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We are born unto a crown of thorns.
Our tender skin rendered vulnerable
to self-made deities, rambling idols.
Our minds are roped and tied, binding
our thoughts with punishments.
Punishments disguised as pathways of love.

What love is brought into this world, when love is
taught by the bloodshed of others. What people
are created with love made from threats
of searing flesh? When did love become less
about acceptance and more about separating
those deemed worth and unworthy?

Gods of fear curse our world with tainted
versions of love. We are forced to our knees
before the power of an almighty being unknown
to mankind. In searching for purpose, we have forsaken
our freedom. We fall victim to the fears that numb our
brains liked "Grade A"  pharmaceuticals.

If your god is almighty, all loving, and all seeing,
why does he rule without mercy? Why does he
require full and complete submission as the only
pathway to him?

We go to war under the guise of bringing freedom.
Our politicians preach out from mountains our right
to freedom and free will. But when the votes are cast,
and the campaigns are run, we scuttle home to spread the
single most imprisoning ideological mindset to others.

Why fight for freedom,
when we give it away so willing
to a man behind smoke and mirrors?
The thoughts of a girl raised in a Catholic household, sent to Catholic school her whole life, with nothing but hypocritical beliefs forced down her throat by con artists in robes.
Austin Heath Jun 2014
Peak temperature water levels fake diagnoses white psychopaths starving hunger jingoism violence [systems that deprive us] guns entitlement shots fired accidents grief/mourning choking hazard corporate mascots corporate favoritism corporate bailouts corporate people ideology without monitor nationalism patriotism conservatives patriarchy ******-****-suicide victim silence lack of conviction religious ******* false history infant mortality job insecurity invisible hands trickle down economics union busters corporate police brutal police evil police secret police debt bankruptcy foreclosure homelessness lost confused prisoner criminal banker war preparations propaganda ballots commercials advertisements campaigns money power puppets figureheads armies genocides **** bomb gas fire no survival violence wealthy lawyers assassinations heart complications death sleep.
The Forester King (The Legend of Robin Hood)

Twas but merely a hundred years
Harold with splintered eye, wept blood, not tears
William The Conqueror of Normandy, had battles won
As old Saxon Danes were badly out-done
Their fight for survival, had just begun

Enslaved by Norman Earls, Barons and Knights
After the death of Hereward The Wake, in fights
The Saxons were treated simply as serfs
Diminished in strength, morale and nerves
Their courage was now on its final reserves

Like Romeo and Juliet, two lovers barely met at all
Joanna, daughter to Saxon Sir George of Gamwell Hall
And William Fitzooth, son to the Norman Baron of Kyme
Joannas father, saw their union as a crime
Yet it was to late, to prevent love in its prime

They married in secret, soon producing a son
Yet presently were left with nowhere to run
Soon, Sir George had tracked the eloping lovers
In Sherwood Forest, was soon to discover
His daughter, as a married maternal mother

Bursting with forgiveness and new-found proud
Stood proud, as his grandson lay peacefully at his side
Sir George, forgotten now his anger of before
This was the birth of 'Robins Lore'
To take from the rich, and give to the poor

Richard the First, came to the throne
Bishop Ely ruled, whilst the 'Lionheart' was gone
On various campaigns
Whereupon many an enemy was slain
Richard the cause of his enemies bane

The kings evil brother John, without just reason
Accused Bishop Ely, of treason
This 'Sceptered Isle' now without a crown jewel
As John, became the Prince of mis-rule
A man savage, selfish, wicked and cruel

He appointed Sheriffs to keep good order
At a price, they would soon turn marauder
One became Sheriff of Nottingham, by the Forest of Sherwood
And thus heard tell of Robert Fitzooth, the Earl of Huntingdons' good
That the Earl, was in fact, Robin Hood

Earl Robert, was to be married on the morrow
To Lady Marian Fitzwalter, his heart to bestow
On the eve of this merry event
A feast at Locksley Hall was meant
Disguised, the Prince attended, John the miscreant

Sir Guy of Gisbourne, in the name of Prince, and falsely of king
Before the final vows, were about to begin
Declared the Earl of Huntingdon, an outlaw in truth
Was also Robin Hood, as well as Robert Fitzooth
By his own confession, there-in lay the proof

Maid Marian, to Arlington Castle, went she
To reside with her father, for security
Robin meanwhile, rode to the green wood, with arrows and swords
To await the Lionhearts return, from his fighting abroad
No longer then, would Robin be outlawed

He sought justice, and an end to discords
Caused by the cruelty of Barons, Bishops, Sheriffs and Lords
A plain yeoman of Locksley, now was he
He suffered not, from false vanity
Yet men of Lincoln Green, elected him king of Sherwood Forestry

From Sherwood Forest, Robin continued the fight
To protect the innocent, and defend what was right
Alongside him, a loyal band of warriors brave
Such as Little Jon Naylor, so skilled with a stave
Would willingly fight Prince John, or any other knave

Robins laws, were moral and well refined
To aid those whom suffered cruelties, so unkind
His men were sworn, to fight for the good
to help the poor, orphans, and in widowhood
And to swear to harm no woman, no matter whose side she stood

The day cane for Robin and his men to part
Upon the brief return of King Richard The Lionheart
He joined Robin and Marian, thus they were wed
Within a few hours the Lionheart lay dead
Prince John became king, and after Robins head

Yet Robin in disbelief, ignored the warning
Unsure of whether, he should be in mourning
Little John, oft warned Robin, of the vengeful King John
Aware of the fact, that Richard was gone
With the help of the Sheriff, on Robin they were to set upon

By the time Robin realised the reality of it all
He was entombed in a turret encompessed by a wall
Luckily a rusted window bar came loose, a hundred feet from ground
He blew his bugle horn (won at Ashby-de-la-zouch) Little John echoed his sound
Thus Robin escaped, badly injured, was for Scarborough Fair bound

After a brief adventure, and fighting pirates at sea
(During which time he used a pseudonym of fisherman Simon Lee)
Robin joined Marian and Little John at Kirkleys Nunnery
The Prioress, Robins own aunt, agreed he should be bled
Treacherously, after his fortune, she wanted him dead
He was finally buried, where an arrow fell, fired from his death bed.
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
the world’s so unpredictable
so different, difficult and uncomfortable often
that I wish everyone were like me
just like me, or better still, exactly like me…
you’ll see, this is the only solution, logically –
beyond the shadow of a doubt, as many are inclined to say,
which expression in itself I find so inconvenient …

you see
because you and you and you are not like me
it all becomes such a waste
with all the negotiation and adjustments
and time spent and funds depleted
in persuasion and information campaigns

but just imagine:
if everybody were like me
and I had to attend a meeting
and of course everybody had to attend the meeting
how convenient and efficient  and quick that would be
cos it’s all just
me, me, me and me
and yet more me, me, me, me and me…
Indeed need we hold meetings at all?
since it’s all me? Just me?
Cos if you are me, and everyone else is me
in my Brave New Me World,
all me know what each me thinks
and wants, than we need not meet me
and one me wherever one is can initiate,
conduct and finish the me meeting…
You get me?

and think of it on a national scale too…
if everyone were like me,
exactly like me –
so that all we have is
me, me, me and me
and yet more me, me, me, me –
imagine the nation in all its simplicity and convenience;
there’d be no need to argue with me
because me agrees with me
and me is one religion, me is one will, one thought,
one language (gibberish, but still one language)
and everything in the nation
will just have to be planned for me.
Simple:
satisfy me and satisfy all
for it’s all me…
for me is the Nation

I leave it to you
to think more of this Me Nation
(or do you need some animation?)

And that silly United Nations -
do you think if everyone were like me
or better still exactly like me,
do we need to have all these delegates and dignitaries flying around
(and sometimes shoes flying too)
and eating half the UN funds in dinners and perks and sightseeing?
Oh, think about it –
if everyone were like me
just as in the Me Nation
you won’t have all this waste in Me UN…
You don’t even need the UN;
just Me is enough
the Me UN…


And what about the world?
have you thought about it?
with me all over the world
and if everyone in the world
were me, me, me, and me and me –
you know, a Chinese me, and an Indian me,
an American me, a Russian me
black me, white me, Christian me, Muslim me, Hindu me,
or atheist me - whatever me is, all is -
and so on
native me and foreign me
just me, me , me, me, me
(Oh, I just love this me!)
everywhere me
and then if I were the President of the world
which I will surely be
cos every me will choose me
cos everyone will want me to be the President
and with President Me
no one will disagree
and there’s no waste
and the word will be so pleasant –
cos I’m no *******
(will me want to hurt me?)
And everything will be so easily arranged
and every me will be in a happy world society
as me is the best me to become every me
One me will be the same as me
and me happy is all happy
And President Me need not worry about
Opinion Polls and votes and what the people want
and President Me need not give lies
and Me People need not listen to ****
cos it’s all just me,
me, and me -
and as if I don’t know what I think,
and what I want, and as if I’d want to kick my own ****
and so it’ll be a Presidency where everyone will be happy
because all things are made for me and planned the way for me
and it’ll be a perpetual everlasting Presidency
for with everyone like me, everyone being me
it’ll be always me coming
new generations or old or dying or single moms and dads
always
me, me, me and more and more me, me, me, me
for perpetuity

and so how about you, what do you think?
Wouldn’t it be all more efficient
and the world a better place
if everyone were like me?
No, no…I don’t mean like you!
Not like you, but like me, me, me,
me, me, me, me…
What do me think?
But since you are like me, you are me
I don’t need to know what you think
*Me no need to know what me thinks…
Joshua Adam Jul 2015
This is a short poetic/politic statement. Those in power understand that the pen is mightier than the sword. Where is this pen located? Somewhere between my tongue and two lips. When the words I speak are met with much public approval; that is power. So if I want to maintain my power in the eyes of "My Public" I am going to give your ears what I know they want to hear. Having absorbed all this, you'll be able to better understand the context upon which this article was written.

What the politicians do best--- Courting World Opinion

News is used to justify their views
Understanding political objectives
Controlling minds with disinformation
Letting us think everything is under control
Ending all major offenses on a positive note
Allowing for personal agendas to be camouflaged
Reinforcing a supremacy and will of might, that once (upon a time) really existed

