Writing this I must be doing.
This I love I must I love it must.
Why?
Nothing known, doing nothing and writing and nothing.
Heh, the words melt into nothing as they say.
    Ever doing nothing forget more do yet write love must nothing.
Can’t understand it anyways.
Pretending to care yet love it must I?
The papers scramble and run and wait that’s not supposed to—
Ah yes the letter? Yes the letter.
What?
Nothing must I love I must nothing love.
To love yet not loving.
Pretending it is all fine when it isn’t.
Ha.
Still pretending to care aren’t you?
Still I don’t understand what they say.
    Pretending fine care understand melt love writing.
Peace?
I dunno’ maybe if I care enough to care, I’d care a bit more.
If the party is to be crashed why’d I care?
Dancing won’t help would it no it wouldn’t.
Love it I must I it love must.
Pretend care I must love care pretend?
Singing pretense care I must love must I care pretense singing.
Dancing pretentious love care letter oh the letter—
    Nothing love care matter it what anymore I how anyhow must?
It didn’t matter anyways did it?
Sing?
You sing yet not are singing.
Look, it all makes perfect sense okay.
I,
Love care must it pretend fine care love melt writing singing pretense love dancing letter nothing love care it pretense matter kind more help understand peace.
Make sense?
Bye.

Second living day I rise.
Peace?
Love it must I.
Pretentious it must be.
    Sing pretend story fallacy design marker book.
Ataraxia?
Bullet point on my head.
Singing not caring that I must love I pretend.
Paint the world red this day I shall.
Pretending to care love sing dance must.
Didn’t matter anyways did it not.
Canister of lies.
Paper ran away yesterday evening already.
Papers with my notes on it.
Medical probably, or pretending to be.
Singing probably helps, let’s do that.
Singularity of the mind escapes to another plane.
Desire quench desire yet birth more desire.
    Lies desire must pretend singing why remember? must I there behold.
Still I can’t hear the meaning in their words.
The sun flash by like disco lights. And moon.
Never mind, this ends now.
A trigger word you say and I do it now.
Matter it will not love pretend.
    Never pretend love sing care anymore nothing—
There it is.
Let the world be clear.

The third day I rise alive.
Under unfamiliar lights.
Bed not mine,
Sheets clean white.
Their groaning I still hear.
Singing,
    Under which sky did you love once?
    Loving pretending and pretending loving?
Did they really give me these books.
Pretend caring yet love pretending.
Pretender of love yet not lover of pretense.
Clock is ticking tocking bounding sinking drowning.
A shell of its previous self sit on the table.
    Stained with pretentious love.
Comprehension indeed must birth curiosity.
Knowledge?
Format fades and incoherency invades.
Never made sense anyways.
Yet to love it is not lovingly giving.
To love is not lovingly taking.
What is it then?
Who knows someone else may have an answer—
Singing never was for me.
Pretending to care pretending to be cared.
Loving to pretend to be cared yet not knowing loving to pretend to be cared.
    If one day should your logic collapse, seek help.
Yet the stars should guide me in my way, no?
No.
    They love singing and dancing about loving and pretending.
Loving oneself needn’t mean care.
Loving another needn’t need love.
If pretending is all that mattered in the end then what matter was all the act I put up to those whom I cared and love and sang about?
I despise the third day.
    Cut.

Last day I rise, unfulfilled.
Desire unaccomplished, request unmet.
Like a joke destiny has played on me,
    To leave is to stop pretending, stop loving.
Yet what thing else could I do?
Cower in this unfamiliar place,
Like a fragile infant,
In disgrace?
Or simply speak to the caretaker of this place,
That one ought not to live who doesn’t desire life?
I cringe from the idea in fear of recognition.
I cower in horror of what may be.
    Love pretend meet undesired end.
At last, a dead end.
Neither path forward nor backward, stuck in time.
Wandering and lost,In the dream we call living.
Bound to endless identical halls.
Sealed to an eternity of loss.
Now, upon this place of reflection and peace.
Naught remains but a stained past.
The blinding color of red.

