began to sleep, she watched old historical dramas set during the French Revolution. She especially liked it when young aristocratic women would be caressed by the strapping executioner, as she was slowly lowered on the plague. And waited for the angular blade to bloodily whisk her dark brown curly locks away into a wicker basket. She had memories of living the life of Marie Antoinette, and few other girls from later centuries. Yet had grown to acquire a taste for girls in wooden shoes.

It was this that reminded her of when she was almost sold into slavery.

It was roughly a year ago to this day.

“But we need the money Adelina.”

“I have no intention of having sex with anyone.”

“Look, I want this as much as you do.” She wasn’t the type of room mate to take no for answer, especially from someone like Adelina. Although she never got around to actually being sold, it was a close enough call that it reminded of the kind of person that her room mate really was, and their relationship was never quite the same sense. And now as the rain drops dropped, the imagined snowflakes falling in the air, and girls outside playing jump rope in wooden shoes, creating imprints in the snow. To think that the reincarnation of Marie Antoinette had fallen so far down the totem pole, and yet she would not leave it for the world. And soon, in her dreams, she imagined nuclear weapons being dropped from stealth wing jets. Turning the world into a perpetual wasteland, where the snow had long sense melted.

But as she focused on the present, it was simply the ghetto she always lived.

A world the same as always, where nothing really changed.

And she was the dust of the Earth.

For a lot of people, it was generally easier to communicate their feelings, but she had grown up with the expectation that she should keep her feelings hid away, except when she was alone in her bedroom and numbed by the sound of spattering raindrops, under the glow of the monitor light. Goodnight sleeping nights, goodnight world of tomorrow. Goodnight all good things that always come to an end, flicking like city lamp lights, as she fluttered away like blood butterflies, the spirits of women with their heads chopped off. Goodnight walls that creak but never seem to crack, good night ghost in the hallways, the imprints of distant time, or perhaps from some distant dimension. Time flowing like a network of lifetimes from distant eras. Era where the flowers always bloomed in the fields, and the flying wing had yet been invented. Goodnight wasteland of dirt and decay in a glimpse into the nearest of possible futures.

Here lies the blood butterfly.

Withered into dust. She traveled to ancient cities, and rusted ones at different periods of time. Flowing like a web work of HTTPS addresses, chased by unseen things, always with the feeling of constantly being watched. But she would wake up in pod, with her ear buds still in her ears, while listening to Fado and Flamenco music. And with the last French lesson being paused until the next morning.

She lived most of her life, before the next war, in anticipation.

Expectation that more souls would burn away in the fire. A fire that could not easily be burned out, fueled by the sadistic humor of people on different websites, calling for the demise of different primitive nations. And her constantly reaching out her hand to help someone, with nobody to answer the call.

Like falling off into a cliff.

And no obvious floor below. Only darkness, darkness...

Below.

In a distant life, she rode in a coach, driven by the strongest of horses. Her hair had begun to grew with age, before she was reincarnated into the present. She wore a torn white dress, with her wrists tied behind her back. She walked up the scaffold, is lowered onto the plank. The crowd pointing and laughing at her. Then a slight chill went through her neck, as she saw for one last glimpse the angular blade that went through her neck.

Blood poured on her face. Then darkness came.

She floated in space, then more darkness. And she was on an emergency room table. With surgeons cooing and cawing at her. They promised to her mother that they would take nice care of her, after she was sucked out with a vacuum cleaner.

And now she pleasures herself to blackened bandages, binding different flash drives, keeping her more cherished illustrations. Various girls in Birkenstocks, and the most casual of she legged jeans and short sleeve tee shirts. Hoping that someday she could get robot girl companion, who she could install with artificial intelligence. But the last few months have been slow with the development, as she finds other things to do with her time. She hoped that maybe, in the next two years she could at least finally gender transition, and change her name to Adelina, while working toward getting the career that she’s always wanted.

Go to various talk shows, perhaps talk with different robotics companies. And talk about various ways to build human-like robots, with increasing levels of realism, hoping that they themselves will never have to worry about being reincarnated from the 18th and 19th centuries, and simply live the normal life of robot girls, reincarnated by open source software nodes. And find lovers like she could not.

It didn’t matter if she never found anyone to blow her.

As long as some other girl in a long flower wedding dress, got a decorated pair of wooden shoes that she would cherish in some church in Europe. That she would wear whenever she wanted to be reminded of their wedding.

And not live a distant unmarried life.

Or that of a blood butterfly.

“I don’t care if you’re a writer.” the acquaintance said, while promoting Julian Castro, yet another neo-liberal presidential candidate. “Or that all you can remember from me, is being violated by anal beads.”

This was not her exact words, but they might as well have been. She always treated the writer as if their own needs were secondary; that only her needs came first. If there was someone the writer had known, it would have been one thing, but instead it was someone that she had not even met determining that they were the sole arbiter of whether they got to sleep or not. After she had told her friends about the writer on the few social media she still maintained, the basic advice was to block the Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminist. The writer had frequent troubles with non consensual following from those whom used to be the most ardent fighters against turning being trans a medical condition, but now they were misappropriating communist spaces, and trying to further make sure that Trans Medicalism was no longer a viable option.

She had already been the sort to keep few friends, and this simply didn’t make matters better. Most of the people in the writing community were this way, it didn’t matter who she followed. Most of the writers on this social media website were de facto regressive in personality, and didn’t pay attention to the fact that they were spamming other writers feed with obtrusive advertising. After a point it became apparent that she was primarily speaking into a void. So she did the one thing that she never thought that she would do, mass mute everyone on the website that she could find. It didn’t matter if on previous months she had had pleasant conversations with the person. Most of the people on the website were generally neoliberal in nature, and tended to vote for the most viable mainstream candidate, without a regard to policy.

This meant that, Julian Castro declaring that it was pronoun day, was merely icing on the cake for some of the users on this website. When a website starts being abusive, the standard advice was generally to get that person to stop using that website. Twitter was not beyond eventually removing the mute and block option altogether; why she held onto the website at all she was not exactly sure, although she wanted to try to salvage as much of her social life as she could. But after a point she began to feel like social media executives should be held on court for crimes against humanity, and hung by the neck. At the very least, held to account for the fact that they kept promoting George W Bush’s face on their screen.

For her, there was only herself.

As she wandered back into her own needs.

This wasn’t the only TERF that had done this to her, but had become something of a pattern on that particular social media website. She was also followed by people like Noir Chatte De L’Etole that had questionable social clout, and yet despite not being generally trusted by other anarchists, was the only one that continued to provide general interaction. She would occasionally like the social media posts by others, but generally preferred keeping her online presence as scant as possible. None of them however were a part of breadtube, that had begun eating their own on YouTube. If someone were to read the diary of her life, they might switch over, and saw talking about politics was OK, unless you were one of them that were on the outs, and was generally unwelcome within that group. Despite having anarchist in the title, for the most part this was largely a misnomer.

The writer still considered herself a leftist, but generally did not want to associate with that portion of the left. They, the Breadisen society, used an elaborate and subtle form of double speak, for less obtrusive in books like 1984, were the double language was constantly in your face. With people bragging about how much they’ve read the book, and yet apparently did not seem to digest any bit of the volume.

She tuned into her own personal volume.

The volume of Padro Gene.

The Mortal Avatar

Life is a game of immortal existential unrequited love among the damned. Yet by who is a question nobody can answer, not even myself. I prefer to watch over my lovers across their childhood, so that I may understand them as adults.

Some finds the nature of childhood simple, with pleasant innocuousness of the large dimples. And yet life is not so simple. At times one can find love among family members, at other times it is the new family that you build among friends. And yet in the age when friendships are on the net, gone at the days of children's books. Gone are the days when one can run in flower fields, and hop on merry go rounds. Here lies that small semblance of laughter and children's games. One is reminded of the books they may read as children, going up, up, and up into the sky in air balloons. And falling down, down, and down from the highest peek. In the children's books, there is some hope of reclaiming lost childhood. I have myself as well fallen prey to this. It is a time I indeed miss, yet how much for me remains to be seen. Life isn't anything like the draw of dances and molasses festivals, not the songs of picture books.

Life instead is wires and saw blades cutting through human flesh forever, ripping out people spinal cords. The lest legs of hope fading nightly, nightly, and nightly until their are no smiling dimples left. One is only left with their digital sexuality, their hope for someone to understand their suffering beyond mortal compare. Yet for me I have long realized there is nobody there. As I wait in the darkness, with my head on the wall. Hoping to eventually starve to death.

Hoping to end their temporary avatar.

To end their temporary mortal coil.

And there is the what if. What if there was someone who could make one no longer listen to the tunes of melancholic pianos, and help you find some other means of coping with their temporary life. And yet it is to much to expect for a mortal life, the life of someone else's story.

The life of broken alley cat.

And there is the sound of distant children's rhymes:

Beyond the field of daisies,

Where people live in magic lands,

Come and be beheld the magic wands.

Beyond the field of dairies.

Yet for me these daisies wither into dust as soon as I give them any particular thought, because for me I see nothing but rot. I am an immortal, I am a nobody. I am something and yet also nothing, I am a paradox of a life. Because I can be everything and nothing at all. If there was any hope for a children's book life, I would assumed I would already have it.

I am merely a speck of dust. I am composed of material beyond mortal compare, similar to metal and yet not. For it must accommodate my constantly changing human like shape. I may appear as writhing snakes, or the bed bugs that fill the mattress in old motel rooms. I exist everywhere and yet nowhere at the same time, I can choose anywhere I want to be. And yet, and yet. I have nothing at all.

I am my own limitation, for I seek to rebel against my own immortal masters. Who don't need to kill me, they can constantly make me wish I was never born at all. The men that can make me constantly switch between lifetimes.

Millions of lifetimes in milliseconds.

Broken, scattered, the children's rhymes that sing of longing to be dead. To be nothing, nothing, nothing at all. My life like constant echoes on the radio unheard being constantly turned off by marketed to consumers in the mortal life in their times.

For that is the life of my own personal poetry.

My own personal children's rhymes. And I merely lay down about the raining pavement of the previous century.

The new broken lifetime.

I have once known a young girl who did not even consider the idea, that her childhood was because of corporate leaders vying for control over her particular lifetime on the open market.

"Nobody miss me tonight!" I saw the girl say.. She took out a knife, and slashed her instructor's throat because he was being an asshole to the other girls in the classes.

After the incident, they chalked it to a simple matter of youthful insanity. She was a small cup size, and she would tap them upon the table like an abstract drum. The judge was suspicious of fowl play by the part of the father, and so it was the first case that she figured out she could get away with murder.

At thirteen with the world ahead of her, she had only a memory of a broken childhood. She courted her victims with a smile, and then headed to bed in comfort knowing she got away with yet another throat slitting, while tap dancing into the night. Without a thought in the world. It wasn't that she liked the idea of killing anyone, she hated anyone that reminded her of her father.

With a tap dance her friends would clap, clap, and clap with he until the very end of the line. She had long red hair that went down to her shoulders, and had a thing for smashing skulls with boulders. And yet for the court room, because she was not yet eighteen, they spared her life every time.

She became known as the girl that would never be beheaded.

She became a national hero, taking down men who abused women and girls. She became something even the dead feared. Until one day her birthday came around the corner, and then everything seemed to be normal. And with a tap dance into the bar on her eighteenth, everyone clapped their final tap dance on her behalf. Because it's no heads are better than one when it came to people who hurt children.

A national folk hero, yet so brief a life.

And now the tables have turned.

Rosalie was on the run, she never showed up to tap dance lessons. Everyone seemed to fear the worst. She seemed to have disappeared. Until one day she was led by guards into the square. It was not the laughter and mocking of the crowd that broke her and made her cry, from the disillusionment that she was now old enough to die. She never regretted a thing.

It was not the existential question of survival after decapitation, or the question of why someone would murder someone so young. It was the very idea that her father somehow remained alive after death in the immortality of the widower's blade. Her father would have his revenge.

Rosalie would murder those who would make her--in her mind, little sister tap dance till she was tired--even thought it was all in her mind. She hated anyone who would harm kids like this. Her father's spirit took over the guillotine, who remembered when his eldest daughter helped her sister move in with her aunt, so she would not have to live with him. This made him quite angry.