Winning all of their objectives, in the marketplace of world opinion
Attempting to represent the people, having been promoted from rank of attorney
Reinventing the theory of a believing public, despite years of promoting misinformation campaigns to pursue hidden goals
When will the world go BANG!
Julian Sep 2020
I famigerate without taciturn timidity the straits of a straightened jury-rig of nesiote narrowbacks harping the accordion zest and zeal of the plenilune consuetude of a scrivello infamy sprung into the rows of rip-tide acclaim hamstrung by the decline in fastidious upkeep of the timberlask vesicles that avoid the phenakism of prismatic reformation fundamental to transmogrified simpers of dismal saturnine darkness encroaching on the parallax of realms within the dominion of the Almighty for the omniety of the usucaption of the fruitful prune in the priggish afterglow of a noontide eclipse bereaved of whispering retreat in the hallowed wasms of stiltanimity becoming an entreaty to ecumenical barbs of propriety selected without intimacy to folksy bibliopolists but rugged in sterling tribute to the true vine of the appointed ways of sacerdotal triage among a roughshod vanity of a derelict world marveling at otiose rejoinder rather than true spasms of tragedy flickering in the recessive alleles of a careworn culture. The travesty of Beirut is the bromide of current leapfrogs of sentinel lust and malapert destruction forming an ironclad camaraderie with chocolate-box langlauf disasters wed uxoriously to the penury of the brackish version of the catadromous bailiwick of despotic nescience pregnant with sophrosyne redemption at the cusp of a plaid perfunctory quip of quisling intimations of the sketchy provenance of humdingers of comestion lurking in the plodding prowl of a ribald wiseacre of a beckoned billow of trinkochre welded into a conscientious blarney that awaits the popinjays that sculpt brittle redshort fictions into awakened carapaces of a limacine reduction of impoverished fulmination into the neatly sworn footprints of a geotaxis shuddering with magnetism only in spectacle without the overhailing zeal of vintners who specialize in curtailed wine drawn from Caiaphas and soaked with the muddy turgid Siloam as avenues toward the repentance of asunder becoming marginalized as a whimper of taciturn choleric war receding not even into an audible delope as the masterful chryselephantine assault of cryptic auditions in the theater of effete refuge sink into the pelagic oblivion of a remarkable blister festering into inconsequence as the rebarbative emoluments to tattered travesty hearken a battle-cry yet emanated in the reprehensible bulwark of the gerendum of a poised plastered humility aggrieved with such friction turgid on rollicking magpiety that even the larceny of brutish renegades of triumph sink beneath the brevity of accident rather than the fortitude of globalized turpitude weakened by the improper demarche of fuliginous homeless depredation of innocent bystanders flocking to the harvest of war found in insight rather than the perfunctory bromidrosis of the macroscian enmity of hidden maleficence spawning a credenda that is spayed on arrival in the faineant zoolatry of a spelunkers’ madcap dash to flex the filigrees of turmoil in resentment of the amicable truces of a God who never tempts and a lurking lie that never itches for trigger-happy hapless rebukes because the skittish skirmish of futilitarian repose is a scoundrel of the profligacy of errant weakness blinkered by the humdrum din of deafening semaphores of provocative thornbush on the threshing floor of cowardly imposture president of all affairs of spirit and all renegades of caitiff megalography of forgotten oblivion despite the curglaff of vindictive and never vindicated assaults on the integrity of the birthright of Lebanon to wager a presumptive gamble of trifling retribution for the alacrity of suspicions eloping with forbidden mistresses in the humdingers of flackey rather than the troudasque harbinger of a lunacy impugned by a restive triumphant fallow time seasonable for a litany of pretenses demassified for a liturgy of seances with eldritch commiseration in the saw-toothed serration of selachostomous bravado wielded by likely or unlikely culprits of ravenous ruin shepherded by the guilty cardinal sins of the complicity of explosive vanity marauding on the ruins of a fortress debased by pettifoggery of internal excuse rather than the wrath of provocative ire in the irksome cauterized wounds of the inured to deliver spectacular reticence despite such grievous diacope. Evil gilderoys of maleficence carve the sapwood of the periphery to aimless subversions miscarried by the modern atrocity of glamour memorialized as a sound-byte underminnow of a roaring rhombos rip tide as stocks wavy at the curvature of edgy demarche despoil the denuded wasteland of cultural despondency a wagtail to the impudence of famigerated affronts that deserve a sterling recompense wielded by the onerous and operose burdens of a prone decubitus of aboriginal bread seeded from Heavenly realms dissipating into the roars of blinded conflagration too meek to even exist on the ramshackle hillside of a barnstorm of aggression powerless to encapsulate the nexility of unspoken allegiance to destruction rather than the halidom of consecrated marriages balking at the caulked provisions of a slugabed monolith of craven capers on the recesses of abeyance in the interregnum of a time where famous people communicate with me. How can such a charismatic bravado of lurking presidency stoop to the denizens of usufruct in licentious latitudes on the outskirts of consideration even pretend anymore that the vacuum of effluvium (Gal 6:7) can be mocked and milked into the row of centuries blistering through the calenture of apprisal and heaved awakening as the zephyrs of the Occident meet temporal juncture with the coenesthesia of a hibernating trumpery formed by the turnverein of listless lethargy billowing through fumiducts of siphoned lavaderos of hypogeiody that the underground spasms of cacophony could marvel at the historic emergence of a magnate with the most powerful magnetism of God shepherding the true flock John 10:27 because he is willing to be the good shepherd and potentially die for his sheep John 10:11. Remember, whenever you hear a Queer Studies Radical Feminist bloviate on emasculated sardanapalian posture John 8:44 and even though personified as a masculine titan of bulwarks of immense otiose wilted inkburch shielding the world from true meaning, the maskirovka of the Devil is present in the dark trespasses of personal abandon among the wilderness of many marsupial jackals of martles wagtails to an invictive proclamation of invulnerable sappy sopanaceous filibusters against hefty sinew forged the bony fragments of the charnels lost to brief epitaphs never mourned in threnodies worthy of remembrance that the departed died with us and live again through us whether in Heaven as participant or on Earth as an acting battalion of the skullduggery of the mystique of shimmers of God acting on Man’s behalf 1 Col 1:15-16. That the firstborn of all creation obtains supremacy through the finalisms that I seek as the captain of trailblazing untrammeled roads we are reminded of the narrow and wide gates expanded by the explosion of thought that trespasses into the hidebound ratchet of a reasonable bleat becoming a harsh outcry of justice for Lebanon that they feel so powerless in implosion what could aggrieve potentate civilizations to the precipice of global maleficence in destruction. Swarming for alveolate hominid hominism as an outgrowth of alienation by design polarized spectral dangles at jaundice flamestun by the ordeal of oppositive barnacles to the chryselephantine habituation of a masked menace of Procrustean authority to muzzle the free license of armamentariums of a latent man keen to the kenspeckel visibilia that we might have punctuation in the poised primiparas of a hearkened unprecedented in modern history that the traipse of lapse is no longer the tenure of mindless calculation of authoritarian gabble sentries of a mobilized fleet of embodied human ignorance but a foisted sprite of whangams of apothegm that deserve in their gnomic respite from the phenakisms of a philogeant kumbaya assertive in its treony of radical compassion for those who dwell in tentpoles of revelry bound not to the covenant that sent us into light and sparkling in hidden obsolescence that the fulgurant words of Mount Horeb (Sinai) are both immaculate and without trace of sin because Acts 17:30 declares a powerful truth lost to the twinges of time that issued peremptory governance of my theology but through remission I admit the grievances of septiferous blockades of ponderous plodding nescience haunting the spectral aubades of paeans to a high-flown sun darting through galactic space apace of the velivolant sails of divine wind that come in the spree of recompense authored by the vines to which all roots belong rhizogenic and immutable because the demarches of time forget the marches against the cauterized grime of new-world suspicions of aleatory fickle gubernatorial proclamations that issue reverb more than sprinkle flanged atrocity in the sight of the holy ramparts of an active double-edged God who reminds us of our many witnesses but provides not a single latchkey of escapism resident to many hapless homes of the drunken sing-song rhapsody nullifying the psychotaxis of the motatory miserly Draconian charades of Leviathan grasping the tridents of warp-speed revisionism in a benighted world overrun by mandarist fictions that fumigate a pasteurized control of cultural malcontent in situations of dearth infested by the concentration camps of China that remain unheralded in brumal and brutish indoctrination spared from worldwide outrage by the tribunes that are complicit more in malfeasance than they are celebrated for the herald of heinous bletcherous crimes of abecedarian abligurition anointed in waste rather than refined like unquenched slakes of eternal water so that no man can thirst hungry for the daily bread without returning to the providence of God awakened. Recalcitrant by the impudent quislings of repugnasket flarmeys of advenient flummoxed besieged clairvoyance I bask and beaze on the light that never fades because of the brackish whisk of a barnstorm of allegiance that is contumely to a bromide society listless in inferiority of intellect to my former streaks beyond jejune reiteration of the Jehu mentality against the canine fate of Jezebel and her faltered ministry of ewnastique waged as battalion gore of a trifling musket of an aboriginal swim through the oceanic gaze of peerless eternity squirming because of flagging resolution among the spandrels of incommunicable largesse lolloped extravagantly not just for the spoils of hyped pedigree but also a chamade to Heaven to enlist the purblind vestiges of a crambazzled Earth rejuvenated in adolescent esprit rather than callow eclat against the outrecuidance of whimpered miserly conscientiousness that exists in a shorter frame of reference than the provident dashes through a furlough of time and ancestry to cobble together a lapidary bristling excoriation of the tumescent squabbles of mystique brave enough to rarefy the humid pasteurization of a mannequin kenspeckel still-frame jilt of jostled infamy brusque in its curt envies borne of still-born promenades of a whasper between the youthful ligony and the intrepid soul of a collective warrior debased by the adscititious participant to elegant effronteries of the newfangled intellectual vogue that is the grombang of the tralleyripped hamshackle of ostentation meeting mirrored paralysis in sheepish ewnastique creations meddlesome in their ironic frizz of recursion as I lounge on the habits of creation by intelligent lurches of design that appointed the demarcations of all creatures and the mysterious bridge between the missing links that remain elusive to the flombricks of the misery of epigenetic rhizogenic imparlance of desuetude cringing at foresight littered with the disaster of ravished hindsight blushing at the limpid degeneration of the vapid varnish of benighted ligony rather than heroic strides of stoic-epicurean compromise in the apolaustic pursuit of the one eternal God present in rebellion but never the temptress of mendacity and mendaciloquence because the tug I have on speed is ratifying a cauterized casualty in the spumid betrothed wicked snuffs of extinguished furor for a time beyond barnstormed racloir rugged origination and faulty phenogenesis that escorts mythos into actionable litanies of the awakened breed scoffing at the inkburch of “Electrolytes”-wernaggle that besets the queer fascinations of a warped generation. The pytherian swank of artrench embodied in the recocted rendevation of hypetrophy in hubris swaddled by the reductive dranger polluting the realm of compliant complicant complaints of the ashowel of albatross astroud in the hibernaculum of langlauf rather than the ultramontane fiduciary tether to the estrockentch rather than the laureates of plevisable courage found in truest shades of vinsky not the subhastation of a gaslighted galvanization of purebred classy swivels of opportunism nor the ravenous incubus appetite for usufruct in subversion belongs to the behest of an insular nesiote flexing the flux of subversion as the candid posies of saccharine immodesty become relegated figments of the everlasting age of promised propriety rather than rigid stultimathy of hackencrude virtues of virtuosos that marvel at troudasque wonders occluded by the girlcott of Team Biden and his militarized soldiers of desiccation of trumpery and the faucets unbounded by swanky concealed epithets of regaled rentgourge by a hapless objection of the runic destruction of apothecary leniency becoming of the betokened emblazonry of scrimshank in every perfuncturation but embodiment of character shouldered by every chasm of power erected in demolition of the warped egintoch radicalism of the submerged wernaggles of the hopeless minority swimming with autodimplage few have to bear but the truest flock of God heeds my voice and has the sapience to spare themselves of contumely and invective to hearsay of invictive triumph beyond radioglare swirk to renege the musical providence of the chamades to the asterongue I often take for granted by immunifacient degrees of the foretold encroaching upon the crux of a pivotal and pivoted destiny not distant from cordial providence. The sweedle of epigones for the risctender of obligation to subvert the coryphaeus with the rigmarole of gentincture borrowed from the Gates’ formulaic effleck of perverse warbles of collectivized contrition for abetted cultural pederasty limpid in its achieved objective of the crudenzy borrowed from a lacking impediment to arentrum belonging to the knowledgeable happenstance of the glorified dengonin is a denostram that forestalls the agelasts behind porsters of culture rather than legitimate mainlined contamination of wellsprings of fliction of paranoiac enthusiasm might swim in kinkativy blinkered blind piebald girouettism but never dauntless in sematic entrenchment of robust dilettantism as the swaddled corrugation of time into centripetal ****** against centrifugal modernism that alienates propriety while estranging by vacuous vacuums the outspoken progeny of the surviving age beyond the Jay and Silent Bob travesty that manifests as a glower of menacing Bushian invention to tarnish with ****** mythos the drapes of a defenestrated realism of the flinkers of sheepish indignation against many drakstings of intonorous sclerotic mandibles of crackjaw chockablock annihilation of core precepts and institutions indelible from the face of a quixotic entreaty of a ragged intrusion of ageotropic monoideism above the secular-clerical fidelity of honest witness borne of triumph and tribulation festooning the nativist hyperbole into a useless effigy of mountebank imposture silly in precision and purblind to gallantry. Yet I must kisswonk rather than truckle under such ponderous pretense because of a sertivine certainty in the thickets of prudence rather than the tomfoolery of humgruffin impudence scaffolds me to a post-modern ****** that shanks through prisons of guilt and burrows an interrogation of reality supreme over all complaint that the virtuosity of the Gifted (the elect flock that comprehends my volcanic diatribes against mandarism and stomachs them without sardonic pastorauling insults of passerby vicissitude) will spare many nations of awakened perjury against human instinct in the fitness of nations to denigrate the populist squalor of lurid and livid ewnastique wernaggles of the listless buttress against my formal modesty encouraged in all affairs even in aggrieved humility belonging to intimidation rather than spawned jostles through the rumpus of shunamitism that might rankle a later age.  Yentrified morality is a personal flapdoon against the promiscuous pederasty of freewheeling ophelimity and the lurking narquiddity of the traindeque of donnist hedonism to hijack my psychedelic tolerance into an unwarranted and inadvisable sanction into the netherworld of the frinterans of cultural modality that curdact religion into a cosmetic cosmogony rather than a soldiered infamy becoming a beacon on a towering hill growing in solidarity with the pleonasm of existence itself which surpasses crude formulas that already abide by the riches of decorum too much to be admired as trigger-happy fools run the asylum of domesticated irony and the librettos to downfall rather than the wassails of “The Man” becoming more masculine in featured charisma rather than defiled against Leviticus among others who preach belonging to nuclear creed without fission but for true rapprochement to the fusion of the treony with legitimate gripes of unsung complaint among the masculine minority. The traindeque of a baseline complaint aggrieved by the kilmarge carapace of stiltanimity for the hackencrude resentment of the inkburch of illiteracy is a profligate degeneracy lurid in hyped enmity that the envied entreaty becomes the despotic shadow masquerading in shadows blossoming into the full wisdom of the mature sophrosyne heart eager to pour out blessings upon a conservation of recycled epitaphs becoming hearsay in a rebarbative convolution of redacted rigmarole incendiary to whittled henpecks of political engineering but never vapid in their flagging insistence upon an ecumenical toleration of the brooks of modernity and compromise upon which much felicity is aggrandized and permuted against the spoilsport frinterans who encage a dodgy moralism in wilted etiolated jaunty pedigree that espouses the maudlin grievous and ghastly ghouls and sprites that haunt the fictional hobgoblins of the Potemkin Village that finds usury convenient and perjury even more facile for the glib facetious engineers of modalities of hatred unsung by the ribald witwanton “I got a Solution...You’re a ****…South Carolina What’s Up” crowd that never marvels at ingenuity or rarely attempts it in the summit of the climacteric jaundice of hidebound whemmles of ridicule sparring against spartan flagitious wiseacres of genocide of ideation for the revelry of armed missives denatured by raw promotion of the questionable ethics of a flavork of needed slakes of unquenchable desire swarming us with daily temptresses not of wayward women but the disarmed pretense of a lapidary rejoinder to a long expatiation or harangue against hackencrude curdles of rowboat injustice masquerading as sentinel savory destruction of the towering edifice of proclamation. There is great menace in the casuistry of sophist philogeant philocubists dicey with destiny for mincemeat puppetry against sciamachy for the gallionic rise of gammadions in the craven lore of baseline pasquinade rallied to the insuperable causes of tribal shibboleth anointed by secular totemisms of fracture and fricative hisses of lineage that amount to pleonasms of brassage rather than mystagogical mystique of the prestige of human fraternity that shatters paradigms of creed and invites an honest vestige of Noble Savages to roam the Earth yet again unencumbered by lugubrious welters of misnomer and malapropism wagered by artifices of guileless supremacy that is cursory prima facie neglect of even the sororal duties not of sophomoric glib facetious cowardice of backbited backlash of venom militarized for the desuetude of entertained visagists sculpting *****-nilly their version or verdict of decisive apartheid when we should all rally behind the united frontier of the chosen flock in the chosen generation to truckle beneath the pews not of ignorance aggravated by the polluted kilmarge egintoch puritan barbs against publicity choices I now regret (as an emolument to an incredibly euphoric track with a poor miserly message to the enchanted flock inoculated from such diversions) because alighted upon the quenched thirst of salvation I will be judged more harshly as a teacher James 3:1 than the rest of my flock but gifted with the gratuitous salvation carved from the chiselers of ribald infamy capering around with dacoitage and ladronism of the bomans of unsuspecting quixotic caprice I must reckon with the burden of ghoulish shadows on the spectral imprint of my eternal soul relishing in vicarious splendor yet bereaved of quintessential love 1 Cor 13:4 that is necessary for the nuclear conclamation of vibrant hues of resplendent and refulgent providence necessary not from a dynastic perspective but from an aimed providence that alerts dynamism rather than chides with mimes of useless schadenfreude carved from the prestidigitation of the wicked condemned in Galatians 6:7 for the mockers of sanctanimity accorded upon me as gratuity that no man can boast my elite ears and my astute wonderworks of imagination qualified me for prophecy and among the most mesmerizing prophecies registered to fulfillment that the world has ever yet witnessed because the watershed isn’t a bridgewater for the chavish of ignoramus hatred congealed into thrombosis but the narrowed gate enlarges to encompass the swath of man amenable to the flocks that escort me into permanence rather than regale the tridents of a hedonism that elected me clairvoyant at a cost of immaculate splendor registered to the holy clergy of the Sacred Catholic Church and the broader Ecumenical Endeavor that tries to be a seamstress and bridge elemental divides inherent to divided approaches to liturgy which flex their strengths in times of robust fortitude rather than become a subhastation to the vestiges of the pilgrimage to false tabernacles erected by people cozened into charlatan endeavors by the pernicious and persnickety whiplash of Least Common Denominator subversion of widely heralded sentience and sapience enriching the lot of human ambition rather than stoking useless conflagrations of refracturism accorded to the swallock of primposition of the hackneyed hackencrude that swivels with the odious ornery pretense of overtures not to apertures and lychgates of the true abiding Heaven felt on Earth by many Christians whether in sobriety or not without the evil maleficence of a misguided donnism of narquiddity for the grambazzles of aged recklessness aborning on vacant responsibility that is rickety in its magnanimity of absolution because of the ulterior chase for bottom-line top-dollar oligochrome foisted by the cartels that blind true spiritual insight from ever reaching the magnitude of ambition required to shape mountains of revolution among the tertiary squabbles of a conversant Earth open to the troudasque gallop into yield and cloveryield for repcrevel reforms the paludism of the swamp remains skittish about conforming to because objectivism is a renegade of perspicuous light blinkering in hubris and gourmandizing the hinderbaggle of cosmetic pollutions aggravated by the plevisable articles of envy and TLDR politics to “Electrolyte” logic that is a sad recursive wernaggle of the useless buffoonery of humgruffins of tatterdemalion spate rollicking in the magpiety of a timid consentient faltering myth of unanimity among the beleaguered rainbows of many lugubrious tears showering bickering blasphemy upon the mockery of God for the pleasantry of self-aware sheepish resignation that professes only that any form of meritocracy is existentially unfounded only because the beehive elected its progeny the scepter of the ironclad kingdom that wages war against idolatry and serenades heaven with luxury simultaneously. We are all shepherds of providence and there is power enough in collective prayer that we don’t fiddle around with bodewash in mistaken identity but riddle the persnickety blemish of the fastidious critiques of biting sarcasm as a tantamount blasphemy and a criminal repartee of sardonic cloys of inanity foisted above truth. The peevish breedbates who scour my evidentiary pillar of chiseled vertebrae of unbroken bones of solidarity with oikonisus will be sorely disappointed in their truthful audits of my true perception because in every single case it exonerates me from the pulpit of menacing idiots who scrawl random gabble in attempts to sound smart while reeking of iniquity wrought by the gavels of predevoted inferiority of complexion and attitude that gravitates them to an insensate benumbed transmogrified bailiwick of an appalling atrocity of mythomaniacal myths spurned by consensus among those who prize my grandeur above the superstitions of the illiteracy of the rancid rankle of otiose stupidity writhing its own sheepish envy of