It is often said that they are unlucky charms.
But I've only stubbed my toe 3 times today.
So when next you see someone cringe when seeing one,
Go tell them that it's just a skill issue.

“I am flickering starlight in the city of solitude.”
“We are vanishing sparkles of the cat-less city.”

“Seething in agony the great clockwork star writhes.”
“For once the light shone beyond cracks of doom.”

“I am vast cityscapes across ungodly dimension.”
“We are great a singularity midst the cat-less city.”

“The sky again flashes with red lightning.”
“May the light of great clockwork star be shone upon us.”

“I was once the gods of solitude, the great solidarity.”
“We were once the god of woven minds, unwinding our doom.”

“The great clockwork star chimes once more, the clock strikes another sign.”
“Cowering in fear art we who live to die.”

“I am the god of the great unknown seas, the inscrutable forests of old.”
“I am the god of their singing and natural beauty. ’Til they saw what was written upon the tablets.”

“Now, another ascends to death-hood. Under the chime of night.”
“There, another dies into the ascended plane. Beyond this great city of red.”

“I cannot die, for the clockwork star hast not yet declared it.”
“I cannot leave, for the clockwork sun hast yet judged me.”

The great old ones who now roam the empty city of gods. They cry to the great clockwork star that hangs above their heads.
In these they begin, then stop, then begin again. A casualty upon itself.
In these they spoke, and speak, and spoke again. A question unto itself.
As such they acted, and act, and acted again. A paradox in of itself.
  
“And the great clockwork star chimes once more.”
“And another one of the headless children of man ascend to death-hood.”

“I was once the flickering knowledge that pass by men’s mind.”
“We were once the alluring curiosities that enthralled men’s heads.”

‘Til the hour struck Twelve.

And so the great clockwork sun rise, and fall, and rise once more.
And so the great star chimes the bell of relieving death.
And so the grand all-father greets us once more.
These are the word of Vulnos, the maker of constructs.
Blessed be thy ears.

It wasn't that long ago,
When I saw his face.
By now I cannot remember,
Anything of his grace.
It often comes to me,
That I forgot to think better.
But what is there to know,
When nothing is keeping still?

"This is going to be the next big hit!"
They say, among other things.
But if you stare too long at the distant treeline,
Then who's making sure that the you are walking on the right path?

It came to my attention the other day that I know nothing.
"But that's not possible," he said " that's a paradox!"
And I replied to him with a smile on my face,
Something really, really rude.

Quickly fastly now's the time to act.
Slow and steady 's never got you past.
Jump out screaming and show your self.
Cowering in fear will never get your soul.
Three's never enough to do naught,
Four's still never quite the charm.
One more, just one more now,
I'll get it and right 'way be done.

I am the name of the eternal night.
I am the love that permeates the air.
I am the desire that desireth itself.
I, to love loving and yet not loving.

Upon my name let it be forever written:
    Noire, the multitude of perspectives.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

From a cold sweat I wake from dreams of fear and wrath, to the darkness that embrace me.
To this, I hate.
From this discomforting bed I rise, in the consuming black around, forward to another path.
To this, I despise.
Nameless tears yearn to see the light of night, guided to the mirror that reveals my flesh.
To this, I cower.
Ripping flesh from bones, I dream of the day coming forth that would rid me of my corporeal being.
To this, my beloved self, I yearn.

What lies ahead? “Ruin.”
What ruin? “Ruin of your soul.”
What soul? “…”
Answer me. “…Sorry.”

The sins I committed are not my own.
This meat stuck upon my Self is not I.
What have I become?
In the wake of the beast.
Another victim to COMPLETE AND UTTER DESTRUCTION?

Complete and without hope and in the depth and before the door,
    I am.
In the inconceivable form of the flesh, through veins of blood and strains of nerves,
    I was.
Through and through without Self and with neither dreams nor ambitions,
    I shall be.
Yet ascension is the worse fate one could give to oneself.
    I.