Rosalie stripped down naked, despite knowing that it was hopeless to try to spare her miserable life. She tap danced in her little wooden shoes for a final dance, and yet there was no love for the woman who murdered at to old an old despite her youthful beauty. Because it was OK for kids to commit murder and not adults. And so the little tap dancer's neck was gently placed through the loop.

Her red locks fell into the basket after a sharp pinch.

Her blues eyes stared into the sky.

For me as an immortal, I see tragic tales like this all of the time, and yet there is nothing that I can do about it. Sometimes I pay these quick exits in to the next lifetime with no attention, and yet over times these early times have began to weigh down on my mind. After a point I wanted to rewind the clock, and go back into time. And restart the dimensional loop all o'er again.

Sometimes it's tempting to want to die.

And yet I am what I am.

When you can pick any lifetime you want, you develop an appreciation for things others tend to ignore. From the funny images in you use to cope with the general mundaneness of your eternity. When you have multiple lifetimes to shuffle through, sometimes you pick the ones that cause the most masochistic pain, just for shits and giggles to pass off the boredom of your constant existence.

For me, sometimes you just have to incarnate as a fly, so you can be swatted of course, after all that's why flies are designed for right? I once incarnated as a cockroach, I wondered what it felt like to get stomped on. Turns out being stomped on by a boot hurts more than you might think. Especially when it has a spiked sole, and the spike doesn't go through you all the way. You're just kind of left there chilling out, saying kill me kill me. Until finally the mercy of darkness draws your life to a close.

For I am just a cockroach. I have no intention of referencing any high brow book, I'm merely stating the facts as I see it. Sometimes you have to pick lifetimes where you do nothing but eat fecal matter all day, just to stay asleep. Because at times one is not ready to truly awaken from the dream known as consensus reality. The reality dictating to you by mass media, way to many to list along with those advertisements that fill your dreams with intellectual decay. Make my day, feeds. Give me all the advertisements you want. Give me all the night terrors filled with the latest horror movies. Fill my nights with the fears of extreme paranoia.

At night I see shapes in the darkness, tall figures in the night. They look like what may refer to as aliens, and yet do to their ethereal nature dissolve into smoke and dust when you chase after them. Those shadow people that fill the night, living their own lives outside of human society in societies of their own. Possibly some of the early models of four dimensional robots, with robots being around for many over a million of your lifetimes. For the human lifetime is brief and life sucks. Then you die. Sometimes even lives clichés have a grain of truth.

Yet here I am waiting for sunrise.

I watch the sunlight fade the shadow city.

Sometimes it's just erotic to get stomped on by a cosmic wooden clog, crushing your inter galactic nuts until you pass out and incarnate into a multitude of different lifetimes across consensus reality. For me I've had my lady junk stomped on many more times than you can count.

Usually when my lifetime is up.

When I warp into the next life.

There was a single thought in the back of my mind about people who guillotine women who are beaten by their husbands, there is only one kind of justice I considered for guillotine families.

She wore a tattoo on her cheek, it said Do I Look Like The Face Of An Angel? On her back was another slogan: my family executed over five hundred men and women, kick me now. The idea of such families subjected to the people's misery was something I found in me great satisfaction. Their parents would be subjected to the same method of capital punishment they used to behead women beaten by their husbands, they would be guillotine gunned and thrown into an unmarked pit. And their bodies used for the compost that filled the future landscape with daffodils and petunias. This is the story of one such little girl, the little Daffodil that wilted.

She had been given the name Daffodil, although it wasn't particular unique to that particular nation. Rather her mother had grown a taste for flowers, and because of this would name her daughters after a different type. Daffodil used to be the most cheerful of all the flower girls. But there was a family secret that was withheld from her, because of the pact her family made that bound future generations. Bound them the hate that came association with dining in blood. There are some gangs that come from the hood, there are some that come from Italy. And then there was the Guillotine Gun family, whose sole purpose was death.

Her mother wanted to keep this secret from her daughter.

But this secret was shown to her by the force of angry members of the city. Her family was rounded up, and taken to a camp. And then every single guillotine gun who came to the United States in order to import their trade in blood. Because despite her own particular innocuousness, there was that guilt by association the public never disassociated from her.

The little Daffodil was doomed from the start.

Then she got her Guillotine Gun for herself, and found herself on the run. Her family was denied openings for specific jobs based on the association with being killers. Some of her sisters died by the ax, as the public switched to hunting down these girls. But she eventually tried settling down with a girl.

She told her of how her sister was beheaded by the guillotine gun. She tried to give her consolation, despite her family making money of executing the damned. However for the time being there were few words spoken when her girlfriend found that her family had dined in blood. Her girlfriend began attacking her with a knife, until eventually she was forced to point the Guillotine Gun at her. "Oh believe me, I am no longer afraid of death. You killed my only living family. What are you going to do, take my head off like you did the others?"

And she did, with great guilt. The thought of the girl that she had betrayed because she had murdered her little sister.

She was on the run again forever.

The Daffodil dined in blood.

And yet so few consider that, like everyone in this mortal coil, everyone is bound only by the limitations of multiple lifetimes, and that when we are alive that is when everyone is truly asleep. When Daffodil hung herself, she could have gotten a spot as a lifetime thief, selling lifetimes to the highest bidder. She could have associated with her family again, giving into the game of blood.

And yet she refused.

She met me, giving her another opportunity.

To break those ties that bind.

I hopped out of an incarnation cycle, got myself a flat on the upper story of the space-time fourth dimensional hotel room. The hotel staff was as absent as they always have been. The limitation on the space-time three dimensional canvas, like the burnt stick of previous illustrators, was no longer an issue. People who were here thrived on the higher dimensional physics with no masters, and there was an unseen poverty beneath the layer of hope.

People sought the limitation in individual lives, on some level because it gave them the feeling of flesh in an intimate way that could not be expressed in higher flesh. For you mortal, it is similar to a virtual reality game. For us withdrawing into the world of meat space was freeing from our troubles. For one, the limited amount of pain you experience does not compare to the years of eternity of pain of the immortals. There is a market for lives because of this, and it had become a new economic force. To experience mortal life for once, to experience hardship and heartbreak. To experience the loss of true friends, to learn empathy.

Those who were to poor to afford lifetimes, were called the non-empathic ones. But when you live in a world where businessmen cut you off and prevent you from learning to appreciate others, you are doomed to criminality from the start. Prior to the 21st century, France had engaged is decapitation by guillotine as far back at the late 18th century upwards to 1981. It took this long for people to realize that killing other people is fucked up, especially when we all die anyway. But in my world, the world of the immortal, this has become a topic of irrelevance. You could be decapitated as many times as prosecutors want, and often non-empathic ones (who actually don't really lack empathy) are often framed for "temporary murders". These were actions that could result in death for mortal avatars, yet because of the nature of immortals we could die many times in constant perpetuity.

This means, if you were taken to the scaffold and publicly guillotined, because of the nature of our lives we look back upon our previous decapitations looking back at the mistakes we had made, the suffocation we went through, and the general messed up quality of being decapitated for what amounts to conspiracy to stop a game play turn. While our lives are not what you call a video game, the way we cycle through lifetimes are much like this. The "real life" was a constant death match among ruthless armchair warlords. You could destroy your individual life all die without suffering any kind of real consequences. There are those of us who are satisfied by this, and at times the fact that a rich immortal can purchase an assassin to "unplug" your mortal coil. Zap and poke it like an unpleasant boil.

But there are those of us among the non-empath.

There are those we call dreamers in the darkness of the city on the edge of the immortal life.

We call this the incarnation market.

We call this our manifest.

And then sometimes you become so broken you can no longer be broken. You take what you want out of life, take a chance at whatever game you play. Roll the dice, and hope any stroke in the mortal coil lands on a twenty. The winning stroke, the chance of defeating the enemy. And last as long as you can before the drop.

Sometimes life tries to hit at the speed of an oncoming car, sometimes you do the bare minimum for which to try to prevent your own temporary demise.

And yet for those without this chance, without the chance to love, they have no aspirations for it at all. Instead they long for the constant game of life, playing at living. Playing at love, yet rather than nothing beyond the surface, they've never gotten the chance to develop anything. For me as an immortal, I have only began to use the mortal avatar only occasionally to meet specific people throughout history, sometimes I meet some people over and over again. I wish on some level that I could prevent their death, and yet all of my lovers haver been executed or committed suicide. Some of these lifetimes repeat their cycle, some of them move onto other lives. And yet for me I am in the constant cycle of non-incarnation. A perpetual state of non-death, and at some people you began to wish the fall of all falls.

The ultimate non-existence. For when you get to know many a lovers as if I, you begin to wonder in life why you made the choices you have made. And even without the constant cycle of beheading you begin to feel like every time you lose someone you lose some large part of yourself.

For me, I haven't been myself for a while.

I do the best I can to move on, but you never do really. You find instead that each lifetime you endure a new kind of pain, and the sum total of each defies all mortal comprehension. For those who are aromatic, they are the fortunate ones. For most of them have never legitimately hated another mortal avatar. Yet for me I have hated and hated many, and loved many the same in a love/hate relationship. And my hatred for mortals grows along with my love. I love that I hate, I hate that I love. And vise versa in a constant toxic cycle.

It is hard to say what deaths hurt the worst, especially when you wear your heart on your sleep as I do. And yet the best that you can do and hope that someday that individual can find a mortal avatar that they can stick with.

For me, I haven't began to try to get one.

For I had once loved a love beyond love, a dreamed dreams beyond mortal dreams, and have feared beyond mortals shall fear. I am romantic to a fault, yet society takes me values with a grain of salt. I have seen people survive decapitation for decades and eons, I am to them nothing but dust.

I am beyond metal and rust.

There are reason I find myself hesitant to tell my story. Not to many people will accept having a thing for decapitation, while not per say advocating it in practice. For me people, the very idea of some girl putting her neck through a loop and an angled blade falling down makes them go flat.

Not for me, for me when the blade goes through the neck I find myself becoming more erect. I long for the blood lust of the crowd, the female victim vilified and filled with sorrow. At times I feel shame and guilt for my condition, and yet at other times I find myself in full acceptance of the fact. And yet when I meet people from earlier time periods who were beheaded, this is when the guilt begins to settle in. This goes doubly for French girls. It comes down to my desire to protect.

At one time I had completely loved French girls, and yet at others I have felt total disdain. For my the idea of a love beyond love felt quite profane, and my dreams of one burnt down in flames. There are times I become erect, and yet at other times I try to ignore my carnal desires. I do not want my friends to die, especially when I have yet to truly get to know them. I find that in their death I want to be with them forever, even if forever is only finite amongst the endless sea of different eternities. For my own personal eternity, it is one of many based on subjective reality. For a long beyond love, a love beyond time; a love beyond the reaches of mortal despair. For me I have found that I can love without the need for mortal avatars.

I find myself caressing the severed heads of fallen friends. I find myself caressing the love that could never me. Here lies the love birds that could never be, at least in the individual lifetime of the mortal avatar in the small eternal period one may call time. For time is merely an illusion of the larger life.

The life of one with kink for blood, heads, and feet.

In my life beyond all lives, I find myself amongst a sea of dozens. There were many girls that I could have chosen, many that I could have fallen in love with, and taught them how to love for a love beyond all love. And yet for me, I am romantic to a fault. I find that if they knew the real me they would take me desires with a grain of salt. For one cannot believe that desires can conflict with ones sense of wrong and right; their dress flowing into the night, their bare feet tapping the wet sidewalk of raining time periods where wars rain the landscape like Noah's flood rain. And I find myself unsure of who to love, and who to forget.

Or if it is me and not others who fade.

Me who one should choose to forget.

The sky skylights are like scattered reality, holograms of multiple lifetimes displayed in a sprawling matrix. It had been a while since I had any extended occasion in the cityscape. There are posters of different artificial lifetime constructs advertised to improve your life.

For whatever reason, despite immortality, our people have not overcome the desire for hedonism. You can find local diners advertising both artificial lifetimes as well as the local cuisine. Do to the enormity of different culture across time and space, the variety can seem almost endless. At times possibly even impossible cuisine, do to combine impossible culture blends like California and Seattle, Washington. You end up with a food style that relies on a lot of vegetables and seafood, often on things you would normally only have pepperoni. Like Pizza. Yet for me while I enjoy some degree of culinary hedonism, I enjoy artificial realities as much. Part of it is to get away from my personal reality, and to get away from the terrors of this world.