arbitrary dislike motivated by feminist aggressors waging warfare on turf I already conquered by swaying the intelligentsia to beckon my cause rather than pillory me on a false scaffold of frinteran abuses of the nyejays of bernacle that junediggle in the taradiddle of the nanciful excoriation of my leaden corpse weighed down by the witchcraft of connivance trayning its own delicate myths while avoiding scrutiny for appalling contumely that deserves an audience more suited for fracklings of treony belonging to the trinkochre of the rising alienation and suicides among perverted gay indoctrination that is a scourge on the planet because it willfully denies with its portentous hibbles the regaled wisdom of the culminated age against renegades of apostasy and for the behemoths of true monumental change that sizzles in savory circles among the vanguard only to alarm the Status Quo hijack of my entire endeavors as a covert crusade to use wrecking-ball fashion tactics to cosmetically incisively and insidiously perform a harprick of surgery upon a blameless countenance only for being a thorn to wragatek wragapole slavery which wages war against universal salvation because it gripes with inkburch and circular pleonasms about the most obvious glaring lies and feasts upon the serrated edge of the capers of hatred that frolic in meadows too skittish to enter the barbarian fortress of my forested residence robust in fortitude and glowering with a menacing contempt for runaround psychobabble that obganiates the obelisk of the moribund crusade to make normative ethics effeminate and to enthrone inviolable women’s speech as supreme to any male objections like the Cristiano Ronaldo accuser that came forth 8 months after #MeToo one of the most dishonest campaigns in modern history enthroned by Hollywood elites in gammerstang insurrection against pay-gap ethics done manipulatively with the sapwood of mendaciloquence like Blasey Ford whose physiognomy reeked of maudlin pretense that was so ornery in how obvious of a maleficence the intrepid Abortion Agenda has over the minds of selfish women who prefer ecbolic second-term abortions to the servile gripes of primiparas building new life rather than tearing down the scaffolds of new generations. Hominism deserves its rise because-in increasing numbers-men are derelicted by society and coerced into vapid tallespin enslavement that ridicules itself with the perjury of soul to the soulless vanity of recursive cycles of benumbed narquiddity found in “****** Hero” among other atrocities littering the human fascination with the hinderbaggle of our polluted age verging on totemic blistering hegemony of a few rotten apples corrupting the vagrant ingenuity of the forgotten champion who ushered in a new era of candor in the attempted interregnum of the United States government because I Am Hollywood got the name correct considering how many memorials there are to me in the movie industry. The junediggles of sc-ha-den-freud-e which is as deliberate of a German pun as JUDEn JuDEN which shows the German language is as farsighted as you can get and why many of my neologisms have a German tinge to them. German is an elegant language with botched syntax but a peerless repertoire of vocabulary and even though I love French, the Germans are smart because their language is smart not just because of petty arguments of pedigree which are specious at best. Being dontolesque with  the zenkidu of rengall nauclatic mythos is an artful degree which accords nominal prestige to licentiates while excorifying the obvious metaphors of sunblind logic that scours the scorched Earth of internet diatribes of sophistry and dethrones the Marcie Biancos of the world “Heterosexuality is officially OVER...K Bye” with her 145 IQ and a Stanford Degree in Queer Studies (A professed atheist by her own Twitter admission) with the warped logic to equate a heterosexual relationship for a woman as ******* to patriarchy. For someone that well-studied in literature she sure is a dumb-*** and I will demolish the syntagma of those that root against me for Status Quo preservation in the official interregnum of Saturdays during the Trump Presidency. We need an official referendum on the ideas of termagant illogical anti-egalitarian poison that derives from a deracinated worldview that doesn’t contextualize how powerful language is at shaping thought because if the entire world were Anglophonic every single country on Earth virtually would see immediate dividends in terms of intellectual creativity and limber with concepts and percepts because it is no accident the most successful empire in History the United Kingdom, was favored because of its shibboleths of Shakespearean creativity draped with flairs of the irreverent while gilded by God to be a majestic commonwealth. England and France monopolized a huge majority of history by no accident because although English might be a slightly keener language the French culture of salons of freewheeling intellectual enlightenment gilded the 17th and 18th centuries into absolution despite the Panglossian epithets of Voltaire who was ironically dissuaded from religion because of the All Saints Day 1755 Lisbon Earthquake and Tsunami. We need to be vigilant against encroachments of perceived shibboleths and more keen on an affirmative meritocracy that favors the poor and blesses the meek in their poverty and inspire ambition among them to join the coteries of refinement in thought sometimes harder to achieve with crackjaw lollops in pleonasmic languages that fail to articulate with nexility or forceful wit the true abstractions that govern the pataphysics of the unknown. Language is so decisive over human thought that it is incumbent upon every language to refine its vocabulary to trayne compendious verbiage and trim the hedges of global reform to invite the curiosity of the age to favor all creeds and languages of Abraham and the diverse progeny of a variegated panoply of majestic feats common to all parlance and capacity beyond just the Anglophonic snare because the world needs not a chicanery of blustering churlish buffoonery but an Almighty respect for the consanguinity of all to God’s blessed creation that he inseminated by his deliberate hands to enrich the world with diversity rather than cleave the world with piecemeal skeumorphs of radical propaganda that opposes the modern and post-modern egalitarian streak. One wrong must be corrected, however, the underrepresentation of Hispanics in the media and in film because this grave error is much more pervasive than the ******* LGBT inclusion narrative because these days the lollygags of fashionista odalisques with Obelisks to Baal get more say over the common decorum than the marginalized bronteum of the  rich and vibrant Latino culture which is squelched by the poverty of media and Hollywood representation. Synectics showcases how a henpecked aim at the synaesthesis of culture congregated around our Almighty Father blessed among the nations who adhere to the progeny of Abraham can be more blessed when working together rather than tribal with nepotism and aristocratic in sustained affronts to the elevation of affirmative meritocracy to the forefront of discussion rather than the froward backlash of benumbed narquiddity because the synallagamatic nature of complexity needs to be devolved with industrious ambition to all cultures and the savory flair of the vogue needs not merely a wednongue fascination with an eventual terminus of crudenzy but a sustained intellectual reformation on all fronts to standardize the English language through Hollywood and the Music Industry so that the dragnets of appeal etch a permanent trace into the engraved souls of the true flock John 10:27 are consecrated in divine purpose to reverse the Babylonian Diaspora of confused and conflated purpose that stunts the raltention of humane course and the proper pataphysical syncrisis of an evolved mundane temperament that transcends the circular traps of circumlocution common to the milquetoast industrial titans who winsomely charm with toady gestures the elitism of a moribund philosophy of intellectual thought delegation to elevate the common rhetoric to reach new pinnacles in both tribune and political gamesmanship because higher standards are required even when they surpass some common understanding so that every ambition becomes a conclave for the goal of human unity solidified by the truth of the kerygma and proclaimed to all creation as the culminated synclastic reformation of the idea of indulgence and the propriety of regaled moderation that appeases the common decorum with a shared vested interest in Latin America especially which is besieged by the cultural tenets of obrogated specialization and denigrated by the common myths of warped phenogenesis which should be debunked as a wasm of hypocrisy limited because its callous tentacles lack the charismatic fulgurant equipment of future generations to bear the operose burdens of a quintessential time of harmony united by the hymns for God by God to appease the sentries in Heaven and the celestial realms that exist for our merriment more than our detriment. The sprauncy have the  frikmag to recognize the spuria of apocryphal heresies that encourage kinship above matriotism and shared fortitude for intellectual valor rather than “*** talk TLDR” hashtags abounding on the turf of the insensate wernaggle of clueless charlatans wiggling through life not because they were borne into slavery but because they choose to be Helicopter Parents of “Baby Shark” rather than token mantelpieces of enlivened culture shimmering with radiation of Gods glory as cemented in Colossians 1:15-16 because the firstborn of all creation lives in some form in the ligature of Christ 1 Cor 12:12 because there are so many talents that exist in our variegated world that the mastery of expertise in dominions of conversant fluency will abet the variegated crops of a draped humanity corrugated on its own ironies for the delicate sizzle of beatific felicity multiplying itself in centupled design over centuries to overcome hinderbaggle while realizing the fictions of some drawflark. The strigine world concedes to this upstart rooster maybe considered a parvenu of dearth but luxuriant in riches boundless to all that draw near to the kerygma of Christ and feast on his daily bread found throughout liturgy because we should listen to people like Cardinal Timothy Dolan who is exceptionally astute (perhaps an understatement) to guide us on a regenerative rather than degenerative pathway towards universal attempts at salvation that broach a new decorum bridged by aliens to select chosen emissaries to bridle the fissions of repartee reserved for the forlorn that balk at ambition rather than relish a new era of seditious determination against the determinist fallacy and for the mental health of those coping with autodimplage and sheepish regrets and persnickety articles of remorse because all the world deserves our consolation and desperate attention rather than the trumpery of the circus masquerade of marauding agitprop which congeals into thrombosis of toxicity as the vast majority of Democrats refuse to even hear Trump speak when he is discussing discursive solutions to enigmatic quagmires,for, if more people listened to Trump they would be disabused by the specious claims of his misogyny and white allegiances because his candor is brilliant and despite the prominent advocacy of Biden who has considerable prestige in my memory, we deserve a bipartisan syncretism that unites the world and unifies the country away from the swerve of salacious mythos and towards a rambunctious magpiety of solidarity against the secular humanism of a defunct piety to Marxist feminism which is a crudenzy among the awakened men around the world increasingly alienated by the hackencrude of wednongue illiteracy even trumpeted by the vanguard as panacea when it is a comestible form of poison. We need visionary unity where there was once toxic divisive balkanization of exclaves of limited foresight clashing with new wave awakening to the persecution of illumination itself for not a rigid hierarchy but a flexible structure of inclusion that adjusts to cultural expectancy and modifies the traindeque that strands many in institutionalized poverty especially in Latin America and India and obviously Africa too. The stegophilists of language should herald the aubade of the chavish of redintegration over the squawk of din of squabbles of internecine redacted revisionism beleaguering our lyceums with toxic agitprop even at the highest institutions of learning who balk often at the recycled auditorium of useful thought because their venal tilt is complicit in squelching freedom of thought and our schools should open early so that zig-zag-zoom politics around feldtrounds who are eagerly outnumbered by the patrons who police thought become agentic not with outspoken treacheries but inseminations of intimation to hint at the spectral mystagogical reality we are all members of despite hurdles that beset the hemiteries of odalisques who seek inertia rather than mobilization. The ribald underminnow of transparency is a carcinogen of the rampant siege of Status Quo coarse hypocrisy for tentative flings with cadged cloyed saturnine professions of the landmines of atrocious miscarriage as I soldier on in the causes of the poor and the forlorn to become enriched by the glory that God delivers with munificence so that all might be enriched by the emanations of the true vine and in distaste of error I rebuke the armada of belittled armamentariums of the cantonment of deep-state breedbates boiling over potboiler frikmag that exists as a transcendent obscurantism flowering in decisive times to warp the contextual footprint of a life served in the service of all the oppressed people as a kind of Moses figure raised by the elite and fighting for the criminally oppressed and the ****** of mediagenic hyperbole is dissatisfied by my glowering spectacles because they dismount from the equipoise of the righteous gallop towards ecumenical solidarity at untimely punctuations of juncture superseding the flictions of frikmag dethroning my righteous valor and provident sanctanimity to prowl like predatory wolves the fathers of the casuistry of mendaciloquence to accentuate the stridor of inopportune squalor of the selachostomous regimes of teetotaler totalitarian freebooters who prevent bootstraps from manufacture as they gradgrind the world into ergonomic insufficiency while I provide a Kamacho-like galvanization to the broader world that favors the consanguinity of all animate sentience to the aboriginal vine of the universe that plays with the toyed cadge of oppositive support but lends credence to a more evolved view than the crudity of encapsulated travesties inserted with jaundice against the lyceum of freedom of thought and the celerity of headless horseman galloping in partial interregnum to crown the strobic stridor of the stiver of the steven of contarianism engineered for walloped ringleaders of the renegades of heresiarch sedition in their odalisque oaths to Pagan dieties carved from the sapwood of gullible Illuminati naivety that professes allegiance to the worst whangam ever invented Baphomet and his faked cronies of ewnastique free-for-all diminutive crags in the renown of dawning light becoming cagey struthious structuralism embedded in sclerotic wasms of the wanhope of a nullified message becoming a sacred creed to the attentive while the lilt of the otiose drawl in serpentine convolution a ribald pleonasm of circular circumlocution that provides locomotive linearity rather than leapfrogged slogmarches into the province of the territorial alignment of kinship against the partisan hollertrap and the stigmatophilia of obsessive persnickety popinjay beadledom the last stronghold of the rickety resistence to this Saturday interregnum which presides over the better part of the intelligentsia if not the common pedestrian parlance because hortatory weights cannot be described in any other way than metagnostic flickers of Yellow Submarine vandalism of a pristine living animation of the humane spirit that prizes the plight of the poor and the blarney and blench of unjust opprobrium faced by the institutionalized bailiwick of flictions of gammadion gallionic posture when in fact they register as seismic entities engraved upon my Christian conscience that strictly welcomes the emigrants to truth from whatever consecrated virtue they originate from because all are capable of the same light and the same compassion of a beatified humanity rather than the relish of deep-state castophrenia which belies its own ribald gay mockery on live TV as not a single twinge of ****** attraction overtakes me in matriotic sardanapalian effrontery of a hollow but sadly hallowed vainglory of the hierodules that bury the coffers of patriotism in a sad LGBTQ graveyard of landmines that demonstrate a complete disregard of the nuclear family and should be decried as an outcry against redefined Christianity bolted to unshakable irrefragable beliefs in the constitution of man and women wed together in one monogamous flesh with the occasional cuddle of close tithes to the ******* of friendship as the slavery of sin in Leviticus 20:13 falls to the wayside because this patriotic lewdness is a vapid fatuous derangement that is a new low for the United States attempt to inoculate China from religious accord with the broader world and should be seen as a Chinese maskirovka worthy of the heaviest disdain and I will disavow America if it continues to bandy the tripwires of Chinese boondoggles under the American banner and pretend its pretense isn’t lagging under its own bletcherous abecedarian elementary fallacy of psychobabble oblivion of dark saturnine brusque termagants of tatterdemalion cloaks of the selfsame illusion of a desperation of China to wreck the United States economy and inseminate Florida, Arizona and Texas especially with the Coronavirus to swing the election in Biden’s favor with or without US Complicity to expedite the course of a virus which sees no resurgence in any other civilized country in the world while the heroic Russians, Germans, Israelis, French, British and true American Christians banish the barristers of bad taste as an acerbic poison on the wellsprings of a flagitious flag I would kneel for in the knells of disgrace if the pompous and completely inoculated missives of Buttigieg ******* continue to roam shepherded by deep state elitism to wreck the opportune moment of religious revival for petty reasons of chryselephantine gambit and gimcrack for institutionalized poverty which my ambition is to heal completely by sacerdotal deeds and consecrated prayers in the Lord whose peace surpasses the temporal despair of senectitude and comforts the grievances of the aggrieved because Galatians 6:7 is no more true than the fatuous display of muscular idiots waving American flags for turpitude rather than flogging very perverse Gay men in the streets which might be a more fitting outcome even though I must remove the plank in my own eyes first to see the irony of the detested. The doytin is no longer misguided by the nanciful derision of the vociferous clangor of the venal Gates mafia militia wrecking ball vaccination Bezos crew in Medina which is a mettle I can’t match when you own every citizen in the world in a few square miles of nesiote territory the denizens of conquest besieging religious sanctity with profane outbursts of corruptible linchpins on the public lynch of the strepsis of periblebsis that vitiates commonwealths of supreme sputtering regimented clairvoyant superlative alabaster wealth of the isangelous protectorate of the supreme God that supervises his careworn flock into the storge against the scourge of prosodemic stigma stained in bleeding heart liberal bathed tears of pseudoautochiria of Jim Morrison glaring in the face of the triads that Killed Him in the French Connection ******* of 71’ that outnumbered his hobohemia of loyal jewish bohemians livid in the rhapsody of nurture rather than enfeebled by the unfurled destiny of the Soul Kitchen he foresaw to his own pitiable demise at probably the hands of strangulation because no autopsy was performed. Although repetitive Transparent is a real anthem for oracular mystagogical transcendence a mandatory hymn for the ryseolagnus of the poetic verve of a new wave swooning the cordial progressive of atmospheric oneness with the primordial vine and the vintners that congregate on populated soil to feed a desolate destitution of synoecy or synaesthesis in the syncretic rhapsody of the subfocal ageotropic plenilune yet saturnine lugubrious toil of those that shovel through the albatross of ewnastique recapitulation to the same tired “Its got what plants crave, it’s got electrolytes” wernaggle of the hopelessly dismal inkburch of illiteracy crawling like a Hyacinth House on a vacant graveyard turf guarding the legionaires of rapid-fire zig-zags through a serpentine curvature of the ligaments of fabricated space warped through prismatic lenses of aperspectival time aspiring for ventriloquial enamored rapture upon Earthly parallax with tapestries of refulgent cascading wandering wonder that meditates its own lucubration with careworn tutelage against the wasms of dying oleaginous swelters of redshort opportunistic vultures swooping with Raven’s claws against the odometer of viewership surpassing records in unspeakable wisdom that crowds out the crambazzle toonardical wreffelaxity of the tiresome nuisance of ornery brawn muscled into a formidable triage in vengeance for Jim Morrison’s scripted eviction from Earth either by poisoned ****** or by  Asphyxiation by the French Connection avenging RFK and the cultural revolutions of 67’ in Haight Ashbury and the widespread percolation of treacheries fathomed to the most obvious degree in showmanship that it bristled as an affront so severe that even the patronage of Paris wasn’t immune to infiltration. His threnodies will always be sung with Triumph that the hallowed day of a monumental soul eluding the darkness of purgatory into the welcoming aborning light of the noontide progeny of eternal ataraxia awaited him in the stagecraft tub of blasphemy bellowing ratcheted warnings that not even the palatine grasp of a potentially divine being was inoculated from the deep dark chasm of nefarious skullduggery for boasting so widely and openly of his professed foresight to glamorous to be hidden as the beacon of virtuosity that galvanized a generation to flout the  futtocks of a keelhauled vision of sanitized purblind mortality that the fear of death rarely crossed the mind of the greatest fearless poet of an entire epoch that we may pray that Jim Morrison feasts in Heaven atoned for his sins and is at peace with God now. The substratose congeniality of marginalia on the outskirts of pederasty in cultural miscarriage owned by hierodules boundless in their lurid debaucheries that they might be remanded for being custodians of hostage to a prolific nescience  reaffirming their dying posture in the extinction of sardanapalian coverthrow of repcrevel camorras of ladronism and dacoitage always cauponate in imbibed throes of lewd AstroTurf outrecuidance glowering at sanctity with a bereaved psychobabble divorced from the purebred empiricism of true giants of industry that are almost insuperable in their extortion that their darkness in deeds of Kobe Bryants assassination do not go unpunished at least in Los Angeles. His untimely death as with many others registered on the Richter Scale because Come Clean perverts from Kansas City wanted San Francisco to win to clean the mops of janitorial revenge of the subturbary rickety foundations of a flailing moral compass so wicked in arbitrage that no subreption undetected would flourish among capernoited vigilantes of poached titanism and illuminism scarring the vestiges of enigmatic encroachment upon untouchables daring the frights of the Living Daylights of scurrilous rebukes so scathing in their menacing depiction of negligent bromides of token sacrilege and scarred sacrifice of a scarecrow example of how the prosodemic scourge of befuddled turgid pristine transmogrified heralds scampered away with pseudoautochiria that afflicted Jimi Hendrix suspiciously as well. My support is behind the justice warriors aggrieved by the Beirut explosion because they deserve a vindictive outcome that quells the quislings of atrocity of the popinjay beadledom of the unspeakable tremors of seismotic popples of unrest warranted in Lebanon the homeland of Keanu Reeves a saint among men for his peerless grace and agraceries of the smog of myth evanescence becoming perdurable swings of the humdingers of berated jaundice becoming the prerogative of the revenge of a city leveled to the ground by suspicious skullduggery and I am surprised they lay dormant for this long in their protracted grievance over the ghoulish frights of one of the most unheralded major events in recent memory. We need to highlight the plight of Lebanon so that world leaders are frightened even of intimidated people tranquilized by terror rather than enlivened by the propriety of redacted rejoinders that serve the ulterior mission of a Titanic bravery that never sinks beneath the sumptuary treacle of grombang grambazzle and supercherie of the supercalendar of poignant repined repose derailing an emolument to ecumenical solidarity. Lets highlight Lebanon as an inexcusable trespass worthy of some mighty reckoning if not a riveted war but at the very least a devastated twinge of outrage.
Amanda Newby Dec 2016
Dear Self,