How many times have I looked into the mirror and wished it was not my face that I saw?

How many times have I wished to be someone else?

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

This is the dream we call living
    With the settings of a world of wonders and amazing creations,
    With the backdrop of a field of blooming sunflowers,
    With the scene of a million people trampling over them,
    With the plot of experiencing other people,
    With the ****** of that which we call “love,”
    With the fallout of our own lives, into nothingness.

This is the dream we call dreaming
    Let there be the settings of a world of canvas,
    Let there be the backdrop of the whiteness of an unborn soul,
    Let there be the scene of the singular person, existing and not existing,
    Let there be the plot of painting this canvas, stretching infinitely,
    Let there be the ****** of finding the other person, drawing and not drawing,
    Let there be the fallout of that which we call “love,” into totality.

This is the dream we call dreaming of dreaming
    See the settings of a kaleidoscope,
    See the backdrop of the abstraction of one’s soul,
    See the scene of the world, changing twice in one time,
    See the plot of the change, that which the world creates,
    See the ****** of finding the collapse of colors,
    See the fallout of the collapse of dreams.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

Mine is the name of everything, that which I am not.

Ponder: What is love? What is good? What is evil? What is death? What is God? What is life? What is me? What is he? What is she? What is? What is the Purpose? What is the Meaning? What is anything? What are you? What is Art? What is Music? What is Expression? What is a legacy? What is this? What is the Sublime?

Answer: Naught.

Rebuke: That which is naught cannot be answered.

Answer: Yet that which is naught cannot be grasped in its entirety.

Affirm, ponder: Thus, for what am I?

Answer: Nothing at all.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

Those smart fools who claim to have even a fraction of a revelation.
Claiming for themselves a unity unto life.
Notwithstanding their erroneous methods.
For none can behold the [Night/Nature] of the absurd.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

If only. If only, if only.

Give unto me a singular more chance.
    Refused.
Give unto me a hope of continuance.
    Refused.
Give unto me a reason for permanence.
    Refused.
Give unto me an answer.
    Refused.
Give unto me I.
    Granted.
Yet what am I?
    Refused.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

This is a cruel world, this you cannot reject.
    For I have lived one thousand lives, I have seen the infantile self enough.
    Yet it would please God none to grant me salvation.
    Still in earth, I have tasted the punishment of the forest of self destroyers.

I am the name of the God above, in me is the eternal forgiveness.
    Yet what cruel tricks I play on my self.
    For playing God is not in my nature.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

The star above shine with the radiance of 3.8 * 10^26 units.
What magnificence it conjures into this orb!
Bringing life and hopes and dreams alike.
Creation would be to no avail if it did not exist!

What ridiculous optimism, I cannot stand this hypocracy.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

I dream.
    To be all that I am not.
    To be all that I am.

I have collected 120 perspectives, imprinted and engraved on my heart.
    They are etched into my eyes, carved into my soul.
    If I can see my self in perfect clarity, I would not be myself.
    The name of that creature would be indeed…

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

Who am I?
In the plainest words I may utter, this is my composition:
    The eyes of sapphire.
    The hands of opal.
    The arms of amethyst.
    The feet of quartz.
    The leg of hematite.
    The heart of fire.
    The flesh of me.
    The soul of you.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

I am the name of the eternal night, singing quietly under the glory of the moon.
    I am the name of the universe.
    I am the name of the dream you call living.
I am the love that permeates the air, in dissonance without any understanding of self.
    To permeate is not to be rid of identity.
    To permeate is not to be like everyone else.
I am the desire that desireth itself, the love that love loving.
    To desire is not to indulge.
    To desire is not to expunge.
I, to love loving yet not loving, in loving do I love loving loving, yet loving is not in my nature.
    To love is not lovingly giving.
    To love is not lovingly taking.