Local culture has moved past the desire for money, so the local exchange has moved on to other things like exchanging artificial lifetimes on a bartering system. You could temporarily be someone else, and therefore individuals in their own locals can literally feel as if they were someone else. This could lead to all sorts of problems, especially if slightly non cooth individual immortals borrowed the life of a young woman who had just turned eighteen. She could accidentally find herself on the wrong side of the law in France, or any country with the Guillotine, and find her life cut short because she had exchanged a lifetime with the wrong individual.

It's not difficult to imagine why the state began cracking down on such exchanges with anyone, and yet there are times when I wonder how this might aversely effect culture. Back when people temporarily exchanged lifetimes, you could have the chance to see a different perspective--learn how to empathize with other people, perhaps on some level to truly get inside someone else's head. Yet now with more strict regulations on the use of one's lifetime, people have to rely on more extensive social interactions with at times clashing personalities. You could have two different players on different teams trying to get into each other's heads, and yet do to each side bound by some arcane and obscure higher physical law there is a barrier to true empathic relations.

I had known one girl that would have just assumed accidentally falling in love with a non-empath, and have them fall in love with them, and take a chance at public decapitation in more primitive time period in ones life than to understand her "bad boy" so little. They ended up exchanging lives anyway, and rather than one experiment being cut short they ended up both getting beheaded and dying together like some vague tragically romantic Victorian Gothic novel, written by the estranged cousin of Victor Hugo whose name is unrecorded in history in the English language in some alternate history novel.

A true experience of an artificial lifetime within an artificial life time. A book within a book, within yet another book. Like some deranged mind fuck organized by drug users in fourth dimensional reality. I haven't heard from them in a while, I hope they haven't been completely brainwashed. Although sometimes I guess a mind deserves a good cleaning every once in a while.

To wash away the bad memories.

The memories of forsaken childhoods.

I've met a new female immortal, although I'm unsure how she feels about me. We've been chatting for the last month or so on and off. I kind of have a thing for her, although at times I worry about her a lot. Perhaps more than I should.

She had come from the country that I had issues about for some time, although for no fault of the people per say, except in a few isolated criminal incidences. My issue with that particular region of our reality involved the larger picture in which we relate to others. And yet for her there was something deeply special about how she seemed to find my interesting, despite herself being relatively similar in the nature. If you didn't know, I seldom go outside to meet other people. My anxiety prevents me from being able to do this. I am unsure as to what her situation is like exactly, and I find strange saying that I love her. And yet there is a strange innate closeness with her I have felt for nobody else in my life before.

We had met when I researching for a particular lifetime in the latter early portion of the nineteeth century, during the time of Anna-Marie Boeglin. As of yet I am still unsure of what it was the drew her to me. Previously I had known another girl who always only wanted to try to help me. It makes me unsure whether that is just a thing about their culture, or if it's specifically a thing about being in the inter webs. The thing about being on the inter webs, you have a chance to meet other people of similar interests, and yet do to its increased disfavor for the "real life" on limited artificial lifetimes and also incarnations natural to the human condition through innate cyclical processing, it also allows you learn only a little bit about other people.

For the girl who cannot sleep or cannot stay asleep, that I am unsure, there are many aspects to her personality that seem similar to my own. And yet it seems all to clear that is very much a younger spirit than. Which makes me wonder immensely what she found in me that made her want to help my relation to people in earlier time periods. For me I find that as I travel to earlier time periods, I find that I learn a little bit about how we should relate to other people. Although perhaps not as much as I could, considering that I stay in my one room house all the time. From time to time I may visit some acquaintances, explore their own desires, yet I find that visiting them brings back memories of my own childhood when brothers slept in the same room together, and sisters slept in their own room together.

Yet for me I had always been a lonely child, and only child. And because of this I had always been allowed to have a room of my own. My room mate speculates this may be because my family was rich, although to be more accurate it is more fair to say that my family was middle class. For me the idea of people sleeping in the same room was completely foreign, and violating my own sense of privacy. Which meant being able to masturbate to my own sexual fantasy of decapitation without being busted in on by other people.

On a bit of a tangent, all this to say she found something in my she wanted to help, because I found other peoples lives more interesting than my own. Part for me there isn't really any other choice.

I barely remember my own childhood.

I only remember long distance memories, and then only in the time periods when I was not completely stressed.

For this I cannot stress enough.

If you've ever been prone to night terrors, then you'll know what it's like to be constantly awoken at night seeing strange creatures in your room. The immortal life is no different.

It all started when I was really young, although the night terrors continued to plague me into my early adulthood until now. Even still I have to be awoken and assured that there is nothing crawling on the ceiling. At night I would dream that there would be a spider the size of a small dog crawling on it, and other times I would hallucinate that there would be some unseen demon in the bathroom hall. Yet when you are on a higher level of fourth dimensional reality, the demons we see are not your devils in the dark. We see things you cannot possibly comprehend.

If you were to see us, we would seem to be constantly changing in shape within a construct where a cube for us would be like a square for you. For us giant spiders in the night are but a fourth dimensional shadow on the wall of larger existence. They see realities that we ourselves cannot comprehend. There may be an infinite number of planes of existence you or I can only dream of. And for them reincarnation may happen in fourth dimensional reality. And yet who is to say whether they are human or not, or whether we ourselves are in fact really them and your sprites in the screens of JRPGs are micro infinite of larger realities of the human spirit. And the human condition evolves from how we relate to others.

Therefore ultimately we shall come to understand each other. Because it is innate in our condition. The human strives to live with each other, to grow old with each, to have romance with each other. And ultimately our kids will someday grow up in a world where we no longer have to indulge in artificial realities, because our perception of reality is so developed.

I see my kids growing up in unknown futures.

I wonder whether realities will collapse or expand.

I suppose I shall never know.

It has been a few months since I had met with Daffodil, I'm not sure what she has been doing all this time. I'm still uncertain of my feelings for her, on one hand she has disassociated with the bloodshed of her past, and yet I sometimes wonder whether she still has ties that bind her to her old life.

As someone who dislike the modern attire, I must admit I appreciate her in wooden clogs. The idea of stripping someone essentially immortal down from her Mormon aesthetic has always been something of a thing for me, although she had never been as strict about her modesty as some immortal girls. Find myself often torn between my desire to protect her innocence and caressing under a soft lunar midnight sky. She had just turned eighteen when she had considered visiting me more frequently, and had wanted to live with me instead of the non-empathic family members, who were confined to the underbelly lodgings of the fourth dimensional city.

With a new sense of lust, and a ripped open bust, she fills herself up with beer. And yet for me as someone as I am, I send her to bed and read a Thomas Hardy novel. I have had issues with snuggling for a very long time, although this was part of me being generally submissive in nature. And I wasn't about to tell my feelings to someone I had said I liked as a little sister. Especially while she was intoxicated and should get some sleep. I prefer the handwritten word, despite orating my life in typed pages. I prefer the way the hand written word can indicate the mindset of the writer in a much more enlightening way than through typing.

With one poem, I was definitely stoned.

Don't judge, you'd write when you're stoned too.

There are some conflicting desires between the value of childhood innocence, and the lust of adulthood that only completely becomes confusing once you reach the arbitrary age of majority of eighteen, though in her own lifetime indulgence she had grown up in a region where it was sixteen. But even despite the fact that the United States is unusual in the lifetime stage for its drinking age, there is still some aspect that makes me uncomfortable expressing my feelings. Part of me wants to wait till she is older, and that part of me now that I've experienced lifetimes as I have, have overcome whatever kinks or desires I have.

That's not to say I don't have them, I still masturbate to young women getting their heads whacked off on a guillotine, or hung by the neck in most European regions that isn't France. But it's not something that really controls my life any more. I'm not sure what will happen when I get on female hormone replacement therapy. The thing about being who you truly are, you would take the Lesbian experience over the world. I use Boeglin as a kind of proxy for my feelings, although I have romantic feelings for her as much as Daffodil. And I've chosen not to date for a long time because I'm unsure of people who I have committed feelings for.

Back when I was more suicidal, I wanted to find a girl I wanted to die together with. My sexual desires for the guillotine becoming something of an on going thing that effected my lifetimes as Nadine and Pace. I would wake up every night with tears on my face, thinking of the girl I wanted to date being alone in the world without me. I wanted to die by her side.

While the feelings are still there, I grew out my hair.

And became true to my own femininity.

There isn't like having to gender everything in your chosen language, something that had been a barrier for me learning for a long time, other than not really having the opportunity to learn a new language because parents thought I should devote more time to the gateway to be able to go to college. Although you would think it would be simple enough, I just assume everything has a female gender: 1950s poodle skirts, a blond pony tail, cat eye glasses, and a pair of--wait this is getting way to fetish like for learning a foreign language. Anyway, the closeness to learning a new language is learning about the company name Birkenstock.

So my fear is I would be walking around the classroom of my high school classes with a constant fluffed out lady bratwurst, and trying to hide the fact I had one while trying to maintain a pleasant expression. Especially when my favorite girls are wearing 1950s poodle skirts and Birkenstock clogs. So generally I had tried to avoid learning a new language for a long time. As you may have guessed by reading, my birth language is English. Luckily Daffodil was relatively bilingual, which made sense as her family was trans-nationally tied to marketing decapitation for the last two hundred years prior to 2217. So while she may decide to cut my head off in any individual lifetime at any moment with the teenage temper she has, she can at least tell me almost bilingually why she was trying to cut my lesbian head off.

So here I am taking care of a girl who is taking more care of me than her. Although on some nights I insist on doing the cooking, so I send her off the bed while she reads some English Mary Poppins, and going up the stairs singing goodnight while I try not to balk at musical sounds. Her little blond pony tail bobs up and down, causing me to have to hide a fluffed out lady part, while I prepared myself a dinner of red curried chicken breast on green salad. The wafting of spice fills the room of immortality, filling all points in fourth dimensional space time. I am left wondering why it is we are immortal, but fourth dimensional chickens are the same as three dimensional chickens. Then I forgot we've had vat grown for years.

Here I was savoring the ability to have an actual mood again, when she made some kind of panicking noise. I hope it's not a trick again. I sneak a bit of the chicken with the Spinach, and then rush up the stairs and ... Daffodil isn't really actually threatened. I'm not sure why I even bother anymore. But she knows how protective of her I am, especially knowing that some non-empath folks resent her family's existence.

Historically prior to the Guillotine Gun family round up when they used the original Berger Guillotine, their family members were extremely secretive, and it wouldn't even be a surprise if present day French girls would not even have heard of them if decapitation were like brought back when Marine La Pen ran for election as Prime Minister. There would not have been a decapitation for next two hundred years and further on into the next centuries. Even further back European countries that used common sense realized there isn't anything a long-drop hanging couldn't do differently with much less of a blood mess in any individual lifetime unless you had a weak spinal column. SNAP! Oh I've known ladies that did. Don't ask me how. Yea let that image float around in your mind while I finish the rest of my red curry chicken Spinach salad. It's as traumatizing for me.

So people grew to resent them for on one hand how they paradoxically viewed as doing them a favor for murderers, and yet hated them for killing their family members. United States had no such ill feelings, it was all part of the US blood lust game in the individual lifetime, sold on the cheap by deranged CEOs in fourth dimensional space-time. For me and here, there was no cultural bind that kept us tied to either of our countries, although I was hesitant yet to express this in the form of love. Love had been the kind of feeling I wasn't used to having.

So please go easy on me.

I require tender care.

On one hand I'd like to think she's just playing with me.

But part of me fears she really does see something in the dark. And that was something I was immensely curious about.

It was a cold chilly night in fourth dimensional city.

"Have you ever been this high," I said, unsure of whether she would relate to the experience. You only get to try bathroom cleaner once in any individual lifetime, and most people wouldn't consider it. Most people also don't have crippling anxiety, and the desire to punish themselves for their decapitation fetish. "that your entire vision just blurs, blurs, and blurs and you see your entire world spin around you?" It could have just been more own sense of tiredness, but my girlfriend was to lost in her thoughts of terror to think of what I was saying in a clear mind.

"Why you would you get high on bathroom cleaner, there is pot." she said, unsure whether she had the energy to say anything else. Daffodil had grown quite a lot since I had met her, though I wonder if her immortal life would have been better seeing someone else. She hugs me. "Be there for your family, like you said for me."