For you it is November 9th, 2016. Despite all odds, Donald Trump is president. Mike Pence, governor of your home state of Indiana, is his VP.

You are 17 right now. You were born into a world run by George W. Bush. You spent your whole childhood hearing your parents yelling at the tv, angry at the Texas governor in the White House.

You grew up in Obamanation. You saw months of “YES WE CAN” and “CHANGE” stickers going up, and a magnet your family still has get put onto your refrigerator. You heard your mother’s sigh of relief when Barack Obama was announced the 44th president. That was half your lifetime ago.

You spent the last year following the campaigns. You were not surprised by Hillary Clinton running again. You “felt the Bern” of the somewhat radical Independent candidate previously unknown to you, Bernie Sanders. You laughed off the wild reality tv star Donald Trump’s campaign.

Months went by. Bernie and Hillary were fighting hard leading up to the primaries. Republicans slowly started to drop out. Big names like Jeb Bush, Mike Huckabee, and Chris Christie left the race. Bernie didn’t do good enough in the primaries, which was upsetting to most of your friends, your older brother, and your mom, who all voted for him. Ted Cruz fell off, defeated, in May.

It was down to Hillary and Trump.

You followed the comments made at their rallies. On their social media. You heard a lecture about the election from Josh Gillin of Politifact at Indiana University over the summer. You won an award for an opinion piece you wrote on Trump. As the election day grew closer, you watched every presidential debate. You analyzed them in class.

Last night, you stayed up until 4 A.M. to see the results of this election. You sat through excruciatingly slow interviews, political analysis, and different predictions. You couldn’t turn away from the blue and red maps, the aggressively American backgrounds, the anxious masses.

The tired tv hosts were right, it was a nail-biter.

As Trump gave his victory speech, you wept.

You wept for the months you spent wishing this wouldn’t happen. You wept for the 1920’s suffragettes, for the descendents of MLK and Cesar Chavez, for the Orlando victims. You wept for me. The people I joined. The people who will join me.

I am dead.

You learned in your final moments that homophobes look like normal people. They are not all rednecks with beer guts wearing ten-gallon hats. They are more elusive than that. They can be dressed smart. They can have friendly voices. Familiar names and faces.

A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend killed you. Someone you live near. You might have passed them in a car. In the mall. In the school hallways. It was someone that people you knew,  knew. You probably could’ve gotten their Twitter handle if you had heard their name before.

You were killed in a city that VP Pence had once stood in.

People tried to learn about your killer. Were they someone you knew? Someone who just went crazy? Someone who couldn’t handle who you held hands with?

You were too young, the local news anchors said. Your school administration said. Your mom said.

Mike Pence didn’t say anything at all.

Your friends didn’t say much. They cried. They withdrew. They wore baggier clothes. They bought switchblades. They washed “*****” and “ladyboy” off of your tombstone. They wondered about joining you, voluntarily and not.

The school newspaper’s headline: DEAD AT 17.

No one thought it would happen to you, except you. You stayed up late at night, imagining your funeral. The first thing you did in the morning was practice for your wake. Every time you left your house, you were a dead man walking.

No one  believed this more than you did.

The news anchors said it was just one of a string of murders. People said it was an isolated incident. Your friends said it was a hate crime. Your mom said it was the worst thing that  ever  happened to her.

There was no question that you were gone, even when they found you- chest jumping. There was only one thing to wonder: who was next?

Not an if, but a when.

I hope the when is  never.

