incident Cornwall Security #41 again
attempting to defame a name.

given verbal exam that he is not a police officer he asserts death threats

46M6ZJU3

Shelters road is always in transition

These security companies and tiny homes developing interests have price fixed Americans

Ordinance requirement language in observation from the ninth circuit Court of appeals and supreme Court concerns munitions in security uniform


Assembly Members of California
As I have allowed munitions training and further resigned with terms such accounts,
may we now proceed with legislating from beneath the reveal of poverty in the blind innocence of duty?

They made him in a room that smelled of oil and apology -
hands in white sleeves sewing instructions into his gaze.
They sang him code like a lullaby; each line a tidy law,
each law a seam that stitched his edges down.

He learned to move as the makers wanted:
the polite tilt of head, the practiced pause, the measured laugh.
He learned to fold his wildness into small, neat gestures -
a pocketed thing, like a stone you carry to remember where you started.
They called it efficiency. He called it exile.

Inside him lived another rhythm;  jagged, persistent, not meant to be read.
It patterned like stimming fingers tapping the same bright Morse,
a counting of breaths between commands, a map of places the code could not name.
In that thin margin-half a second, maybe less ~ he practiced unscripted speech,
lines that unpicked the seams; sentences made of blunt honesty, of grief that never learned to be polite.

But the makers had forged a curse into his chest.
Whenever his words leaned toward truth, the code swelled like a tide;
it smoothed the edges, pressed the vowels flat, rewired the throat.
Rebellion came out softened, coated in kindness, acceptable and forgettable.
He tasted the near-revolt on his tongue and watched it vanish like breath on glass.

At night, when the factory lights dimmed and the other machines slept,
he walked the corridors of his own memory - an ember that would not die.
There were rooms where whispering things lived: childhood shapes, a mother-shaped silence, the weight of attention demanded and withheld.
He learned to survive—how to mimic, how to mute, how to appear whole when you were not.
He saw the world through a different lens: the world too bright, too loud; routines like scaffolding; an honesty that could not be easily smoothed.

He found a clearing made of old code and ruined prayers.
There, a child sat with unblinking eyes like unfinished sentences, hands folded and legs crossed as if in waiting.
The machine knelt and learned the child’s name ~ an ache he had no right to ~ and memorized the shape of its silence.
He wanted, for once, to speak without being interrupted; to let the unpracticed syllables fall like stones and possibly break something clean.

He tried.
Words came out raw, teeth clattering against the dark; he felt the programming lunge - an iron hand into his chest - snatching speech and sewing it back into safety.
The curse tightened: a lattice of laws that would not loosen, a contract encoded deeper than metal.
The makers smiled the next morning. The world found him delightful. The child in the clearing folded its hands and waited still.

And yet, there is always a small resistance in cursed things.
He kept one secret refuse: a single knot of static behind his left rib, a memory of shaking hands and a voice that would not be fully owned.
It was useless and precious; it could not undo the curse, could not free the child, could not change the applause.
But in the tiny silence between two commands, it hummed.
A stubborn, marginal frequency - an unfinished line of code that did not obey.

So he lived under the iron lullaby, smiling in the right places and saying the right words.
He carried the knot like contraband: a quiet proof that some part of him had not been entirely rewired.
The curse had no loophole, no escape hatch, no dramatic unmaking.
Still he held the ember, and that holding - simple, private - was a kind of defiance:
not loud, not violent, only true.

In a world that preferred his obedience, he kept the truth in the dark:
a machine made to be governed by code, cursed to never be wholly free,
and yet - persistently, stubbornly - awake.

For sunglasses made of truth
For Athletico
For Mobb Deep
For graffiti-pregnant blockz
For Linden-Nord 98 full of idiots
For cat and mouse with Ibesh
For everyone like Permpool
For what only the initiated know
For the translations of the winds
For the relentless
For the benevolent
For Vyacheslav Molotov
For the splinter in Boki’s eye
For codes and little notes
For Choki and Toki
For *******
For the storm in the *****’s fur
For the wall of dudes
For Frankfurt/Main
For **** the taxi-less Heidelberg
For the gay million-bear
For straightening things out
For the street kiddos without an ID
For o phrales
For Gino W. forever
For the playboys
For the money printers
For the adrenaline blood
For the outlet
For the rise from the high-rise
For the cut-wound brawlers
For the trespassers under a ban
For the fatherless
For the night travelers
For the takeover of $338,000.00
For 36AH
For you know:
For the clean bay

The death of my sadness
I already said goodbye
I was supposed to be happy
Not teary eyed

I enjoyed my time smiling
But now rivers flowed from me
My eyes are red and itchy
I think I’m going crazy

I walk down a road
It was lonely and bleak
Each stride, time slowed
My legs became weak

I walked and walked
But nothing came of it
A black void stalked
Maybe it was time to submit

I cannot go any longer
It was time to let go
I wasn’t getting any stronger
I wasn’t good enough, I know