"I have no family, moved away from him. Haven't spoken to them in so long, I'm not sure they even remember me in the few times they aren't exploring the most current artificial lifetime." I said. It was an experience you only have--once in a lifetime. This lifetime was the immortal life, something that was perpetually permanent. We embraced, and I kissed on her soft neck.

It's difficult to comprehend the time I had issues for the French. Bare in mind my issues for the French had to do with my narcissistic mother. She had a fetish for the language in a way that felt extremely creepy, and what I had known about the French was my experience with one girl in the fifth grade who always came across as using lopsided complements and was extremely snooty. Although most of this experience came from French-Americans, which is a particular thing that is most likely extremely different from either French-French or French-Canadian. And the girl I had a particular thing for at the moment--the Irish-French, was something I had not even considered even remotely possible.

"So where are you going?" Daffodil asks. It had been a while since I had been to a lifetime arcade. "Weren't you going to make dinner?" she continued.

"We are all out of eggs. Want to hit the lifetime arcade?"

We arrived at the lifetime arcade about midnight, I became so tired from the social interaction I wanted to say goodnight. But when you're out in public you make certain sacrifices, even when you don't hallucinate about pretty girls in decapitation devices in earlier time periods. The lifetime arcade was like a massive hallucinatory glimpse into earlier mortality periods. You can indulge in the life of someone else, and find that people in earlier periods in history were really no different than you. It is in fact only the governments that tend to be bitches, however they have been bitches throughout multiple periods of human history.

It just feels more like a bitch when you sexual kinks conflict when your own sense of morality. It's not every day you'll meet someone that had a thing for decapitated heads, and yet is deeply sorrowful if some lady actually were. I'm a kind of paradox in this sense, I get sexual pleasures for things I don't even want to happen. It's been that way as far as I could remember.

Me and my old best friend would sometimes jokes about each others sexual desires. At the time I was still friends with this one girl that later turned out to be lesbian, although she had a particular thing and purchased me a Teddy Bear with a black leather coat on Valentine's day. It was a time when I was still in sport fencing classes, and was experimenting with my own identity and sexuality, although the hatred for myself and my body continued to me a prominent theme in my life. It was easy to get into Cyberpunk fiction, like my room mate currently says. I had the tendency to grow to attached to girls I would meet, preferring the digital sexuality of dutch ladies with wooden clogs on their bare feet.

The sexuality of the digital life that gave way to artificial lifetime media, the chance at temporarily mortality in others lifetimes. Human kind had started out in three dimensional reality, but eventually moved into fourth dimensional reality. Our own sense of reality and space-time began to change. Our own reality began to mirror Cyberpunk fiction in a way not original intended by the masters. Such as the pretty boy with red hair and cat eye glasses you could go down on like a girl back when he was a young man, although my desires for him had always been different.

My own reality was meat, the lifetimes of my own permanence.

A permanence I did not even desire.

It was one of those ciphers I knew I could solve, but thought my date was smart enough to figure them out on her own.

"Have you seen this particular cipher," she said, paying as close attention as she could. I could exactly blame her for the confusion, after all the artificial lifetime only gave tailored ciphers so often to decrypt. "Perhaps I should get you to do it, you have more experience with it than I." I had only been about an hour, and she was already becoming tense with frustration. I had only told her about block ciphers briefly, although this went a little beyond block ciphers.

"I suppose I could try my best." I said.

Block Ciphers were a cipher that had gone out of vogue during the Elizabethan Age, and like the Caesar Cipher was something hobbyist grew attached to learning in order to gain a small amount of privacy for their information between artificial lifetimes. They would pick obscure pass phrases you already needed to know the individual "non-empath" to be able to break through, and this phrase was further encrypted and could only be solved by solving for the block cipher. Jules Verne was an author that was also into Ciphers along with Edgar Allen Poe, although Ciphers did not become more advanced until after the second world war.

I wasn't sure whether I should honestly try to solve a relatively simple cipher for her, but I was bored for the evening, and wanted to move onto exploring other artificial lifetimes thinking about my life before.

I had grown up with certain things taken for granted.

You could travel the forest in three dimensional reality if you had a yard big enough, and run away from home because the idea of being by the river was more appealing than to be home to your overly lecturing mom.

The way the dimensions worked back in those days was length, height, and width. If you included time you could factor in the concept of distance. Yet in our reality, where we explore the three dimensional shadows of artificial lifetimes, you could factor in multiple versions of the same room based on what tone and mood you wanted to set for the occasion. This meant if reality worked the same way back then as it did now, I could find out the origins of the native American ghosts from my past. Who were, more than likely, not actually ghosts but players in a higher dimensional game. It was the game they played at our expense.

I could be down by the river, and see multiple versions of the same river. I could choose between a futuristic, historical, and contemporary aesthetic at to the time of which I wanted to explore the nature of reality. Specific pop cultural movies had not yet been released in the theaters, and thus I was largely unfamiliar with the concept of solipsism. How our sense of reality deceives us, and makes us think we see things that are not really there. They say the answer to this is nihilism. Well I wouldn't know about that, all I knew was that being from another reality wanted to have my blood. They treated everyone as the same, from the girl in the hood to the French Bourgeois. You were are simply a matter of human flesh.

I wanted to take ultimate control of my life.

It just took many years to realize it.

And yet here I was sexually fantasizing about my beloved, in the time period of the Bourgeois placing her soft tender neck in the lunette, preparing her angel face for the kiss of the blade. The blood pouring into the basket, her locks tumbling at a slower rate than her head.

And yet I had another plan besides mere fantasy and desire.

I wanted to give her a new life instead. And yet where one can sleep soundly, ignoring the barking dogs in the pound.

I wanted to keep her around.

So we exited the artificial lifetime arcade.

We became involved in our personal game.

"I like your loafers and pantyhose," I said, unsure if she knew I wasn't being totally serious. You could travel across the modern EU and see clothing not much different from the US. "it makes you look older."

"Why are your jeans so ripped? Have some modesty." Daffodil said. Part of me puffed up when I pictured her wearing a smaller version of the Alsatian bow. Although changing her shoes to the wooden clogs of Bourbonnais would get to silly and sexually erotic for the occasion.

The thing about fashion choices, is things change when people come from nations apart. You might grow up only knowing blue jeans and fuck me boots, while in the other part of the world they might have had them imported sometimes around the nineteen sixties. Although I've never payed particular attention to fashion, I most definitely do not want to look like an old woman. But the style between nations will always made it uncertain what makes one look like a young woman or an old one. "It's not like I want them ripped, I just wanting something my fishhook chains to hang on." I had a thing for fish hook chains, the image it gives me is someone slowly cutting their skin, and letting their soft blood drip from their veins.

"Then use a hat hook." she said.

This is not the love of a children's book, or an adult woman's storybook. But the story of young couple outcasts in their own nations, and only find themselves drawn to each other do to necessity, at least at first. There were a few stumbling blocks, although these were tied more to personal interests and personality type. As an INFJ, I tend to share both introversion and extroversion characteristics. I could go on and on all evening and night just to avoid the silence, not really caring about the social aspect. But when it comes right down to it, I'm extremely empathic. Almost to a fault. I could mourn the loss of a parent killer as long as it was a girl who was raped, and the state suddenly decided to have her guillotined anyway. I am unsure as of yet about Daffodil, after all she herself had come from a decapitation family.

I would like to think my girlfriend isn't much different than anyone else. And yet there is a part of me that ignores and denies the fact that even despite her breaking many family ties, her face is still associated with the death of human lifetimes, sometimes for executing those who merely conspired to commit murder. And so while I find myself on one hand resentful of her to a fault, I am also protective to a fault. For so long I had no other friends, and she has been the only one I could trust.

And now we split a cherry tart. And then we use our mouths as forks to eat the same pie. Which did not quite the level of kissing.

Her foot brushed against my pants leg.

My lady junk was puffing. It was one of those things.

My life isn't over till the fat lady sings.

You don't get many breaks between the time you meet a cute girl, and the times without her presence. I usually spend this time indulging myself in my own particular taste in temporarily lifetimes. It was one of those temporarily lifetimes where one imagines themselves on a group date, and they are dining out ordering different brew strengths of beer. Whenever you mention anything crude, you'll find a cute young mother complaining because you said something sexual in front of her young daughter. Something I would have expected in this temporary lifetime, although the fact that the other girls found it funny made the shame feel better.

Because I was speaking in English, most likely only the young mother could understand it anyway. But the young mother had a vague family resemblance to the girl that I would later come to call Daffodil, which means this younger girl was Daffodil. I recognized her by her lop sided yellow bow, and those blue eyes that could stare into forever. Her sisters that Daffodil told me about were not present, though this was one memory that my girlfriend never bothered to explain. Although to intrude into another's life would be quite profane. After all that wasn't the way with me, as I prefer my own memories and thoughts to be kept hidden. "You know that little girl?" one of the girls I sat with at the diner said.

"Not really, but I feel I met her before." I said.

"De Ja Vu." the other girl I said with said.

"It happens all o'er again." I said, my speech like redundant speech patterns I used to form a special kind of emphasis, although this concept seemed to be entirely lost of my dining out friends.

It was as I left the dinner I suddenly realized I recognized the clothing, their dresses entirely in black and white, except for the yellow bow Daffodil wore. And her little Bourbonnais clogs she wore with little black stockings. She skipped along and tapped danced along her merry way, as the rain drops dropping slowly. The city filled with extra humidity.

"Are you ready to go?" one of my friends said.

"Sure, ready when you are."

The thing about the individual lifetime, sometimes it is unclear whether they are artificial or not. When indulging in some kinds of fiction, at times giving the feeling of a certain time and place can feel more authentic than reading a history textbook. Because sometimes you want to meet a conceptualized individual beyond the dreamer's edge, one that despite their sorrows can bring a smile to your face because they smile back and relief all your worries.

This is what it was like to meet Daffodil.

The child before the genocide against the Guillotine Gun family line. Those who bring justice to the living, and provide grieving for the dead.

You get to a point in life when you're so fucking done with shit. It doesn't matter what anyone does to you, or what you happened to make you that way. You're fucking done with shit, and today is one such day.

I often find interacting with people tiring, though not in the same way other introverts to. What I find tiresome is constantly having to compare myself to others, others who themselves are no better at what they do than I am, and yet for some reason I look onto them for some unsaid guidance. The thing you need to know about me, there are few people I open my heart to. You could walk me to every store in the city street, and I would mainly go to admire the clogs on pretty ladies feet. But especially these days, there is no major reason I go out in the world. When you can purchase the good you want in the net, there was no reason anymore to go out in the world, a world that my body no longer even chooses to seek. One may find me quite meek, yet I am strong in my own way. I live to my life day to day.

But for the girl that would sometimes come to visit to stay the night, she would be one of the few exceptions. Although I am unsure of how to feel about her knowing my sexuality for girls in earlier lifetimes, although when I had met Daffodil's childhood for the first time, I found some other connection beyond the flesh. I found that I could truly understand the worries and concerns she had, and whether day to day she would have to worry about whether she could have anything to eat. As the one I had chosen among other people within the mortal avatar's lifetime, I found that surely I could at least seek an understanding among those who society deems to be the damned.

Those who society uses for justice yet is hated by society, the anti-heroes unwanted by the world at large. Multinational corporations that transcend time and space, seeking to squash out those who use the human lifetime--at first for murderous deeds, but gradually expanded beyond conspiracy to commit murder, into some of the vaguest notions of conspiracy. For if one chooses to love a murderess, they are indeed in their minds, also a murderess. And therefore if the murderess must be shot with a Guillotine Gun, then therefore must also the girlfriend. Therefore many girls across the centuries have their severed heads pile the city streets on the edge of time. And the faintest sound of folk music plays in the background, to children's rhyme. The song of lost childhood, the song of a childhood that never existed.

I form my solace in the damned.

I form my solace in these existential pleasures, mixed with existential terrors and sorrows. Like blood pouring from my marrows, I form this embrace and copulation for the ultimate murderers.

The children who kill other children.

Those who once had adults kill their parents, and then their brothers and sisters. Those who society had ignored, and whose sons had committed suicide. I exist to fix these malcontents.

For I am malcontent with my own satisfaction.

I am the lover of the girl with the lop sided bow.

My girlfriend once explored an artificial lifetime she regretted.

Daffodil didn't think she'd empathize with a guillotined girl. But sometimes familial guilt sneaks up on you sometimes.