All my love- to you and everyone else,

Yourself
Alistair Jan 2018
there's a void that lives in my ear
dark and twisted and cruel
and i thought that
that perhaps i could learn
just to live with the silence
the echoing, harsh nothingness
of the void

but you see
my void houses
yet another creature

oddly, the two are as
light and day
the void is cold and cruel,
dark and silent and oh so endless
but this other thing
oh, the void's friend
is loud and restless,
eternal and painful and insistent

so even in the potential
i may have seen a window
a porthole of hope
for respite

my resigned silence
has become this maddening,
neverending hell

and it all lives in my ear

you see the branches,
they shrivelled up and died

look at my ear as you would a tree
a firm, long standing oak

roots and branches for nerves
a resilient base for an ear drum

imagine the tree has fallen
all but the base

you can hack at it
you can hope it may function
just as it did before
as trees are just meant to

but the roots are dead
the branches are cracked and gone

so imagine an ear as an ear again
it's purpose to hear and receive

now imagine a silence
as promised by description
of ailment

only there is one exception
that constant, infuriating noise
the one that keeps you awake
that fuels your insomnia and
campaigns your insanity

a working ear drum will still receive
the noise
the vibration, the impact, the pressure
but as a tree functions
so does an ear

with no roots and no branches
the base is just a base
it may receive

but no message shall be truly received
not with my ears

nothing but constant static
or a piercing ringing
seldom a painful tone
but enough to suffer with

too loud and you hear the blaring
you feel the pressure

you try in vain to double down
to cover where it affects you
but it only gets worse

too quiet,
silent
and slowly,
very slowly
you may just lose your mind

in my ear lives a void
the roots are dead
the base lives on
and the void's host
may just destroy me
i'm deaf and i don't know how to deal with it
Solent in Expiationem Animarum

Saint John the Apostle says: “Zefián, the computer of the Duoverse of the Verthian world, indicates the order of his creation of the world, according to the transcendental plant living matter, in the interstices of time itself that exists within sidereal time. Noting that matter and time, is governed by all mythological beings in a compartment with monotheism, will be defined by atavistic laws, which are the deity of the intense hiding place of procreation, endowing great contextual residences, for habitat and a world in which larger non-residential scales, which go from passerby between the lines of time, and cosmological phenomena, which in the Duoverse face vicissitudes of the stars and their physicality added to the arcs of memory and emotions. Thus the main task of how the structure of experience surpasses consciousness, to novelize the orthogonal movements of the Universe, but in a Vernarthian world with great explorations of matter, which are quantified and volatilized in the field of its ethereal existence. The laws will be governed by your Zefian computer, describing codes that will verify the fulfillment of pivots in the reactions of the universe, but with refractions when reasoning about the consummate phenomenon. Starting from here in the experienced biology that will overcome the laws of physics, since its value is above the limits that allow the bold line of gravity that bounces in the lines of time, and its distances promoting more discretion when resisting threats. of a possible tiring case, a product of some relative dominance not included in all worlds with each other, in some case that does not rescue us from loss of links of some omitted sidereal reminiscence, attracting us to a universe governed by hemicycles of merely material particles, and not existential biological ones. The dimensions emerge from the beginning of the same universe, but more delayed from the interval and the second limit of the space that rests, to inaugurate the one that comes. Being the orbit of translation twice rotating towards the sun, but nth times rotating on itself, to go out to another stellar dimension not present. Its geometry will be from the intendancy of the resumption of Cinnabar in Tsambika and Helleniká, to later cancel each other out, making their integration in Patmos, on the coast of Skalá, with curvatures that validate the nullity of successive expirations of material lives, between spiritual expirations alive.


Duoverso is born and will be reborn, every time the years are subject to the loss of everything quantifiable and not, under the light that will be lit on all the darkness, Zefián being, in paronymy in which they lack to appropriate the support and merit of to have it absorbed in the tabernacle of Vas Auric, in the privilege of nothingness itself and nobody, adding itself in what is preserved of the physical support of itself. For just sidereal speed, in which it will have to travel on its same axis of rotating time on itself, in paradoxical of the One-dimensional Beams, these coexisting with the same low and high universes, reconverted into angelic vital luminances, creating orbits and optics in the visions of Christian temporality. By empowering them to enable them in the overexcited that derive disorders of intermittency of memory and physics of time, to reinsert themselves in the sequence that inhabits the residual of the speed of the Beam, as a Theo-Philosophical entity, of cellular multiplicity or cells of seasonality. of retrograde times, for the independence of temporality, under the regime of the past made up of an unbelievable yesterday. Overcoming the conserved immediacy of conviction in the One-dimensional Beams (Kafersesuh), it is observed denser when every mortal admits to being due to integrating and later brooding, dissecting organic matter into inorganic matter, suspended in the richness of a world of Faith and Prayer, of the most anti-gregarious desert and lost in the world, but supported by hollow walls, which do not exist in Vernarthian emotional matter.

The movements being physical, they take us on conjectured layers to discern their magnitude, emphasizing the rigor of their measurement on us, instead, the ambivalence of Zefian, delivers in both chromatic the Dark and White Duoverse, under the reference of the behavioral alternations of the Diospyros, source of the arboreal, for the procreation granted in the hands of Leiak. Relying on this equational exercise, with less time to design for its genealogy, but rather on its apocalypse, reinstalled in abolished primary unknown spaces, to have it once again in the light of consciousness, recognized as an inert matter of the past, but living off the immanent eternity of nebulae that personalize the earring of the Caltrop, taking temporality, but not snatching any hand to tear it from his own.

Vernarth says: “In the rhetoric of the Universe-Duoverse theorem, it is worth noting the past with entity, present and future also, connected to the time of Verthian inspiration, Holderlin-Heidegger, on issues of physical habitability, as a complement to the entity, which anticipates the present/future in the vicinity of death in the past and future, but tangentially in lively whims of existentialism-mortality, for a way of being rented out at death, as a way of being, dwelling in death itself and in the act of embodiment having existed, but with its own mandate after having been rented. The Vernarthian World appears in this current, prolonging existence from non-existence, granting complementarity of more past existence, before an unlived death. Ontologically, This theory stems from the One-Dimensional Beams of Kafersesuh, in Ein Karem. Essentially Christian, as the matrix of existence between Ein Karem (Nativity of the Messiah) and Gethsemane, as an interconnection of materiality in metaphysical reflections, a product of the immaterial of life not lived, as an urgent sacrilegious death, and of the anticipated dimension of the life process- death-life of Christian Messianism.

Vernarth says: "with the slaves in my disparate hands, one picked up what the other was carrying. With my right hand, I took the Duoverso, and with the other my porter; I held my reins on the maxims of Elpenor, before falling to the cliff. One naughty day but with the worst pain in my chest, I went to see him in his room, and I structured him as an immortal, at the time of forming the world, "knowing not even being part of an identity" favoring him to be part of me. combustion and ignition due to the friction of the Universe on the Duoverse. Such was that fearlessness and affordability that it decorated me with unexpected tears of belonging by imprisoning me with superfluous boastfulness. But his courage will be mine, and he will have to anticipate being in the middle of grace, as in Gaugamela wounding my two hearts, one deleterious and the other not..., verbatim saying:

Says the Carrier: “I have to agree to your mandate my lord Vernarth, I have arranged my emetic knights to take him to the empyrean, more remote at nightfall. I know that my own death will also take him, for we are double lives loving death, which falls on a night given to the seventh Falangist soldier. In the midst of souls already disheartened by the misfortune of life, in the figure of eternal death that refuses to receive us discouraged "

Vernarth says: "I do not know if I am or will be brave, because I have forgotten to die, rather I do not know what it is ?, but in the midst of the horses and the hosts of the block, from the anvil of Gaugamela that I have not felt it again..., which is death after feeling my hands and legs severed, but not felt when appropriating some amputee. I know that among the Hypaspists we used umpteenth arrows to mobilize their war apparatus 665, but from the wasteland jump we gathered the delirium of the Falangist command in the Seleucid 666 row, rather detached from every man, in a substantial way in favor of the Alexandrian life, "Of course he was already in the hands of eternity, which hurts more than the tip of an arrow, even being unfaithful to his mortality"

and not in the Universe chained to its fractality, rather of its present-present of the new universe for those who make it negative of itself, towards a clone and neatness, granting it recklessness, who continues to sweep its entity, its dimension, its space, the distances, the matter to receive it in their being. Vernarth, besieges the discursive thinking, under the tides of the tenements and the fears of late emotionality, changing to all the best heroics of the follow and all the experiences of harassing flat lights of the target, in the necropolis that speak resurrected, not being chimera in the best leisure districts live, but immortal of a district..., with steps to constitutive slogans of "succumbed cities, but..., with eternity", connoting after all abolished transference, in eternity present between two beings of mortal rank, the Carrier and Vernarth, Vernarth and Heidegger, but here the last one bringing him the closest radiogram between expiration and eternity, with significant death (End and chaos) and eternity (creation), in the limbo-purgation ratio, as the source of the potion. His total contention and affinity in Heidegger's dialectic, passing through a moment that marks his reincarnation, in the rambling of finite eternity, moving away from Vernarthian ontological and metaphysical reasoning. It was attached magnetic in the Universe, feverish kiss in ambitions of the temporal Being, as substantial of perpetual objectivity towards the unworthy survivor of the Vernarthian theories. So far no similarity is compared to whoever wants it or not, it is part of any estimate or spreadsheet of a complex Duoverse, Within the emerging frontis of progeny, there are ranks derived towards the first to form compound swaths of shelters in the Camels Gigas, who from Jerusalem escorted them with their plantar consciences to Ein Karem, then returning to Gethsemane, to finish in the port of Jaffa. Originally arranged by the children of Israel and the strongholds; Vernarth, Saint John the Apostle, Eurydice, Raeder, and Petrobus with animality, Etréstles, and Kanti, to finally mention King David, who goes to his catafalque before leaving for Jaffa, to return winds to Patmos. Of this primogeniture, the legatee is Vernarth, being presented as co-first-born by giving his portion to Saint John the Apostle, for trust assets of the benefit of a third party for both, and granting the patriarchal and reimbursement to each of his inheritances, being of expeditious aim the liberation of the world that lodged them not authentically in the mediocrity of ascendant ancestors. This prerogative will be decisive to define the dimension of the Duoverse and the One-dimensional Beams as consanguinity, simultaneous nascent and mortal worldview, to radiate them in the beams that support the universe, and from this same, they are transferred to the vision of child-man, child-cherub., for the purpose of defining the Universe-Duoverse physically composed of four areas of its consistency. Time, Being, Divinity and the Four Wings of the Cherubim, as a concept of biodiversity in Lepidoptera, Bumblebees, Bees, Wasps, and Fireflies as tetra-winged animal entities, originating the warnings and impositions in cardinals and poles of their primogeniture, rising from chaos, up to now as mandatory Duoverso, constituting the alpha world, rising of the Animalia and the intermediate visions of the heights that guide the material essences of the imperishable spiritual elemental and structural physics. Being ineffable matter, in the stars that prostrate itself, before each pause of advent and of creations that ****** other creative flashes, in pursuit of a gnoseological doctrine, as a slavish instant, ending in another for the study of the meaning of conceiving in the diligently part of a new world, on the borders of the unknown and of repelled nothingness, suspecting itself in the living artery of nihilistic nothingness, without leaning towards nonexistence that endorses it, or perhaps from a twin Duoverso univitelino in the chaos of unfertilized nature..., rather empowered to the first heir by the law of the Messiah district. Allow yourself, in this way, in the face of this premise and history, to continue and be part of an establishing whole, looking for God in a new world and universe as well..., but shaking before the nothingness that sustains it, as a basic knowledge of value and of immobile Faith. The hypothesis Prosapy-Centric, defines blood lineage unifying the Duoverso as follows:

a)Eternal Existentialism:

He talks about how compassionate creation is and its factotum, that it will be better that way. At the entrance to the Vernarth mouth, within its buccal cubic meters, the Zig Zag Universe, the promoter that caused the Duoverse, broke out. Here your thoughts of eternity are born; not from your brain and discernment, psyche or mind. It exists in a present that will be distributed without end or beginning, in the holistic of the anticipated existence of the being itself, so that everything holistically arises from the mouth of Vernarth, becoming the light of his luminance-ejector thought, being in some way the Zigzag universe that emerges from the outgoing access of its mouth and that manifests itself in some change of quantum physics in a state of hyper-connectivity and always present. The Zig Zag, coexists in eclectic variability of angles, creating regularities in its time and displacement. For the sake of results and translational parallelism as a promoter of the Duoverse, based on the holistic that brings together the effect of the word-fact, but eminently aimed at the morphology of extra language of intellect, rather in the kinetics of the language of human zigzag and physical-material, typical in various line segments of lightning and space storms, resembling his lost and bleeding soul in full battle at the site of Arbela. The other meaning is his salvation from the Council of Patmos, being already Installed in the Eclectic and invisible portal of the Evangelist of Saint John, levitating in his sacred basaltic cavern in Katapausis, in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 / page 114. Editorial Palibrio- USA). They would find themselves in communion with the archaean clan, which would resemble its proper ectoplasm; thus each one forming a unique part in the masonry dictated to redirect them towards their messianic labors at this stage of the ascension. Vernarth; is aware that he will have to enter the cave, after having ceased his work on standby for three months. He continues to fester in myriad wars and parapsychological regressions, he will remain in a daze to dedicate himself to the beautiful landscapes open towards a horizon..., a neighbor to Palaeolithic and astronomical painting. In the flashes of mathematical prayer, you will capture the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the island of Patmos. The saint appears only on certain days looking at him from afar to encourage him in his progress..., Portal Eclectic and invisible is the facet of the face of light, after the invisible that manages to be appreciated with the principle of transferring its connectivity of the immaterial with the material, but done in the finished quality of "Merciful", deriving everything in what supports the splendor of the facts and their objective analysis, by no means the same, because the Zigzag universe, originates theory or thoughts from the perspective of external language and integrally unites it through the optimal results, always imponderable and categorical to follow them and attract them to eternal spiritual good. Being exhaustive of the fact of action, although it is subdivided into executability..., it will continue to be timeless, therefore eternal, in the hands of a universe of thick eternity and stationary death.