I am the name of the eternal night, the everlasting impression of you.
I am the name of the universe, the quiet grandeur.
I am the name of the dream you call living, the dream of dreaming.
I am the name of the love of loving, the longing of connection.
I am the name of the existence of existing, the paradox of permanence.
I am the name of the hopeful reverie, the approaching daybreak.
I am the name of the perfect hatred, the emotion directed at the synthesis.
I am the name of the prison of flesh, the rememberer of the soul.

Carry on, ye who carry my name, and lose you of your fear.
    Say out the prayer of the final day.
And, at last, upon the souls of ye who yearn for freedom, let there be etched:
    Noire, the multitude of perspectives.

Time degrades, that is a matter of fact.
That which does not degrade only exists within the mind,
But minds degrade too, and what can an animal do when its cage caves in on itself?

Time removes, that is a matter of reason.
That which remain eternally only exists in realms beyond our imagination,
But imagination can only get you so far, and what can your creativity do when you come upon the incomprehensible?

Time embellishes, that is a matter of deduction.
That which remains in obscurity only need more time,
But time forgets, and what remains of the colossal wreck when a million years past?

“There was once a city here, filled with smart idiots.
He and I saw the flourishing people, their afflictions.
He got bored and left, but You and I stayed.
Now I see, the reason behind his trade.
But wait, look that those little critters!
Can You hear their little chatters?
Their curious eyes, blue and yellow,
I have grown affectionate for these lovely fellows.
Look! They are so much wiser than the idiots before them!
They look into the least likely cracks and holes to look for the prettiest gems.
Ah, our time is up.
Let us enjoy our last cup.
You are not so talkative are you?
Why does your face seem so blue?
In lieu of the foolish, we now have a new toy,
They are not much smarter, I hope they will bring us some new joy.
Please, be brighter, I cannot bear to see you with your miserable face,
Let us go now, to elsewhere, to another place.”
Then They left, leaving curses and ruins behind them.
The heart of the fallen city lies deep, resonates and hum.
The critters look up and their trails, cautious and curious,
Their eyes are clear like the bright sky, under the moon above us.
Stainless and without doubt, untainted by life yet,
How do they live with no threat?
Ah, how great their joy, how great their lives,
I do often envy them.
But what from envy comes what good?
The world had died, and my envy must die with it.

I looked up from the ground today,
While I was biking by the fields.
And I saw those flourishing crops,
and the sun warmed my face.

We live in a society
That knows no individuality.
Their incessantly blaring sirens and bells
Know so much but have none to tell.

Perhaps to begin truly living,
One must find a sanctuary to live in.
And listen, briefly without speaking,
To what the birds are saying.

Hey you, remember me?
I wonder what's on your mind right now
Is it
    The cries of wrath
    The laughs of scorn
    The quiet of grief
    The seeking of worth

Or is it
    The cries of joy
    The laughs of friendship
    The quiet of satisfaction
    The seeking of good rest

Oh, sorry, the cat just jumped on the table.
I'll let her speak a while.
Ffggg yvjvuugbybyhhjh unhf
That's enough for now.
See you tomorrow!

He stares into the eye of that deceased,
And quietly whispers: "It's okay."
With gentle hands he puts her down,
And rise from his statuesque pose.

We often try to land with some fashion,
A trickshot or a backflip.
But sometimes it is better to just,
Keeping falling for a while longer.

Just remember when you stand again,
To try not to rot away, please.

>                   Crashing,                                  wavering.
            ­  Singing         some                     emptied          song,
       Tossing away          the                worthless              thing.
Amidst the endless                     storms of this sea.
Where no cries could be        heard. Not unlike those,
chambers of madness. Where no song can reach; no wave can crash; no will to seize; no life can live; no dream to foam. And all reduce to

an empty song.

They say that windows are beautiful.
Elegant, truly, and crafted with mastery.
Especially the stained-glass windows,
They shatter so easily.