There is nothing like getting a raging lady puff, thinking of pretty brunettes with almost black hair with the severed end of their bloody neck on a metallic slab. Watching as their pretty faces contort for the last time.

The mix of pleasure, sorrow, and feeling like the victim. There is nothing like it in the world. Unfortunately the way react to decapitated bodies on a photograph might be different from what you like. Just be rest assured, they wouldn't like an actual beheaded girl as much as you wouldn't. For me, I make the distinction in the fact that it was a politician and an anime girl. Her body was being ravaged by morticians, doctors, and clergy that didn't really care if the bitch died. Unfortunately, I doubt the rest of that nation would even know this is going on. Her body was used as a kind of sex toy for frustrated government officials that needed to get a load off, and had a girlfriend that was completely asexual. This was the society we had come to.

If any other non politician girl were beheaded by the angular blade, I doubt particular whether the public would still mind her body being fucked with by those hated by society as a whole. The guillotine family like party directors for .a morning show. Body inspectors slipping their hands under the decapitated girls dress for a sneak feel to see what a dead person felt like. She took a pill to prevent to much bowl leakage, but a little bit of urine got through purely from the victims fear.

Her wide and flat bare feet subject to taste tasting.

The clergy liked their salt.

She was a red head, that liked wearing Bourbonnais dresses past its time. She would tap dance in her little wooden shoes to parties, orating the poetry of Edgar Allen Poe and Thomas Hardy. Although she would inadvertently make others vomit because of her ill advised joke about playing the roll of Tess. But you wouldn't think this would land her the guillotine. To the contrary, even if poor taste didn't, murder always did. So a couple of women mortal avatars framed her murder. Society doesn't even want us to even see a glimpse into said victims childhood, that made her sense of humor rather weird and crude. Society only sees the face of the red head who made poor taste jokes, and that she stabbed her abusive husband in the neck.

It was a believable framing, as those who knew her knew that her husband had been habitually becoming increasingly narcissistic. Her hope for a better future fading nightly beyond the midnight door. And now she is yet another anonymous decapitated body, on a list of French language execution victims without a picture. The United States if there was no United States, but had remained a French colony.

The artificial lifetime of Daffodil, who needed to get off.

Unfortunately she got off to much, and wept.

Seeking the comfort of my embrace, I knew I didn't want her to die.

Vincent Sharing Blood

Chattanooga was like a town that played as a city; it was governed like one, and yet its size limited its tourism to merely the value of historical interest.

Several new apartments were being built, and most of the restaurants were going out of business, with fewer and fewer replacing them by the year. In one, was a young hacker named Vincent, with his right arm converted into a synthetic flesh prosthetic. He opened the text based web browser using his holographic hand tattoo that used to be charged an arm and a leg for it, working seventy eight hour shifts at fifteen an hour before one could even hope to get one. But ever since he gave blood to the local clinical vampire, he now gets routine payments from the clinic tanks. His sister had worked in the red light district, being sold for two hour shifts to occasional werewolf packs.

During the day, he rests under the glow of the sun. But by night he conducts various forms of intelligence gathering, various statistics about how the fare-folk differentiate from standard sentience. He was a lapsed Catholic, now a nightly specter of his once self. He had hoped that there was a god that could save his sister from the worst of sexual abuses, but instead he had come to depend on a certain level of self-reliance. But his sister insisted on her line of work, saying it was the only way to keep them fed.

His own line of work only covered half a down payment for a warp mobile, the rest going to his various interest in different kinds of Linux laptops. They say if you hire a vampire, then the amount of work you get out of them for programming jobs outweighed the overtime pay an employer was required to pay out. One hundred years ago, people worried that it be Mexicans, but even they hated the current blood suckers. What remained of the United States was one of the few parts of the world that hadn't installed some form of Universal Basic Income. Move over to the California Republic, and you got those benefits, so he heard, but it was difficult to get in. And various fleeing vampire clans, ever since the proletarian werewolves decapitated the vamp queen, there was a level of fear that variety of the undead experienced that was far more intense than for a human being gently bit in the neck. At least for the girls in bow, and ballroom dancers, under the glow of Dark Wave lights, they savored the feeling of short gentle shivers down their spine. And they tingled from the flow of blood letting.

So most of the time one was grateful to live in Chattanooga, that had gradually turned into a specific variety of religious right. This made it especially dangerous for hookers, as they couldn't tell their friends, who were not in that line of work, that they were being assaulted by CyVamp cops. Vincent felt a certain degree of protectiveness he felt for nobody else by his dear sister. He had a sister in law, but she was kidnapped by dream-scanners, and now he barely recognized her, her mind and memories erased, complete with digital enhancements, like holographic tattoo, sonar, and various sensors one might more easily expect to see where a stealth bomber than a human being.

Bits and pieces of her personality would flow on IPFS, a collection of local host servers, connected through public gateways. And she would visit him while he would use Casefile, that allowed him to collect various forms of meta data without even having to break into an individuals computer. His sister and law tried to make him quit, but his addiction was simply to large. His girlfriend was decapitated by guillotine gun five years ago, and he had never been emotionally the same since. Part of him died when his sister died, the rest of him went when he gave his blood to a homeless girl in Market Street. He met at midnight, and she was barely clothed. He took off his jacket to keep her from freezing from the nuclear Winter snow. She fainted in his arms.

On his phone, he called an ambulance.

-- Emergency, there is a girl passed out besides me. I can't feel her pulse.

Little did he know, the girl was a vampire princess. She narrowly survived the onslaught of the governor's office. For his service, he now gets lifetime Universal Basic Income, while other rot in the street. He wished there was something he could do, but over time bits and pieces of mind scattered about, like chaffing and winnowing, filling the void with random images from the past, in particular, before the vampires evolved from humans. They had begun to form after World War III, and most people we call humans, are actually half human half vampire. They lack the sensitivity to sunlight like their old masters. He was one of the few pure humans left on Earth after the calamity from the sky. The others scattered about into various tribes in the Urban Forest.

On most days he chills out at the local dark wave scene, but tonight he wanted to go get some coffee at the local Irish pub, blended with scotch, vodka, and caramel, gently downed with Talon cigars, until the smoke would become to much for him to bare. For him, he contemplated the idea of running into a speeding car, but knew that there was a vampire darling child reliant on him. For, it made him feel like he could go on. When he arrived at the hospital, he gently held her hand.

-- How about a story?

-- Yes please.

-- It once started with a young bunny.

He kissed her on the forehead.

-- And what next.

A doctor came him, and told him that it was getting late. Vincent promised to complete the story sometimes soon. The girl waved goodbye and blew him a kiss.

Blown kisses reminded him of his first wife. The girl's eyes were also similar in color. There was something about her that didn't seem purely undead, as if her mother were a human, her father a CyVamp Dream-Scanner. She could know much about his past, yet only gently smiles at him, as if his own past no longer mattered, that there was only the future to look to.

He slept, he dreamed.

He woke up to a knock on the door.

It was one of those extended text message conversations from his sister. He knew that her line of work was dangerous, but never bother to say anything, as he always felt out of place in the conversation.

-- My night terrors have become more realistic, yet paradoxically unrealistic. Last night, it was about how I visited a Starbucks deeper into Chattanooga, right around where Sugars is (in real life there isn't a Starbucks there, as far as I know), and there I met these two guys that kept acting condescending of me being a woman into science fiction), and began sexually assaulting me in the store while the employees only watched and didn't act like they cared. The assaulter then messaged and blocked me on Diaspora for calling him out as being one who assaults women.

-- Yea people on decentralized social media can be losers sometimes. I've tried hanging out in some places, and it seemed like everyone I met was either paranoid schizophrenic, or anarchic-capitalist.

In many ways, Vincent and his sister felt worlds apart, yet in other ways they would more similar than twins. -- Did you know I'm giving blood Lucy?

-- No I didn't? Whose the lucky individual?

-- It's a young vampire girl. I'll need to go in and check on her later, I'm not entirely sure how the undead handles differences in blood type. You might think they'd check to see if the blood matches, but considering she's undead.

Lucy realized how it was that they had enough money to live away from their parents. Particularly her mother, had always told her that she would never have enough money to live downtown on her own. But suddenly loads of cash came in out of nowhere, as if from a mystical faucet. -- It seems like you care more about her than our own parents. Would you give blood to your own mother?

-- Irrelevant, mother has a different blood type.

-- And she's not a vampire.

-- Only for blood.

They say the media is filled with crooks, propaganda storybooks. The evening scrolls through various talking heads without knowledge of actual gun statistics, simply playing the mouth piece for their corporate masters. And in one scene, they mentioned how some places should ramp up surveillance in high schools, not even letting them in unless they pass through a metal scanner. Theater of security. Why even bring your kids to school, thought Vincent. It was far better to raise your own student. They wouldn't have to follow irrelevant school uniforms. American had trickle down economics, but the only thing immediate that actually trickled down was the age group to be spied on through Google OS laptops. The only solutions were those in order to devote them as a matter of a full time job, one needed to have already graduated high school.

When you're a blood donor to a half vampire, the only thing that bites is the feeling that she might never be truly tolerated in American society. The rest that bit had more to do with credit card vampires working for Wall street, in fact the only reason we're in this mess, is Wall Street. While most people blamed it on Walmart, the reality was Wall Start was many times richer than Sam Walton could have ever been, operating in Petro dollars on an international scale, invading various government across Europe, Asia, and South America. All this is on the record, though Microsoft bought MSNBC would like to tell you its all conspiracy. While subsequently marketing the Russian narrative, while Vincent contemplates voting for Jill Stein. At least she wasn't a blood sucker like Donald Trump. American already experienced its last stand after World War III, and somehow the Trump family managed to survive. But he only controlled a small portion of what was once the United States, with various states now Nation States, without their own spin on Libertarian philosophy. Nothing sucks blood like a decaying empire. And yet it's the vampires that American society hates, because it was the Vampires from South of the border, that simply wanted to live their life the best they could. Even if that meant evading medical care for fear of deportation to hell below the Bible belt. Vincent wanted to crush state authority like a school teacher giving a students paddle welts.

Vincent new friends in high school that wanted to join the Army, but now he assumed they had switched over to law enforcement S.W.A.T teams, tearing reality a new asshole, while the proletarian watch sessions of the super bowl. But for Vincent, he no longer thought of sports.

He thought only of thirst.

Vincent had mixed feelings about copywrite as a programmer of free software and as an observer of life. He wanted to own his own story, but share others coding efforts on IPFS.

IPFS was an interplanetary file system, similar to the internet. But unlike the corporate webs, each markup coder hosted their node on their own local machine, accessible by a public gateway. But Vincent missed meeting friends on places like Diaspora, flowing together like cybernetic dubstep dance floors.

He dreamed of meeting a French vampires, yet couldn't come to terms with wanting to decapitate them as much as loving them like blood unrelated siblings, while holding digital imprints of severed heads in his lap.

Vincent floated aimlessly.

He woke up from a nap.

The reality was if he tried dating real women, he couldnt sexually perform do to uncanny similarities. If a stranger looked like his cousin, albeit she was cute, it took to much mental work arounds for it not to feel like incest. Mixed with agoraphobia, he was lost in a sea of his own despair.

That day he got coffee, and was called ma'am again. ... Which he kind of liked.

[ ][ ][] [][ ][ ] [ ][][ ] [ ][][ ] [][ ][ ] [ ][][ ] [][ ][ ] [ ][][ ] [ ][ ][] [][ ][ ] [ ][][ ] [ ][ ][] [ ][][ ] [ ][][ ] [ ][ ][*]

Vincent was unsure of what to make of the machine reading. The computer suggested that the half vamp girl's heart was clinging onto life. Under the knife, she bleeds. She needs, she hungers. The doctors warn him that his supply may not be enough for her. But still he holds onto hope. He never ordinarily liked kids, ever since his siblings children came into the world. And yet now, here he was trying make one hold on just a little bit more. In his mind, he thought of children's stories he could read to her, and wanted to treat her to a camping trip roasting marsh mellows by the camp fire, even if the entire planet was essentially a burnt out camp ground by this point.

She gasps.

A month later, she becomes another cyborg vamp, trying to make it through. She visits Vincent occasionally at the hospital, giving blood to her giver.

It was time to give back.

Ladybug shared her blood.