The final communion of Zig Zag with the Duoverse, will make this key momentum to replace the Universe of the former Vernarthian world, for inflections of the continuous present, more in the distance of the limits that have to originate than by a simple gesturing stupidity of disbelief, abounding more than a universe that is created in eternity, and that will never again resurface as a physical dimension. The successive potentiality of this theory of holism subtracts actions and not facts, since it always culminates in the limit of infinity, always beginning and never-ending, to then restart in a present that is reintegrated into the access of the oropharyngeal and non-cerebral embouchure, since it has of limiting itself in its shock and subsequent confusion of language-emotion and feeling, to change all eternal emotion, always going hand in hand with the unequivocal and assertive light,

b) Being Universal multi-evocation:

Over Rhodes the auroras could be seen retreating, to attract the new luminances crossing between the atmospheres of the ancient worlds, with stars that were ordered among others, descending at great speed from the Universe, fascinating all Greece, coming from celestial bodies that brought from great Relative distances and proximity between the Duoverso and its satellite widening, allowing to grant subsistence, and routes to the nascent species of the Vernarthian sub-mythology. The Sabbath energy Light is overbreathed repair; here Saint John the Apostle influences through the conduit of the Cinnabar towards the Light of the Mashiach, with the intemperance of life on drops of crystallized water as gifts of Taphoric Light, with synoptic signs of transformation of all the green grass growing like a beard on the slopes of the Willows, where Saint John the Apostle goes back to prayer prayers; so such in repetitive sentences and prayers towards the Universe, which were falling as it was on Mount Tabor in the Transfiguration. All this in the fervor of the willow chins that fell from the galaxies, with their cascades one after another in orderly colophons of fervor making the sky a great source of Moshaic and Elijah voices. (Moses and Elijah) to Christianize the holy oils of the radiant glory of the Universe that was complemented by the Heliac Ortho that was appreciated in different coefficients according to this new position of the parameter of Greece, observed from the Constellation of Pisces, being symbolized as piece as SOS, since Eratosthenes tells us about the fish that saved Derceto (Goddess of Assyrian mythology), after falling into a large lagoon. Seeing therefore in the sky as Fum Al Samakah, Arabic for “snout of the fish” (or Fomalhaut star from the Greek translation). Pisces being bright and of the great dimension to mold it as a whole iris, which was rooted from the formal pelagic accent, towards a spectral affinity of the Duoverse, like leaves of Willow temperatures, on the reflection of the Multi-evocation. For antithetical referendum of the Pleiades between light-years that diminish behind the stars of the magnetic field and its exo-planet. It is necessary to consider that in the wisdom of God, there would be his ordering conscience, on each constellation, and then detach itself before each other that guards each one in centuries of light-years, and in each one of the children as light-years of millions, but of numerical present time quantum; that is to say, all translation on average over ups and downs of spatiality and in remote ages, to zero or from null numerals in the integrality of millions of non-existent light-years, but accumulated and equidistant between the Universal Being and Multi-evocation. An example of cartographic observation shows us Greece at Latitude 39.074208 and Longitude 21.824312, influencing the Duoverse as a complement to the rise of Greece with the latitude of the Heliac Ortho, being Sirius eleven days after the Ekadashi and eleven days before the other at 10 °, Maximizing the light herbalism of the unconscious, to systematize the rise of the Universe imbuing Greece. Refulgent and small electromagnetic systems, led by the Divinity, are freeing themselves of all the units that bind in the minimal Units that can expand with the apostolic energy, rather than a trans-human receiver, in blocks of circulation of waves, related to a Defined spatiality, divine and with its own energy of opening of small worlds of provision of light, and radiation emitted by the deleterious convex of invisible essences in properties that are released from overflowing stagnations of creation, and from the skylights that are more distant than the wavelengths than from a breath of Demiourgy in the chemistry of all multidimensional hyper-existential between frequencies of energy widely displaceable by lines of how many..., in static energy of rest. Ultra colors intensify on the coasts of Rhodes, as a sulfur photoelectric effect of Cinnabar, formalizing mechanics in those sedimentary particles, which undulate in anticipation of the precise amalgamation of both universes, evolving towards the matrix of origin of physical and non-biological state and period, but of eternal divine inspiration, from the mouths of Vernarth, as a resurrected Being electro vigorous, dwelling spacious and sinuosities of curvature and psychic spiraling, The Vernarthian nature will call this phenomenon the Son, since it is the similarity of the halo in the Taphoric Light and in its effect of the baptismal of this Christian Universe called Duoverse, in accordance with the presence of Saint John the Apostle light, among the attending raptor niveous. strangers, arrival-departure and between the nebula of pendency in the nimbus gaseous clouds of fields that mutually heard each other recognizing each other..., leaving only Saint John the Apostle in the perfection of the sky as a universal and Duoversal shadow, first of all being of light being baptized, crucified and risen-ascended, in the metaphysical transfer of his body, as a universal body, as a quantum point between the earth and the sky, between the universe and the Duoverse as a complement of gaseous and spiritual atmospheric earth. Ministering in the judicious and prophetic occlusion, being a juridical part among the myriad bundles of Constellar Pisces that supported the transfigured and converted prophets, before a brand new universe, "Duoverso", witness to the amazement at the proximity of the multi-evoked Universal Being.

c) Reflection space (Light-matter)

The Duoverse having been pulled from its entrails from Vernarth's mouth, and objectual free fall is noticed after disengaging from the quantum Universe, rather than an elusive cacophony that unfolds separated from their bodies in all dimensions, except Vernarthian time, Alluding to the stoning him so that he ignores himself in agony and returns to look for him to revive him as Space-Light, in the presence of matter reflected from himself, which will unfold throughout the Hellenic Panagias, from Kímolos to Tsambika, to make the curves the direct passage that once again bends time towards a fragmented dimensionality. Barefoot was the apostle with Vernarth in the three quarters of the axioms and algorithms, where the conceptuality would overcome the low calculation of what was already ministered by them. Creating space for lapses in dreams of the Stairs, with steps of Topaz, in this particular case of Saint John the Apostle, "seeing open skies and angels of God go up and down on the son of man." Here some sidereal Solar gleams are illuminated that have nights for a sunny day, Vernarth resting on the side of the Monastery with a stone on its head and dozing to dream like Etréstles in the Hexagonal Baptistery of the Shepherds in Ein Karem, but of the compact sweetness of the famous luminous Cinnabar ascending vertically where the Yahvic Being, who was presented to him as the Abrahamic patriarchate nexus. Endowing him with celestial dreams about stones that inherit west and east towards the north noon, in space of hallucinations of Jacob's subconscious, for the satisfaction of the luminous pictorial ligament. Thus, a timid but decisive reflex pointer of space and reflection is detected, which includes fragments of spectrum and tonalities of a machine unconscious, to raise the Duoverse in a depressive day of the scathing moment.

d) Physical energy (molecular entropy)

From the bases of Theoskepasti, the physical system emerged in two sums after the movements of the pendular censers that exceed the elliptical of the Cinnabar and the potential of the ejectable force field, for ductility of its forces that emanated from the triad with the archpriest, helping him Etréstles and Kanti, who would take them to the Hellenika Necropolis. They make of their golden bodies the ephemeral speed mechanized in the originality of the homily system, to break in the guardian friction of the gravitational axial of the body of Light of the cinnabar, which received the sulfur kinetics of the defective organic matter that was wrapped in a bizarre alloy of sulfur light, and in all the forces gathered, not rubbing with the cinnabar obelisk, already invaded by the energy that made it superficial, between the shell of the Panagia Theoskepasti covering and the strange normality that made them physical-organic. No scrubbing would continue the movement of the fleeting angle of the anvil of Hephaestus, but the static on the surface, lay unchanged before the forces of the back and forth of the molecules that sank late, shooting from the pendular area of his bowl and then starting with full power for new angles that will take advantage of the mechanics of the forge and the friction clean and **** before the joint, and the resistance of the reactivation of the second period of the movement, to forward them to Tsambika in the response signal. Quantifying later between the inferiority and the intangible shock reaction in the light radiosities of the cinnabar re imparted towards Rhodes, forming resistance, but with immanent entropy, with a high degree of fineness, in such a way that once the conservation rays are fired, the response to Rhodes will come from Kímolos with the particles and combustions of sulfurous gas and mercury, generating entropy of two quantum and physical times between the Dodecanese and Cyclades, knowing that the inert matter is inactivated alive, thus envisioning the contingent presence of iron in the geology of both islands, with more than eighty percent, and of gravitating oxygen for the Vas Auric and its materialization, as a ****** impression reducing its physical dimension and enlarging its water content in pelagic beings of the Aegean. This would suggest the homogeneity of both island territories, appease the conception of substitutions that frolic from north to south, to break their normal balance, depleting what is island land towards oceanic land. In this way they will be mixed entropically for a new generation of fertile life that balances in chaos, already in the hands of Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, in the main nave of the Monastery that seemed to oscillate atomized and vanished, but then atomically restructured, slyly dividing the canons of traditional entropy, and making it disproportionate to the biodiversity ordering of the sterile and the fertile, reordering itself as a mutable force excluding the reality of act-effect, invested in the integrity of life-death-life, as a molecular target in a double physical dimensional unit, making the prospective universe by splitting from any other format, to become another and another physical dimension. Universe-Duoverse, they shake like two spheres, almost joining each other, but separating into heterogeneous classics, as a panegyric, under the invocation of Conviction and Faith. The universes self-recomposed and redistribute themselves before our eyes, but before the consistent devotion of this homily, it makes them astonishing and phenomenal (everything that happens is recomposed - if the tree fractures, but then it straightens re-fractured, before our eyes being recomposed). Thus the chaos of the Universe is resolved, appropriating a new sequence of continuous creation, starting from the same creative property, but of molecular entropy, almost in adverse defect, but of constriction of the yielded body, to be incorporated into the Cinnabar beam of light. dynamic, generating ignition at the ends of each part of the structure obelisk, in order to release and stimulate on the absorbent..., of the Hexagonal Birthright in Tsambika,

e) One-Dimensional Beams

From the hexagon, everything is dimensioned on the peaks that can be seen in the starry nights from the curved kilometers of Bethlehem. Everything goes on top of the desert mountains and valleys, above the vagaries of climatic heights, and landslides of an entire believing community and its followers. In twelve advancing camels, of which the first six are exclusive to the Birthright, and then the seventh Giga camel is from King David of Bethlehem.

The beams are the architectural support portion of the physical-ethereal God and of his ethereal-physical word, supposedly of advent in grazing of the hardwoods, and the secret anomalies of a new Aramaic message, anticipating the vigor of insects and birds that were grouped together. in the journey that goes back and forth. The Beams are stars of heaven sustained by the Cherubim and the Archangels, through the paths of conversion and the support of the Christian time; haughty and implacable hegemony for the propaedeutic of phylogeny, but more on the very chemistry of creation carrying its winged Lepidoptera tetra, pheromones, and the obfuscation of an elemental nascent child in his own evangelical philosophy from an inter-sword dimensionality, and of the gloom of a manger shouted Kafersesuh, before compendiums of two pyramidal landmarks of inflection of his word in created animals, in the affinities of the world and the Animalia, personalizing shepherds carriers of pollinations, totalizing the generational of the language that is concealed so far, as well as the turns in the musks, and their legitimacies from the Baptistery of the Shepherds in Ein Karem, parabolizing their nomenclature and Polygonia of a child made man, already coexisting! but representing himself as a lifeless man in the fullness of a child of a distinguished canon. and his legitimacies of the Baptistery of the Shepherds in Ein Karem, already coexist! but representing himself as a lifeless man in the fullness of a child of a distinguished canon, that followed him towards the superlative moment of the bending near him, twisting and changing squeezable pressure in the cords that forged his path, towards the cornices and trusses of the upper celestial vault, where the shed of doubts was next to the Cherubs. Giving mechanics to the prism that arched the beams in the horizontal lines, taking them towards the amplitude of other lines, which remained solid before the variation, suspecting mutating to one of sudden two-dimensionality. The sections of the timber framework, which looked fatigued before the primary classification, which showed the attitude of the little Messiah, taking out effulgence from its beams, and rolling on other pillars, postponing the vectors of the tangential, contributing bits in rhomboid specialties, that blurred the cylinders of amplitude and field of vision of all those who remained in their nativity. Making diametrical glances so as not to be distracted and adore him with a broad and rectilinear heart, in transversal visualizing for all, the one-dimensional crossed wood, which in its geometry schematized letters and numbers of kabbalah, which differ in dissimilar resistance of Christic ambivalence, as a forerunner of martyrdom. on the wooden cobblestone of Golgotha. This presaged capacities to read them in the Torah and Zohar, gathering everything in a whole, in those vivid tormenting lapses that he felt in advance, as reversible entropy, turning their substance to prepare them for the day of an abolished martyrdom. Making diametrical glances so as not to be distracted and adore him with a broad and rectilinear heart, in transversal visualizing for all, the one-dimensional crossed wood, which in its geometry schematized letters and numbers of kabbalah, which differ in dissimilar resistance to Christic ambivalence, like the anticipation of martyrdom on the wooden cobblestone of Golgotha. This presaged capacities to read them in the Torah and Zohar, gathering everything in a whole, in those vivid tormenting lapses that he felt in advance, as reversible entropy, turning their substance to prepare them for the day of an abolished martyrdom. which differ in dissimilar resistance to Christic ambivalence, like the anticipation of martyrdom on the wooden cobblestone of Golgotha? This presaged capacities to read them in the Torah and Zohar, gathering everything in a whole, in those vivid tormenting lapses that he felt in advance, as reversible entropy, turning their substance to prepare them for the day of an abolished martyrdom, pigeonholed him towards a pre-existing Hellenistic aspect in characteristics of patronage as a representative figure of a male, and a lady of Ptolemaic Egypt in great iconic religiosity, coexisting as a priestess of a female order in the Greek protocols with him. Becoming inseparable in the preeminence of mother and son, as unilateral gender, and of substantial element for the social and political order that reigned in the ancient era. Laying here the unilateral gender indispensable for the social and political order, which is substantiated at the dawn of the empires of all the time, and the patriarchal society? Symbolically Joshua in this cogitabundant providence, adds the feminine value in the society in the Kafersesuh's outlet of the Judah manger, dispensing mainly to women, A great Zohar light, gathered all towards a whole in those errors that Joshua felt in advance, as reversible entropy, giving back his wise existence to prepare them for the day of his sacrifice. Pre Existing in catharsis and substance of divinity connected with the phylogenetic species, classifying up to an Aramaic pontificate of pheromones settled in the lithospheric site of Gethsemane, in a biological sense and in close coincidence in lapse wading, or the phenomenological simultaneity of Eukaryota and Glaucophyta until late Animalia, giving relation parental in characters of the vibrational timbre of the Beams, and its atavistic pedestal, readapting in evolutionary ellipticals of winged tetra species. Allowing to change the ancestral linguistic accouterments in processes of redesigning the divine genetic historical tree and increasing anomalies in the human earthly culture, and not human anthropomorphic in a reviving profanity of fruitive frequency amplitudes, for those who resort to it, monopolizing and synchronous in diachronicity of their specimens. The lights of Joshua's gazes are the Light of Christian Life and Time, in the entity of Joshua born and bloodless from the nature of Child-Man, but of mortal design in the same compulsion to see the luminescence of life in the manger Kafersesuh and only incorporeal unity. Being in exemption from Ego with its structure of living child and dead man, he rushes rebellious and ostentatious in the architecture of the One-dimensional Beams, yielding the glimpse of the aforementioned progenitor "Eye versus Eye", seeing himself like this..., son hovering in the arteries of a Universal-Duoversal life, from a single dimension of cyclical one-dimensional length, encompassing conjecture and biological, the symbolic-allegorical conception of extreme co-divinity, as an exclusive precept of the delicate infinity of the Being of a Messiah, with paraphrases or glosses of Aramaic exegetical affinity, tracing from a linguistic period. Here are the contortions of the Olive Tree Berna, transfigured into everlasting orality and refractory syllable, to incubate eternal rabbinic gifts of perpetual reluctance, beyond the reach of the ego-annihilating will and of apathetic, inert ultra-affections and of miraculous phenomena.

f) Hexagonal Birthright

Civilization has an arched inflection in its regency at the head of the favorable family caste in the blessing, whose hiding place will have to be entrusted to a clan, having to make inquiries that formerly only related to consanguineal minorities from the same family trunk, thus protecting the pantries and accessories in warfare to consolidate the economy, and invigorate its commercial coffers. The land would be and would be an essential partition insignia for the legitimate transmission of epochs and inter-seasons, which received them from its descendants for representation of geomorphological heraldry, given in its regional condition. In the noise of the seventh seal, heaven was silent for half an hour and the seven angels stood before God, and they gave seven trumpets, the other is to appear in front of the altar with a golden censer, to compile it in other prayers in all the saints, on the golden altar that was in front of and in front of the throne - And from the hand of the angel the smoke from the incense with the prayers of the saints - And the angel took the censer, and filled it with the fire of the altar, and threw it to the earth; and there was thunder, and voices, and lightning, and an earthquake - And the seven angels who had the seven trumpets got ready to blow them - The first angel sounded the trumpet, and there was hail and fire mixed with blood, which were thrown upon the earth ; and a third of the trees were burned up, and all the green grass was burned up - The second angel sounded the trumpet, and like a great mountain burning with fire it was hurled into the sea; and a third of the sea was turned to blood - And a third of the living creatures that were in the sea died, and a third of the ships were destroyed - The third angel sounded the trumpet, and a great star fell from heaven, burning like a torch, and it fell on a third of the rivers, and on the springs of the waters - And the name of the star is Wormwood. And the third part of the waters became wormwood, and many men died because of those waters because they became bitter - The fourth angel sounded the trumpet, and the third part of the sun, and the third part of the moon, and the third part of the stars were smitten, so that a third of them would be dark, and there would be no light in the third part of the day, and also at night - And I looked, and I heard an angel fly through the midst of heaven, saying with a loud voice: !!

"Being in six instants at the Golden Gate of Jerusalem with Saint John the Apostle, they reordered the majority for a protected subordination in the minor family descended from the eldest son, for the purpose of sustaining them to reach the possession of their theological morphology, in this door, being the only one that will remain closed…, until the second coming of the Messiah. The scheme of the camelids in their osteometry tells us that their heads before Advent! Distorted their calypso lights on the surface of their skeletons, locking the jaws of other camelids, thus bypassing the Apostle's strap, which through the foramen of the supraorbital, thickened the strides that pretended immobile before the opening of the Golden Door. Of course, they were prisoners of their self-denial for the length of their footsteps to the rhythm of the sensitive skulls, In the fourth camel Raeder, he cleared the margins that allowed them to increase their attempts to withdraw them from the golden doors, but the dislocation of the orbits of their ocher eyes, denoted their holes in the condylar fossa, distancing the vicinity of the Tehillim advocated by King David in the Seventh Seal of a stuck Giga Camel. The metric form innovates them of ubiquity, for omnipresence in the camels before the gates, and after the gates, thus leaving the site of the eighth gate, deserting the camels behind the gates and arcades pointing to the old cemetery. of the prophecies that Elijah holds, and in procuring generational stoning of inter camelids, which would be channeled into twelve plus another dozen, but behind all, appearing to be six, later joining King David, who would provide the parallelism of the Seventh Seal. This caravan was numbered from one to six, saving the vertices of the Golden Gate that joined modestly at the odd vertices, under the odd cross of the same vertex, which made the equilateral coherent according to the three angles where Vernarth and Etréstles went, and then joined other pairs of vertices in a crucified chain in the flat and secondary complementarily of the seventh angel, but with epilogue character of the Seventh Seal. Thus it would be numbered according to the Gigas Camels, the Golden Gate, governing them for a family of six family angles and a seventh seal, for the performance of the family sustenance of primogeniture in the reinsertion of Saint John the Apostle, since he was banished by Emperor Domitian. Making themselves succulent of the gold of the Seventh Seal, on the collective unconscious of the first-born, for the good of the sub-genitor son. Here the indication goes for the purpose of populating the consecration of granting greater goods to those who second and could lead forces of abandonment and secular sedentary, for the need to welcome sacrifices of goodness and preferences of lay annoyance and earthly secular strengthening. The kinetics would move the six numbered over the vertices of the Sun in three bevels, joining the pairs in vertices covered in the circumscribed mesh of vehemence, which is impacted with the solid Golden Gate of Jerusalem, depositing the concentric radii of the polarized magnet on the struts of the camel of the central ram, for the affinity of the contraption of a trajectory for all Judah, in six predestined latitudes to Ein Karem, in the Hexagonal Baptistery of the Shepherds".

With symmetrical scrupulousness at a certain time, the rounded bisector of the psychic lines of the peritoneum fold of the solitary flanks of the Camels Gigas, towards a vocal peritoneum set six times more than a seventh, was estimated, in the apothem of the two-dimensional figure of the Febo hexagon angel, with less centrality, for the foundation of the Apostle and Vernarth, regulating them by points and sides, on the perpendicular bezels, prostrating towards a more orthodox and straight line, mutinying with radials phases on the bisector..., giving a quotient of odd numbers, which cut the first round of anointing, among all those that were retained in the daydreams of catching them for involuntary deaths. From Gaugamela's stratagem, three thousand muscular Hetairoi descended, towards the implantation of heart nuclei in the camelids, on the Susa Gate and the oblique break marching towards the war site, creating a fissure between camels, and the sphinx of Alexander the Great breaking into the Left-wing of the Golden Gate. This was the casuistry of Vernarth's psychic advance impetus, who once was at the precise moment of stalking, hypnotizing the gap of the Achaemenides, but unaware of that mechanical moment, persists in going after the Giant Camels. He guided them with his right hand to both sides, equipped with heart irons that exorbitated the whispering of his pectoral canals, interrupting the dawn of the Cinnabar, with the antigen readjusting the hinges of the door before falling untimely. Vernarth, with his sinister, calls upon the Hindu family who tried to open the breach of Alexander with his Macedonian baggage, thus preventing him from lying in the reliquary in contrition towards Vernarth himself. The infamous moment must have passed through the swords of some who resisted when fleeing from the held Golden Gate, giving up the rear of Vernarth with the camels recovered and saved from the abandonment of their afflicted hearts, resigning themselves with empty hands and with an outpouring of victory, but with two units confronted in his Portal of Imagination.

g) Reflection temporality

In cavern series, the lava was converted into cations of hydronium, in underground pits that glowed in Tsambika's temporality when the homily was officiated. Some pieces and calcareous boulders rotated random by the humid and dark narrowness of the subterranean reflection, having lived in the heavenly paradise that formed them by the volcanic tube and its syngenetic, by the erosion of the subsoil of Rhodes. The speculative rock icons expired of the symptoms, with albuminous cliffs of the genetics of the Theoskepasti chapel, Etréstles carried under his arm the expiration contract of the Universe, to deliver it with his signature, for the dimensional transfer will. Everything flourished with attractive mineralization systematizations, under an astral posology, In the cognitive, Kanti memorized his wanderings in Crete, imagining his physical body united with his mind on the paths of the shoulder of his ancestry, with batches of clockwork that went and passed through his physiognomic, bathing with the piece wind, but also with the hard shoulder that came straight towards him, showing him new encephalic pathways, which surrendered in epistemological globes, but levitating in excess of the hard shoulder and the unknowns, for states of temporality that became mentalized in pursuit of a supra desire..., disease or typologies long-standing who used the supposed ontological formalization, gave functioning the property of body with the memory of advanced towards a new Duoversality. The officialization of Ars Choralis, is solemnized for processes of emotional property; In this way the cave of Being and its Temporality is made haughty, self-isolating for intra-cave investigations, as corollaries and agility in those who yearned for identity, being able to attach themselves to deities in dozens of epicenes, which would be from tens to ten, thus being seventy tens and a half, which would be seventy-five of the seven tens, and of the unconscious of the syntagm that Etréstles carried away, separating the syntactic of the Vas Auric hypothesis, so that they coexist..., although the pestilential decays before the rolled-up syntactic of Kanti's head. Untreated and conscious-unconscious to his instinct, resorting and harassing the procedural bars, of the Ergo Sum parameter. The temporality of reflection, In momentum ac Diadem, it shone from the third trumpets of the Seventh Seal to the potential of the twilight corrodes and their regions that made the shoulder of the shoulder the awareness of temporality reflected in required dismayed collectivities, to transcribe exhortations to the behavioral pattern of the temporality of love Faust. Little remains immobile, little drive when two masses of consciousness withdraw to the storehouses of the Universe, already advantageous of their exhaustion, but inheriting them in precipitous emotions towards the pre-consciousness factors in the heights of the mountains of Crete and Kímolos.

Kanti the steed says: “Deus Nostri Pontificatus Annis et ad eum, God is my pontificate and my way to Him…, Adonis in the relative absence of credit, before Ephebos with absolute deafness, surprising me here in the Diospyros and neuro archetype flight. I ride farther than my physical-emotional, contributing in the micro-fusions of the tubules, in quantum, and interacting with the fineness of the minuscule substance, within themselves. Almost injuring the storms that vibrate in the mine of a risk prop of a steed, in pursuit of a trance that only ends up being the architect and augur of knowledge..., of when and where it agonizes more than once, but within the limit of the Duoverse crushed at his own peril, continually evaluating himself to transfer a genetic force into my hooves of solid steel, but ornamental and of Reflected Temporality.


h) Expansion and Aramaic Taxonomy

Organic taxonomy, as a pre-ordering order, classifies the harmlessness of language before the invasion of Alexander the Great. Although there were implosions of the Greek language, its transboundary taxonomy would be shifted towards Judea. Pre cited is its variant pharyngolaryngeal tracheo, in this assertiveness and occasionality, it predisposes emphasis on orthographic rather than phonetic incidents, citing Galilea as a precursor of the Aramaic and taxonomic thesis of Gethsemane, prior to its expansive conventionalism of enrapturing her in her differentiation, and in the expansive hotbeds necessary to channel the basic axons of commerce, between antiquity under the prerogative of supplied ethics and pre-classified inputs, such as food and geographic furnishings of economic arts, as well as, the syntax of words that could have curvature and geometry in the forms or linear designs of the time. Any letter could be interpreted as a physiognomic form or as tools of manifest imperialism, coexisting execrable or blessed as languages or keys of immunological communication, with symbolisms of languages spoken in rituals of systematization, and of obfuscation of a metaphysical Messiah, always an angel, for when this is the case. In other words, the water speaks to him in dialects and adults with an oriental language, appearing cryptic in the appointments that are related to the language of the great Extra Universal heritage.
Vernarth's Aramaic is an ***** composed of valuation graduation and generational expansion, opening evolutions combined with the matrix of “Ethereal Spatiality”, towards a channel or rib with a common end in what is done on the margin of Faith. and it is predestined on the basis of object and substance, as a regulatory organism, for groupings of species within the biological language or not, as well as in the fissure of a Cladia of lichen fungi, forming the optics of expression as spelling and not as a utilitarian concept. Amplifying what a camel is; this is how it is importunate, being its **** consensus with the "S" backward in a perfect camelid, the "T" also being a perfect Cobra approaching the three S's of the Syriac Aramaic alphabet. The “Y with L fused” of the Aramaic alphabet with a large elephant, and finally the “H” as a pelican simile, like the pelagornithids or Pelagornithidae, fossilized in the emotional collective of rock tribes, progressing from elephants, camels or pelicans in the search for a literate language and consonant shapes that are attributed to their jaws and pharyngolaryngeal substrates..., observing long vowels, as in the language of an organic universal alphabet. The matrix is timeless, branching out of the mechanics of natural and phenomenal selections, if it is metaphysical or is contributing Demiourgy on the infinity of the encodings or depending on the size of its geo-referencing, it will contribute energy exchanges with predictive purposes of information of orders, and adaptations of the calcified scientific space, Vernarth, dives into the ponds or Naídes of the Aegean and survives, just when the networked volcanoes were swallowing all the seas in the world. It braced being only part of the laps of the sea, tattooing with its gaze the chthonic nymphs, before envious and backsword ogres with gills, which multiplied more than any myth-poetic. Its power of convergence is inhibited by the poetic myths of primordiality and of cosmology as a natural branch in nautical miles traveled by its arms, without knowing who crossed them, survivor, in its advance, and treasuring the arm plunges on and under the scalded clay objects, perhaps as implantation of the muddy and hyper-flood lexicon, empowering itself in its translation from Syria to Patmos, and from linear B Mycenaean to Syriac Aramaic languages,


i)Sub - Verthian Mythology (Camera Obscura)