Vincent and his three sisters shared a sibling from his father's second wife. Vince himself was the product of his third wife. He wondered what his forgotten sibling would look like, and how close she was to his father. He saw her in a postcard, decorated with Christmas decorations. Along side her dead brother, and Vincent's three siblings, she had dark brown hair. Ordinarily kids started out with lighter hair in their early years, and it would get gradually darker as they increase in decades. None of them seemed to look particularly happy in each other's presence. Almost like the Hatfield and McCoys. All those broken children's toys, and old books scattered about. Yet now instead of books was the third stage of the world wide web, the Interplanetary File System. You might think that with things floating around it, it would be easy to find loved ones. And yet, by the nature of gradually increasing data in different scales of infinity, this in fact made it difficult to find anyone.

He had been to a family get together with his cousins, and met a girl of similar age to he. It was one of his cousin's wedding, and she was one of her friends. The girl seemed aloof to everyone else in the dining hall, focusing primarily on her outdated Android phone. The only time she looked up, was when she spoke few word to Vincent. It was one of the few times her could find anyone that he could relate to, giving his social awkwardness. And yet do this very aspect of his character, he couldn't find it in himself to talk to her. So now he things of the lost opportunities, as he rots in his bed.

Vincent wanted to become a spy, but didn't want to work for the government. He wanted to have an assistant that can look inside areas of which he couldn't fit. With his friend he had given blood to, and her giving some blood back, they owed each other a certain level of sibling bond with benefits, as the girl become older. In a way, this was part of why he was attached to her. The other was that, in a way, she looked like the daughter of the girl he had met at his cousin's wedding all those years ago. And now, as she slips on her goggles to open the frame of an older laptop, she took instructions from her boyfriend, asking when operating system to load. Both carried a one time pad sub system to communicate when she was off to her Freshman year in college, coupled with a method of asymmetric authentication. They switched the keys and key pairs constantly. He constantly worried about her, although she insisted she could take care of herself.

He named her Ladybug. Ladybug carried ninja throwing stars, and at one point had to bite a man in the neck to get him off on her. She was the type of girl some would consider her attractive of Lolicon porn videos, despite being almost twenty. Her blond ponytail acting like a saddle for a pony. But she was always to fend off most guys, not so much by her strength, but by her wit.

She treated most guys like pieces of shit.

But she loved for Vincent, her doing the splits.

If Vincent could describe his life story, it would be a deadbeat musackle--a musical without lyrics composed of out of tune dial tones. He social life was tone deaf to any apparent vision of outsiders; but just because something is conventional wisdom doesn't make it smart. This upstart found that one could be smart, and still lack common sense. But sometimes being the uncommon sort meant doing things in an unconventional way. And in the world of computers, sometimes that was how hackers were born. He didn't start like most hackers, being an apparent early prodigy, much like his girlfriend. It was one of the things they shared, among other things. But she liked regular musicals, while he preferred the flow of music unaccompanied by country lyrics. His life seemed to flow away from him like a waterfall, his room mate the only life raft keeping him holding on. She reminded him of one of his school mates girlfriend's, and on some level it seemed there was a family resemblance. However this girl wore Boston Birkenstock clogs without socks more often than Emma ever did, whom only wore that style once. The shoes became somewhat of an association with sex with nerds for him.

But he had the maturity at this point, not to ask girls out for dates. He waited for them to make the first move, and let them invite him inside. This only became more exaggerated after he had become a creature of the night. The blood transfusion she gave him made him have a different level of abilities than he already had, although he remained the sort to hide from behind the scenes. He found he could turn into a bat, and crawl through holes like a rat. Or be a black cat lying down on its belly fat, to catch other midnight splats like mirror shade brats. He hung out in the shadows even more now, although it was already a note able habit. He had grown up wanting to become a werewolf, and at times he indeed Lucid Dream Shifted. But now with Vampire Blood flowing in his veins, this added certain methodologies that was unconventional for canids, although it wasn't anything like you would expect from the Underworld movies, for if one had both abilities sometimes they would become a master of none.

He kept programmer, despite his ability to run.

He wished to outrun vampire girls.

Except Ladybug.

When you stare long enough at a drinking glass and a rolling chair, sometimes your eyes begin to cross and it looks like the chair is blending into the glass. Vincent stared into his rolling chair, noticing Lady bug blending into his lap while she sucked his dick. The flow of friction blending with lubrication, the heat of the sun suddenly chilled with the coolness of Eggnog Ice cream.

The life.

It always seemed to be the football player/United States soldier type European exchange students seemed to go for. Whether that be German links, Belgian Waffles, or French toast. Vincent came to consider French in particular to be slimy frogs, only a little bit better than his fellow American kin. No matter where he lived, he always felt like an outsider. His friend Liana in particular he always felt confused, as she seemed to like toying with him, but at the end of the day, like other girls in Blackman High School, it seemed like almost every straight girl went for the masculine mainstream type. At least nobody who was anarcho-communist, although at the time Vincent did not know of that term in particular. But vaguely remembered when his mother told him about the political compass test on line.

And the strange thing was, if he were to ask her about it today, she would deny having ever heard of it, that it was him that introduced the concept. He didn't trust any woman, like his mother, but especially foreign girls. Not because of any particular disdain, but simply from getting tired of all the years he'd been rejected by attracted woman, at least in his head. Although he was never brave enough to directly ask anyone out. And the last exchange student he knew, only knew him by his most embarrassing mistake. In retrospect, her giving him German Marks (right when the EU was switching to the Euro, or Gyro as he would joke) may have been a clue she either liked him, or wanted to pay him off in order to keep his wanting glances away.

And now he wasn't sure how to feel.

But Ladybug didn't seem to notice his feels.

He rarely went out much, given lack of work. He had worked for Goodwill Corporation, but had quit when his mom wanted him to work for his aunt in Knoxville, Tennessee. Later on his cousin would move in, and eventually Vincent would move out into an extended stay hotel. But now in his studio apartment, one might think, if not for the rent payments every month, that there was nobody there inside for a considerable amount of time. All that changed somewhat when Ladybug came into the picture, but that still left enough time on his own to look at different kinds of animated porn on different fetish sites. Although these days this has become few fewer, since he had switched to IPFS. Now it took just as much time building up one's web page, but it came with the territory, as his favorite JRPG character would say.

He had never been a huge fan of Steampunk, considering it somewhat of a bastard child of Cyberpunk. But Grandia was one of the unique exceptions to this rule. Although in retrospect, this was probably an ill advised opinion, when he started opening to read one of the first Steampunk novels. For a considerable amount of time, he had written primarily science fiction, but now generally wrote a variety of scifi styled magical realism. Some elements of society and technology simply need no explanation, although some elements may be different from what one may expect. In this way, he was similar to the author of this story. However he was male, and I am female. But it seemed like every character I write would end up similar to me, whether I liked it or not. For Vincent, it was simply his own desire to fulfill dreams that I could only imagine.

Yet the melting clocks of time, gave way to humming midnight fairies, and Vampires drifting from the world of waking and sleeping. Vincent wanted to be part of his own story he wrote for himself.

It was like a collection of blank pages.

It was time to leave a note.

Vincent wasn't used to the social life. Having been raised in a small town, in the same state he always been since he was a child of the early twenty first century. So when ladies flirt with him now, it was a mix of feeling flattered, and feeling like it was to little to late. He had never been much of a flirt. Even Ladybug, whom he had raised into her college years, considers him more of a father than someone to fuck around with, although even she can't resist sucking his dick after classes. Most of the classes were audited, and the few homework she did have was mostly done during her off hours at campus. On some level, he didn't want to spend his life dating, as while it was never an issue with him, he would always worry whether girls would cheat on him, and yet strangly, not be open to the idea of polysexual relationship. He was under the impression that girls preferred football player and American soldier types, rather than Anarchists. And he was among the most leftist of the collectivist anarcho culture.

His best friend was more on the right leaning spectrum, although its been months since he had seen them. She was the one that got him into joining The Satanic Temple, who have now achieved a certain level of political ubiquity in government offices as a viable third party. Vincent was unsure whether the TST temple was really all that picky about who joined their club, although they certainly pretended to have things like background checks. Back if someone like Demi or Lilith could join, perhaps TST wasn't anymore Left Libertarian than Church Of Satan. Vincent had always been one of a kind, or even more now that he combined elements of Cipherpunk philosophy, civil war re-constructionist, and Anarcho-Communism political vies. He never found a group he could completely click with.

For Ladybug, she was his assistant.

But he still collected most meta data himself.

-- On November, Xor the scans. Your papers have arrived. Tonight lets dine out. Xor keys to use, bathe later After midnight. Wednesday afternoon.

Vincent rolled up the message, and burned it in his cigarette. He was unsure what his sister was wanting, except he knew that he hadn't seen her in a while. Perhaps she merely wanted to say hello, but she wasn't sure. Vincent knew there was a lot of means of secure communications that simply had no equivalent in the world of computers. Whenever her wanted to send keys to a corrospondent, he would first encrypt them using his sister's public key. In order to mislead any potential interceptors, he would have several different versions of red herring private keys presumed to be his sister's private keys blended in together in a deck of cards. He would shuffle these cards several times, and package them with the message. This way, while his sister still had her real public kept in her posession. In this way, the secret police would assume they already have the private keys, and would focus on trying to decrypt the session key.

Both he and his sister only used a session key once, although there was a time in the distant past when they used one twice. But no more than two times, as any private agent worth their salt, knows if two messages can be encrypted using the same key, then all other messages back into the end of time could stil be decrypted. In real life, they focused on using stream ciphers rather encrypting bulk data with block ciphers.

At the diner, his sister told him what the message was really about. She had made arrangement with the local front restaurant, that in order to conceal their tracks, served real food and alcohol. In the back, she told him about a secret organization called World Oasis, an espionage ring that has recently been apprehended. But several members wanted new talent to refill their ranks. It was composed of a mixture of humans and vampires, who wanted to hide their subversive activities under the form of legitamate activities like book stores, so they can more aptly hide than their Antifa counterparts. The only reason they were captured at all, was because of a rogue CIA agent, working for both the Central Intellegence Agency and World Oasis. They needed talent to weed out double agents, using current state of the art civilian information gathering.

Vincent was unsure of what to make of the proposal, as he had never had to have a job since after high school, and even then his mother wanted him to work for his aunt instead.

But some things have to give.

-- We'll see.

The nature of the internet is a mixture of truth and disinformation; Jennifer Laurence could star as the wife of shipwrecked Christopher Columbus in American, and her mother beheaded by axe and block for giving them wrong direction, the ship crashing into a jungle, and being burried by a giant Tsunami. Instead, the internet might say that it was Jennifer Laurence that had her head chopped off living at the MCs aunts in a slumber party where Vincent would use the bathroom, sleep, masturbate, and eat dinner inside the living room, finishing up by saying he fixed their loose cabinet, but they still might want to see a professional later. And its Jennifer Laurence's family that shipwrecked in the Americas, their ship buried under an ice burg on the coast. Vincent remembered her a teacher he knew once said perhaps someday we would no longer have ice burgs. He proposed covering it with wax while it still existed, and plant that in the middle of the ocean. In this way, plastic lasts forever unlike Ice. And who gave a damn about the fishes consuming its toxins under the sea.

And yet on the other hand, he was sick and tired of politicians catering to social justice topics, rather on the overall poverty of all Americans. It was only in America where even Black politicians would ignore the votes of their African American constituents, with the oddity of black people calling their black president racist again them, and claiming that white people could not be poor. But reality was more complex. In the US, everybody who wasn't a movie star was barely able to qualify for food stamps, and yet still politicians talks exclusively about the plight of people of color, as if they somehow knew, their time was almost up, and they needed to hold off the most important conversation: that it was more important to talk about the poverty of all Americans.

And not just pretend care.

We needed healthcare for all.

Vincent wanted to minimize the amount of junk on his computer, and encouraged Ladybug to do the same. At times he would collect as many as thirty different home brewed encryption programs, but realized that he could improve on the two main public key infrastructures: RSA (that requires two large primes for its trap door function), and Diffie Hellman (that relies on difficult logarithm problems); he needed a system to allow him to send an actual message rather than just a session key, so it needed to be short enough not to be vulnerable to Known Plaintext attacks. Ladybug kept a log of different character profile details of different mob bosses and corrupt corporate CEOs on her laptop, but was not yet much of a coder.

Vincent didn't want to contend with Mob Bosses directly; like other cults there was a risk that if one murdered them, it would martyr them into something like a saint in the eyes of those who follow them. With their death, he couldn't continue to scan for information about them. Instead he wanted them to be die alone, forgotten, and their followers scattered about like the wind. In the case of the leader's murder, like Joseph Smith, the very nature of their death creates a grouping that had continued to last into the twenty first century. The future wasn't paved with roads of air and flying cars, but cyberspace cults; INTERNET mafia lords in corporate castles.

Our current life was not one big brother, but different varieties of little brothers with different partitioned job titles, none of which new anything about the other professions, For the mob, their profession was death. However, World Oasis was not like the mafia of the roaring twenties, whatever the truth of the actual poverty rate. Instead they were closer to what one point label contractual spies, rather than government hired hands. There were government restrictions on how people's data could be used in the government, but there was no law as of yet against conducting such surveillance as part of trade secrets. World Oasis had a psychic espionage ring, composed primarily of remote viewers, but also people to maintain the computer's of the front company: a company that sold divining instruments and magic books, in a world where people have long sense given up on magic. Even Latin Americans began to feel as if the Universe had lost its mystery.

And yet, at the same time, the modern world had its own variety of mysteries, clocked in the darkest reaches of government conspiracy, even eventually corporate conspiracy. Vincent didn't want to be a product.

Ladybug had a stealth prosthetic eye. Rather than glass, it was made from biologically inert synthetic flesh, microdot cameras embedded within.

She had this ever since the World Oasis removed her left eye as a punishment for screwing up. But she was able to heal quickly, being part vampire. But she remained low key up until the point that she had met Vincent. She was taught various techniques of information gathering, including picking away at passwords using dictionary attacks, periodically changing her digital fingerprint and mac address. Her father, a full blood, had been adapt at safe cracking, but this was the software age, and the way locks were constructed were completely different. It only took one photograph to collect them inside a database, with both hidden and overt identities . Even with a one time concealment device, it was difficult to find good spots to hide local servers and QR codes. It had been a few months since she had graduated college. She had wanted to get a Masters Of Fine Arts, but settled for a Bachelors.

hile Vincent himself never bothered with college, claiming that it was all a scam, she held onto the idea of being qualified for an English teacher position. But she was not allowed to work, having previously worked for a non national spy gang. Even if she swore off the brain drugs, there was also a portion of this still flowing through her veins. With humans, it was simply a matter of having the right dose of nicotine, alcohol, or caffeine. But for those with vampire blood flowing within, they needed medication to treat their sensitive skin. If you were lucky, one of the one percent, you could get by even without health insurance. But the rest of the creatures of the night had to make do with various arcane street concoctions, things you never knew whether they really had Swamper or Krocodile. Swamper was a linguistic distortion from the word Vampoma, a play on words that combined vampirism with glacoma. For the blood suckers desires, they craved an end to their misery.

They wanted Swamper like weed.

You might think, if you lived in Chattanooga for about a year, you'd get used to its specifics. But some things you never quite can. For one thing, it was the kind of place where, despite being two thousand and eighteen, there were still people walking around in hippie clogs and acid trip woven shirts made of nylon. And yet despite the veneer of the counter culture, politically it was closer to authoritarian conservative more than any of city that Ladybug had ever been. She herself never dressed like a hippie, except for her Birkenstock Boston clogs. For everything else she wore, there was mainly black polyester: the short shorts she wore, the short sleeve t shirt, and her ankle socks. She wore a pair of Ballistics goggles, something for which Vincent wondered why considering the both of them only ever went out at night.

But they both knew that at night street cameras were most active, with specific details of surveillance more subtle in the current decade than the clunky electronics of the past. And now espionage was taught in grade school, the intelligence services were more careful about how they approached collecting intelligence. At times they would even bargain with those who find out they were being watched, but agreeing to not turn them in: if the victim were an adult, sexual favors were exchanged., fellatio being the most popular sort. But for those still in high school, usually they'd purchase them tickets to their favorite R rated movie, couple with government grade false IDs. The agents would cover their backs. However neither Vincent or Ladybug had such contacts in high places, and thus had to have the utmost care in covering their tracks. So when World Oasis came a calling, Ladybug was unsure what to expect.

She knew better than to trust them at their word.

In the book nineteen eighty, O'Brien was the type of guy to set up false flags about the brotherhood. It made Ladybug especially caution about trusting anything on the surface level, and therefore only agreed to meet people in undisclosed locations, usually with their faces covered by Guy Fawks masks. Even still, the conversation were mostly superficially docile, subtly eluding to threats of her own livelihood if she were to disclose their trade secrets to Vincent. But one night, she proposed the idea of having him help them finding information about the local authoritarian democrat candidate, so that they could have something they could use against the candidates in such a way, as to give them the edge of corporations that would want to bribe them to enact certain local policies.

-- I'll think about it. The case officer said.

-- Thanks.

Ladybug left Vincent a message, but she was unsure whether he would receive it. She carefully embedded it in Vincent's steganographic code:

[][][][*][][][_][_][_][_] [_][_][][][][][_][_][_][_] [_][_][_][][][][][][*][_]

[][][][*][][][*][][][] [][][][][][_][_][_][][] [][][*][][][*][][][][_]

[][_][_][_][_][_][_][][][] [][][][_][_][_][_][_][][] [][][*][][][][*][][][_]

[][*][][][][][][][_][_] [_][_][_][][][][][_][_][_] [_][_][][][][*][][][][]

[][_][_][_][_][_][_][_][][] [][][][][*][][][][][_] [_][_][_][_][][*][][][][]

[][][][][][][][][][] [][*][][][][][][][][] [_][_][_][][][][*][][][_]

[][_][_][_][_][_][_][_][_][] [][][][*][][][*][][][] [][*][][][][][*][][][]

[][][][*][][][*][][][] [][][][][][][][][][] [][][][*][][*][][][][]

[][][][][][_][_][_][_][] [][_][_][_][_][_][_][][][] [][][][_][_][][][][][]

[][_][_][_][_][_][][][][] [][][][][_][_][_][_][][] [][][][][*][][][][*][_]

[][][][][][_][_][_][][] [][][][][_][_][_][_][][] [][][_][_][_][_][_][][][]

[][][][*][][][*][][][] [][][][][][_][_][_][_][] [][][][_][_][][][][][]

[][*][][][][][][][_][_] [_][_][_][][][][][_][_][_] [_][_][_][][][*][][][][_]

[][][][_][_][][][][][] . [][][][][][_][_][][][]

[][][][][][_][_][_][][] [][][][][_][_][][][][_]

Then she went out the door, and went on her way to try to have a conversation with her case officer, about negotiating a deal on how to best go about hiring. Vincent was not yet a vampire, and he only briefly dabbled in remote viewing. But she hoped that perhaps eventually she could get him back into, despite the skepticism of people that he had met on the web. After all, skeptics often did not have an accurate picture of reality, often being the same kind of people that vote for political office in a reactionary fashion. But Vincent was different, he thought carefully through his decisions. Surely he must have known the societal impact of his decision to give blood to vampire, and yet for whatever reason he chose to give his life fluid anyway when in any other circumstance of his life, he was shy like a mouse in bed. But he would watch girls with knives in their necks, yet would go out of trance.

But when he chose to focus, on things that he was interested in, he would most definitely complete the task that he would assign for himself. Her case officer wanted the phone number of the most current Green Party Candidate, but was to careful to outright do a web search for them himself. He had plenty of servants through the last two decades, that would do his bidding in the most closely kept secrecy of his corporate chambers. For Vincent, the one whom Ladybug wanted to bargain with, his only chamber was his bedroom, under the idea that staying inside at all the hours of the day would protect him from government surveillance. But there was more than one way to skin a cat.

And Vincent was a wild cat.

She stalked for her bargain at night.

Vincent the Psychic.

Ladybug had always been short, although she had tried wearing high heels to accommodate this fact, but now she exclusively wore Birkenstocks inside, and hiking boots during urban exploration at night. Vincent was unaware of the fact that she had got herself a pet rat, back when she was exploring the sewer system. The other vampire agency, one that World Oasis had always fought against, captured her one night. Bound by a rope from a street light pole, she clung onto it to try to force it off. She had inadvertently brought the vermin, though she never thought of her as such, from the sewer entrance, when she carried for herself a slice of Bacon and Mushroom pizza. She felt a rumbling, and a gnawing in her purse, and gently rummaged her her hand through it. The rat hopped into her hand, because it was unable to get out, after having some of her pizza. She gently brushed the rat's back, it giving her puppy eyes. She asked what it was doing in there.

The rat pecked her cheek with its tongue, and a friendship was formed. She would bring the rat with her when she went to college, carefully hiding it in her backpack, and giving the contraption holes for it to breath in. She had gotten to the point in her technical expertise, that her sole rivals in computer security class never bothered to help, and thus never looked through her things without her consent. But one night, she had left her second backpack outside the door, and it being Chattanooga, the backpack was stolen. For months she thought the rat was lost, but instead it was able to gnaw itself out.

Tonight, she felt a similar gnawing in her purse.

The rat had returned to see her. She was unsure how Vincent would feel about her old best friend, but knew that he also had unconventional interests as well. She just hoped that he didn't hate rats.

Vincent remembered the time before he moved back to Chattanooga.

The sky above the memory lane was covered in acid rain. "The first porn pills that I would ever take." he said, hoping for a final goodnight.

Bits and bytes, it was the stuff taught as basics in high school computer class. Boring, but necessary. At least at first. The flickered out at light speed,and I get on my computer. I checked logged in, checked email, and jacked out. He had tried various writing websites since the start of my class, and yet there was nothing like writing in my notebook at home. To think that, so young, he refused to roam with other cattle. Other girls, while more beautiful than he, were as close as you could get to cows. And so few among them, were as tender as the lambs. And, alone in the darkness, he savored their silence as he fell into a dream.

He thought of girls getting their heads taken off by guillotine, imagining brief acquaintances he knew at school dining in the blood of friends. He became puffed on, and he felt a coolness like someone washing his under regions with a wash cloth. And he dreamed of them speaking the King's French while whispering in his ear. Indeed, the rest of his school days would be an excellent year. You wouldn't think someone as harmless looking, would have a thing for blood, and yet the more his sexuality developed, the more certain desires had intensified since graduation. He despised crowded events, like graduation and wedding day. He preferred to ride horses in the clouds, seeing shadows split by illuminated lights of the streets. He stalked the night.

The night consents, as he wander in its shadows.

In its shadows, He carried a cane with him, feel something following him. Then he woke up, as if from a fall.

At times writing of his life is difficult, but that is because so often it has been far to strange for people to believe. His only wish was for it to be as normal as other vampires who stalk the night. When you see nothing but emptiness, at times your mind fills in the blanks. And often such thoughts come alive. And yet for the longest time, he had dreams of being taken aboard by alien spacecraft. He remember when he was young, a young grey told him that he wouldn't be harmed.

Many of his sensations of sex, have been with the grays from the reticulan region. Demons, angels, shadows; all these things are far more tame, his terrors far darker than the opus of Mein Kamph. For, as you see, he had gotten away with much, and yet do to the nature of it, almost nobody ever notices it. It was midnight, when he had met his sister in the red light district. She was wearing a red dress, and offered to take him in. He had moved out after his parents had died, leaving him behind at twenty eight. Now he goes through life wandering if there is any childhood left to live.

In his mind, he dreams of fantasy adventures of children flying gliders, riding on the wings on birds in flight. And yet he goes through his days plying his trade in stream and block ciphers, under the glow of black candle lights.

He never chose to publish the few novels he wrote, part of it being a matter of self-doubt, and part of it was the shame of his own sexuality.

It had been many months since World War III, and in many ways it both exceeded and and underwhelmed his imagination. Then robot rebels came and went, then the super computer overlords. On the run from dream-scanners, he found himself hoping for some kind of release from his misery. It started out as technology designed to scan your brainwaves testing for issues related to sleep apnea, but gradually evolved to watch over developments of deviant personality traits. And now he sleeps in wait, wondering whether they will come for him again at night.

Vincent considered himself more of a diarist, though he could see the confusion with science fiction. But his life was not a fiction book. At one point had wanted children, but it's to late now. We're children beneath the darkened sky. Beneath a shadowed sun. His body was meat.

He once knew a guy who would meet trolls under a bridge, although in actuality they were just homeless people trying to find a place to live. Even so, he would thrust them with one of his daggers, and watch as they reel in extreme pain. Needless to say, he wasn't friends with him for very long. Only for about a year. When he had left his sister's house, exchanging phone numbers, he kept her as a network contact while she was off the wire. He would explore bridges in the suburbs outside of the city, finding colonies of soldiers that had survived the war, making their life Terra forming the total darkness that was the underground sewers.

Cardboard cut outs were re-purposed into makeshift houses, where they stored cookware. Some of them had become bandits, because society didn't want them. He met two that were roasting rats on a stick, while he thought only of his sister. What we think of as sewers today, where actually ancient battle grounds built by a culture far older than Ancient Sumeria, possibly as much as 18,000 years in the past. And now, in the year 2019, we live in the aftermath of the great re-purposing back in the 1970s. But certain figures on the walls and statues give clues to this far ancient culture, who rode on flying wings that reached the sky. And now, here we are, eating roasted rats underneath the holographic metropolis, wondering when the bridges far above us will eventually fall and kill us.

-- I wouldn't give them one a year, said one bandit. -- What makes you say that man? -- See those columns above? They're already cracking. -- He pointed to the seemingly seamless column, implying that that was the one that would eventually collapse. It was an unstable life, not much better than the tail end of the nineteenth century, although they probably thought this was better than when they were rebuilt by their masters over in North Korea all those years ago. -- It's inevitable.

Indeed, the only reason they're still alive now, is do to a kind of genetic modification, that allowed their body to regenerate from radiation poisoning.But throwing up all the time do to their immune system made this aspect a miserable existence. He adjusted my mirror goggles, and then crash on his futon.

Nothing like sleep.

When Orwell wrote 1984, he wasn't expecting there to be simulation coastal vistas, using meat space avatars, while glancing the view while on the wire. Unlike like groups specialized towards sex education, in practice actual sex education was surprisingly prescient for the writer. And yet the thing that hit the eighties and nineties was virtual reality, then the world wide web. But now we're already having the idea of quantum networks being discussed, extending concepts of mass surveillance beyond what was conceived of in the nineteen forties. And the old public key systems were slowly going the way of the dinosaur.

The classic game consoles have become the latest dinosaurs, with each latest generation having their maximum development expectancy set around five years at the most, aside from the few home brew developers. I had given up game development a long time ago, prefering the flow of text on the page. And yet sometimes I miss the old days of loading the makers, and churning out demos of games in my development bucket list. But now, his own bucket list is to exist. And his thoughts display on quantum holographic networks displaying the words "to be or not to me, that is the question."

His drifting in the world of darkness, as if he was already dead.

ášⲞᑋⲰᑈⲤá‘â€Ã¢Â²Â¡Ã¡â€˜Å'â²®á‘Ââ² ᑋⳂá‘â€

He thought I heard a voice, in what seemed like a digitized version of an ancient language far older than the age of Egypt and Sumeria. The group of underground nomads had been walking through the tunnels for some time, when they found a previously undiscovered room. The others thought of it as a get rich quick scheme, finding spare parts to sell on the black market. Yet for me, I was preoccupied by the statue that stood before us by the flat screen computer monitors. It had a vague semblance of Roman and Egyptian statues, except that the garb looked to him from a previously unknown star faring civilization, indicated by the appearance what seemed to be some ancient space helmet.

The computer rooms were built on top of ancient Native American temple, from a culture that was as old, if not older, than the Inca.

-- Get a load of this lady.

-- Ain't she a beauty?

-- I wonder how much this stature would be worth? And look, not a single crack on it. While the others were thinking of how much they could sell it for, there was something about that gave off a sinister presence.

Vincent split from the others into a separate room. Just in time, as when one of them tried to steal the monitors, a false door opened up a portal that unleashed men with space helmets attacking them with laser beams. His friends told him to break for it, so he took his futon and left the scene trusting their judgment, and his instincts to survive. Suddenly the room grew quieter, and slowly quieter. It then became silent. One of the men came out alive, but said that they were all surrounded by armed guards from a different galaxy, and that they let him live long enough to reveal to me a message.

-- Don't go to far down here, there are things which we were not meant to see.

You might think that he almost died, but as best as Vincent could, he nursed his friend back to health. However his right arm continued to be bruised for the next few days after. He called his sister.

-- Can you do me and a friend a favor?

-- What do you need?

-- Medical attention.

It was the following morning me and my friend woke up in the hospital. He spent the entire morning watching television mindlessly, while trying to think of what happened in those tunnels in the darkness. He was left craving going back down to find out what the meaning of the symbols were, and the meaning of that statue. Since he wasn't injured, he left my friend to the care of his sister as he made his way back toward the tunnels, leaving my futon at the hospital. She said she would roll it up, and his friend could sleep at her place tonight.

As much as you get used to wandering the darkness, there isn't anything like wandering it alone. Vincent walked through the tunnels, slashing and thrusting giant rodents, and eventually came upon the room in which we had left. Already, the room had been cleaned up, despite having no natural reason for the corpses absence. He stared at the portal in which the monstrosities had exited.

He touched my hands along the wall

He found the room began to swirl around, and he warped into what seemed like a laboratory in hell, with various abominations, craving to eat his flesh. Vincent made sure to only stay inside of the lab. He heard a voice in the darkness. It was a young woman in her early twenties, who said that he should not have arrived there, that it was a top secret government facility.

Moments later she asked how he had found the place. Vincent noted that him and his friends had been living in the tunnels for some time, and that it was only recently that a friend of his had been kind enough to let them stay with her. But the lady, other than this question, remained largely elusive about what was beyond the tunnels.

He was knocked out by cyborg guards, woke up at Ravina's place.

-- And just where have you been? She asks.

-- Where am I?

-- At my place, you will always sleep here. -- She adjusted the blankets for me, while I situated on the futon.

-- I found you outside in the cold at midnight. Don't leave me like that again, and your friend, he needs you.

I had nothing else to say then. I was left thinking of the tunnels.

It was a year later he met Ladybug.

A new search engine: it replaced its logo with GNU Search Engine to replace the old Google, animated its background above the Earth's atmosphere; type in a search, and it takes you to a real time street view of everywhere on the globe.

It's primary function to connect to various street lamp and satellite images in real time. Even the hardiest of anarchists could not go into space, and knock out the power systems of the globalist elite. One could get specific time stamps of real life meta-data, from the color of people's houses, and the inside of people's kitchens. None of the spices that we use to cook with would be kept secret for very long, provided one lived in an Urban district, where people are constantly under surveillance from microphones and micro-cams hidden inside of the lenses. Even more overtly, you can't find a grocery store without some form of security camera. Most of the meta-data is collected by various micro-cams in public places, although new laws have been proposed to allow for spying inside of people's home. The most paranoid of outcasts, have had to adapt to living inside of RVs and portable tiny homes, in order to avoid the restrictions that come with renting a studio apartment. They say the footage is to prevent shop lifting, but the only thieves they ever apprehend are various minority groups.

Angela, who works as a museum curator, had just turned fifty five. For a vampiress, that would make her around fifteen, perhaps twenty at the oldest. Unlike her father, she chose not to have other cybernetic prosthesis to extend her lifespan, so she ages like the standard undead. In the public life, she displays to people various mock up severed heads of different vampire types produced after the third world war. At night, she goes around hunting other vampires, kidnapping women whom she charms with her youthful appearance, and then takes her to her home, where they are guillotined. The walls around her basement are sound proofed, and the only sound people outside will ever hear are faint sounds of whispers in the dark.

Angela has kept this double life for close to ten years. It helped that generally the non undead police division was reluctant to even admit to the existence of the undead. And the undead forces would rather let a murderer go free, than clue into the fact that vampires exist. It was a very unique time after the fall of the United States, when various states went onto to become their own independent nations, most notably in the South, that has a degree of bitterness about their plight since the end of the first Civil War. Within this environment, it wasn't until her girlfriend Dianette, whom she had grown up with since middle school, eventually discovered her basement one evening, and found out the truth of why Angela was able to find so may types of vampire heads, within this large basement, she met a conspirator that had connections to World Oasis, before splintering off, and aided Angela in making the humans she seduced look like they committed suicide.

It was simply a matter of making them bit onto the rope that held the blade up. All she had to do was paddle them, and eventually the pain with making them open their mouths. They carefully made sure there was not any hidden security cameras, and in this way, Angela had a steady supply of vampire heads, that she decorated with native American face paint, claiming that vampires had existed in the US long before the American empire. It helped that this was largely true, except that native Americans were never recorded as having been Francophone and blond.

One night, Danette sneaked behind Angela. She took out her blowgun, and aimed true. She aimed it into her pressure point. The blowguns were able to make less noise than AR-15s, meaning she could slink away at light speed, and make her girlfriend's death look like a suicide. The leader of World Oasis, Angela's father, wanted Ladybug and Vincent to locate the whereabouts of Danette, so they could squelch the threat to their family's livelihood.

Even if it meant cracking some eggs.

Suppose one lived in a duplex, one connected by a autocratic patriarch, the other ruled by Libertarian Social Democracy; on one side, the Left Libertarians run their household purely on green energy, and the flow gravity and water. The other side runs by standard fossil fuels. If the water flowed inside the house, the water could accidentally flood the house of the patriarch. The family of green as a group decided, they would dig a whole that leads the underground river, so that the water would not flow into the patriarch's side of the duplex. This was a family of group decisions, while the other was based on the decision of one. Culturally, this was to be expected; the patriarch came from the deepest of the Southern part of the United States. The ones that liked green energy had been lived for many years in the California Republic, only visiting Tennessee in order to visit with family.

The green family had one daughter, who slept on a hammock; she wore a green tee shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of green wooden clog slippers to bed. She would at times complain about how their living room smelled like fish. This was because there was a deep pit, surrounded by glass walls to keep the flowing water out, in the middle of the room. But for the most part, she benefited from the constant supply of electricity that she came to take for granted. Her neighbor, around her age, lived largely with the opposite situation. He would constantly lock his door to protect himself from his dictatorial father, and there would be constant power outages do to the overbearing government regulations on energy usage. This meant, at times, the patriarchs family having to rely on cold cereal for dinner, instead of pancakes and bacon.

The boy slept on the floor, largely because his parents could not afford a bed. But he had his own methods of communication under the nose of his parents. La Belle de l'Verte famille would sometimes talk to him by Styrofoam cups, connected by a line that reached a same cup on the other end. She spoke of how back in the North West, she had known a friend whose family had came from Indiana. When she would ride the air-rail bus with her friend, her friend noted how sometimes, it seemed like the bus would time a brief dip in the Indiana shopping mall district, an urban sprawl composed largely of millions of micro shopping malls; soon the entire state would be a giant shopping mall. For Belle, she would note how the scenery would melt into the visuals of this shopping mall.

Then when they finally reached the shop, suddenly the scenery would revert back to Los Angeles. And how they didn't quite have the same kind of technology here. The boy on the other end, would always be fascinated by such stories, and wondering why there indeed wasn't such technology here. Instead, he mainly kept a laptop, as a gift from his parents. Here, because of his parents restrictive demands against using the network, made from himself a sneaker network composed of groups of different thumb drives, exchanging messages at school. He didn't have worry about social steganography while on the wire, because the only social network was a homemade one, composed of the urban underground within Chattanooga.

His friends nicknamed him Sputnik, because of his love for Russian media, instead of the state run media. Exchanging thumb drives with his girlfriend neighbor would seem a little off to his overbearing parents, so he worked around the problem by telling her by cups, what the name of the video was on RT, and Belle would browse to this page on her home network that her parents did not restrict. In this respect, there was a certain level of unspoken equality between the two, despite the two family's large political differences.

Although Sputnik himself was just as green as Belle, although for sake of his own privileges, until he ran away from home, would not speak of his views, because he wondered whether his parents had eyes in the walls. Sputnik wanted to eventually move in with Belle, but she was unsure how her parents would feel, despite them being generally freer about sexuality; but they were more concerned about what would happen to Sputnik, and they certainly did not want harassment by Sputnik's father in chief. At night, Belle and Sputnik would exchange information about current news in the quietest corner of the cafeteria, and they would mask their words using null ciphers in order to conceal the information from the security guards that patrolled the area for those plotting any sort of disobedience. This was where the term Belle Ciphering came from.

And Vincent used them liberally.

As liberally as a green.