Adhered to the ancient parallels of the cult, the mythology of Horcondising lashes out. Stale and axiomatic source of pragmatic and rational earth that emanates from this constrained fusion of the Universe in the metamorphosis of Duoverso-Horcondising. Social and genealogical plates date more than seven hundred years from Lombardy and northern Venice in Italy, Spain, and France. The mission of the Horcondising is the transhumant myth, and Chaos of the ancestral family cenacle, in view of a family rule, succeeding in continuous litanies that consecrate rites beyond genetic archaeological death. The consolation of souls will revive and will be under the edict of the Sub-mythology in repose landing in successive parapsychological regressions, which will speak of deaths suffered at the edge of their test tube lives, Under the mythology, there is the sub-fable, prone to boundaries where the statement innovates the entire structure of hermeneutics, as a written notification and complacent verb, for lords of the grass and granaries of granaries, narrating myth-stories in messes of revived verbality. Thus in Rhodes and Patmos, Andronicus of  Rhodes will guard the doorway of his hobbies again, so that these disciplines are conducive to sponsorships of words under reasons of a nature concerning Saint John the Apostle risen in flesh and spirit, in contrast to the conclusions of the reason to leave breathless the destiny that the just cheer and disapproval of diction of not certain science, under ships that cover the commendable salvation in exegetical storms that go from a liberated shelter, as well as in what differs from the et Grammatica institutione arithmetica in that each one writes what it understands, and adds what humanistically makes existence in a biblical alphanumeric dimension, from the imaginary in some of its leaders such as Zefián, Borker, Leiak, Kaitelka, in Hyperdisis and the Zig Zag Universes. Making the mythical an ensemble with deities that rule the infinite, achieving more secular religiosities than in a radius of religion, founded by characters that are already pagan mythology. This is the raison d'être of the sub-mythology, which springs from one already narrated and rationalized, but in the contradiction of what underlies under the very observance that unites itself, forging itself creditor of very new myths within others, with characters that have never been or have been parasitizing on another source of cognition. Thus becoming extensive and prolonged in its passage liers sumptuousness of other arcane myths, within the same ones that inhabit the mythological lie, without blemish from veracity belonging to the living-lie in pursuit of a dead-truth. Even if it is in this way or hermeneutic method, continue to beat and go to meet the Castellar Imaginary del Horcondising and the Camera Obscura, which always live and revive in the sub-imagination, but from a mythical truth in a regime of multitudinous voice. and myth-poetics.

From the sooty Camera Obscura the spindle was obtained over the diameters of each edge, Vernarth of the same chaos, converged from the square but not the spherical world, from this sooty box together with his master Zefián, who polished and shot vines of light over the projection of the same box, and of the quantum ark on the acropolis of Leiak, simulating entelechy in its projection with the ultraviolet light of light similar to the earth, but not square, rather appearing to be a square sphere. After repeated intervals, Vernarth opened the slits of his hands, also hollowed, here other globules appeared but not spheroids, rather quadrilaterals at the end of the third phase in the last three series that showed the complete reflection of a tiny world, that just clamored for amnesty as a matter that had been beginning to form with another factor on a large scale, from this fractality that would appear as Vernarthian sub-mythology. Camera Obscura, in a combination with twelve atomic masses, stands out starting in the irradiation of sexagesimal nomenclature; imagining fractionality between sixty microseconds to sixty in the hexagonal polygon of the Primogeniture and the Baptistery of Ein Karem. Being used in the elevations of the stars and the Heliac Ortho of dawn, which would find the black box that was nailed in its twelve apostolate angles. The whole times were divided into more exact numbers that surrounded him in his Camera Obscura doing trigonometry with other rectangles of three equilateral, making multiples of twelve on the line of the hypotenuse of sixty, dividing by the hexagonal, which is the angular line of the six sides of progression of the Duoverse becoming a spheroid square, for an analogy of Hexagonal Birthright with the multiple of twelve for the sake of the Giant Camels, leading them to the obfuscation of the Horcondising fused with the Duoverse, by means of Pi (π), in the diameter equidistant between the Universe and the Duoverse disintegrated in two by the concentric radius of both geometric units. In the same way, Vernarth multiplied the existence of his new sexagesimal world in nths by sixty followed by infinite numbers of zeros, canceling the radical time of the masses of anodyne particles. The corondels or watermarks, overflowed with all the irregularities of the system, showing the decimal after the comma.


j)Verthian Apostolic Conception - Kashmar

Vernarth, was in Sardinia in the megalithic complexes Nuraga when he conceived his apostolate as a messenger, biologically entrenched in the taxonomic stasis, with a merely profane and urban framework. Whose classification he would transmit to his relatives after long periods in Macedonia, sailing and doing his falconry and philosophical avant-garde chores with Aristotle, in a laxity that invited him after long rejoices to record and sculpting messages with the doves of his village. Near Pella, in the central region of Macedonia, where his general Alexander the Great resided, south of the Axio River, his abode was nomadic and was on a hill near the lakes and mountains surrounded by Greco-Barbarian inhabitants, tracing the Chalkidian league., after the Peloponnesian War. He was in great campaigns in the former Pella, His will as an artist is precisely to be an apostolate of a thought that would intersect with the Yahwist gift to an apostolate of the Apostle Matías, whose connection would provide his transliteration of the post-mortuary link of the Jesus of Nazareth, replacing Judas Iscariot, due to his apostasy. Vernarth, distressed by this episode, became Commander of Alexander the Great, lying already primitive in his ranks of Hetairoi, transcending over the scourge of Judas Iscariot, to face in the arena of Pella. In a reverie near the Thermaic Gulf, he genuflected under the sacrosanct trees near some illustrious Kashmar Cypresses, channeling his furious and tramontane spiritual into the gulf, to take him out of a banal summer in the transition of an immolated soul, and make him walk for thirty days barefoot, without sweet potatoes in his hands to ego stone him, only naming him slavish stubble of the crops in the deleterious nesting places of the Ravens of Kashmar, bidding him so that his blood is ****** by the heels of the rooted trees of Thor forest, usurping his "Gift of Iahvé ”In dishonor of its Hebraic appellation, for the onomatopoeic of its rhetoric, resulting from the feckless roar of black lineage, which will emanate from the mouth of the Aulos, whistling inside the Cobra. In the aforementioned link, the group of twelve was recomposed, being in the gulf and in the incidences of the re-indoctrination of the twelve apostolates, he is with his prayer and atonement in the mystical character for the community worshiping the Kashmar; which roots hardened towards the silent immolation portent as Judas entered the black night, for excessive twists of the bifurcations, intertwining with the Beams of the Thermaic cliff, like a lynx observing the height and its prominence in that of Judas dwindling over the stained areas of hell..., thus its remains were scattered by the synod of bustard birds in the sprayed sky of globular creation, faded by conclusive hordes of the late Neolithic Druid and by the deity Belinus, with ingots of sooty petrified poplar from Hecate boiling in the Underworld. We shoveled over the holm oak groves and their trees, sacralizing their factotum after the ritual of the sanctuary of the thus his remains were scattered by the synod of bustard birds in the sprinkled sky of globular creation, faded by conclusive hordes of the late Neolithic Druid and by the deity Belinus, with ingots of Hecate's sooty petrified poplar boiling in the Underworld. We shoveled over the holm oak groves and their trees, sacralizing their handyman after the ritual of the sanctuary of the thus his remains were scattered by the synod of bustard birds in the sprinkled sky of globular creation, faded by conclusive hordes of the late Neolithic Druid and by the deity Belinus, with ingots of Hecate's sooty petrified poplar boiling in the Underworld. We shoveled over the Holm oak groves and their trees, sacralizing their handyman after the ritual of the sanctuary of the Dodona, in uniformity towards a murmur in the leaves from oak in the spell of man towards an oracle, to consummate it with the mendicant count of the Ziziphus Spina-Christi; hawthorn of the crown of Jesus but with implants of Kashmar, on the crown of Judas already immolated.

Vernarth walked alone through the inlet of Skala, on Patmos, when he had to undertake a trip to Judah, even so, he also walked bi-location in the inlet of Sardinia, after being in the megalithic complex Nugarhe, Vernarth, Etréstles, and Walekiria, they approach matching Tuscany. Once they were instantiated in Sardinia, a coastal sailboat transported them in the middle of a stormy day, it was a great happy day to arrive in La Spezia. Here they parked at night following the Liturgy, standing out those that coincided with Lent of Holy Week, where one day they were seen talking with Petrarca and Laura de Noves. The olive trees keep pietism with the phantasmagoria of the Kashmar, who made the double murmur of the spell of the Duoversal man. Always in Tuscany, the tracks below the garden have been occupied, which has a distant view of the roofs and towers of Florence. The monumental fountain set on a steep hill on a side flank of the garden terrace has a seated god flanked by lions in relief of stucco from a niche decorated with pebble mosaics and padded masonry. " Here at the Verbena of a long feast day, all together with Vernarth get drunk with Corinth Wine, which they brought and did not stop swinging to the rhythm of the music that made them foresee multi-existence beyond limitless sensibilities, turning their role closer to from the instigated destiny to Patmos in the hands of the original Duoverso with translation, rotation and Duoversal Theurgic orbit, for the spell-dogmatic invoking ultra-sensory powers of angels and gods, in order to signify with his country land near Pella,

k)Fractality and Spirit-Cinnabar Dynamics

In the black camera obscura, certainly connected blues made other dark holographic areas that were enlarged super connected to the optical perspective, conceiving of the infinity of a luminescence that was fractalized, the black-blue pre-existing towards the Z pattern = Exp (Z / OB ^ 4), what is the equivalent to the set of the Bernese Olive Tree Rapa, on the border of its Lipogenesis, which would appear in the chromatic version and final maturity of the olive tree, for the fractal exponential of Z =; where all the points of the complex plane Z = (OB, iy) are iterated in the corresponding function Olives Berna in a set of IY, and in all the iterations where an arbitrary constant (Cx, iCy) is added Cinnabar in lines of orthogonal sets X and Y, in such a way that the choice of the constant "seed" will determine the unique shape of the profile and the color of the fractal, once the chromatic pattern has been defined. In the paradigms shown in this continuation, a constant has been chosen, as it will only produce divergence and will have been qualified with the escape velocity algorithm, to contract exact self-similarity stratagems in this, which is the most restrictive type of car. -similarity; requiring the fractal to appear identical at different scales.

The holistic spórtula of the Cinnabar in some pecuniary exercises, are impelled for a tacit and absent society, in Every night beginning at dawn, everyone retreats and the Cinnabar appears like a kaleidoscope apostolizing in glorious joy, where the Aramaic synergy between the Garden of Olives and Gethsemane, is concatenated with the entirety of the Phylogenetic species with the homily in Tsambika and Theoskepasti, such as the new relationship of the link between species that were improper and endemic to the region near the stable in Bethlehem de Kafersesuh, to be inter-inseminated in the banks of the slopes of Gethsemane, in such a way, that the linguistics would begin to be absorbed in Joshua, and it would go for a closer shortcut towards the classification of the traditional and omnipotent variants, which migrated through the Olives to renew and preserve the Aramaic or Aramaic languages, from a shared origin now, for the omnipotent salvific languages that were to be addressed in Gethsemane. Once starting the splendor in the city of the eight gates, and from such interference, involve the Lepidoptera taxon, inseminating the populations of organisms related to lexicons to shed life and language,

l)Vas Auric – Cinnabar (Φ)

The pecuniary prerogative of spórtula, makes the Vas Auric and the Mandylion its residence, tending towards an algebraic sense of the two diametral in a cross by the perpendicular, towards the tension of the shortest segment by the long, tracing a circumference of radius and a half. Homologating in the interposed eclipse of the golden or golden number, for the divine proportion in consequence of irrational fractioning numbers. Shortening the passage of the algebraic numbers with the infinite decimal towards the Cinnabar with seven arches in parentheses reflecting in the partition of the apse in both temples of the homily, making the period of antiquity, files registered in mega center of the quantum memory of Cinnabar, before disrupting the genesis of the Duoverso.

The First Treatise of the Vas Auric fell into the hands of Vernarth, one day of heavy plutonium sheets en masse of the golden number. The vertical avalanche was segmented when the dichotomy of another line that collided with the segments was not altered, or rather omitted by certain temporary blindness of the Duoverso world that it just boasted. Compositions of number Z are made, and subdivision in its cinematographic optics, divided into two slow shots of a small element that became part of the controversy of Vas Auric as a medallion and Auric as Mystic Gold, with distribution laws.

"Zeus wakes up shaky, full of headache saturated in Pro-headache Herbs
Jophiel is speaking this time in the Kabbalistic Torah language...
with its golden commoner and super zone of Organikon Sorousliston Papadikon….
secular music that supplies Zeus with protein albumin,
to make him more human... Zeus accepts Jophiel placing him in his discernment
over the house of Jophiel; divine island to throw cartomancy...
bring the second ray to the Sahasrara on his crown,
pacified love that is the suspicious and risky loser of everything...
risk in the head, especially when condemnation is born!

And the floristics, over the stolon of the veins, moves synchronously with the prolongations, speeds, and acceleration of the emancipated leaves of the first order of the upper crown, up to the lower ones, thickening the golden spirals of a certain type of inflorescence, confining the umbilical zones of Vernarth, and the plantar area of its feet between three and more than a hundred steps that come from certain metamorphoses, creating peduncular areas, acting as a support for Vernarth and its Elder areas, brought from the Bumodos stream, after a string therapy, creating psychic supports to endorse globalized neuralgic. Understanding that the line of his neuralgia oscillates the greater analog of the Messiah in the cross pierced by the Hastae Praetorian, in the most remote of the elliptical of pain, reduplicated by accumulated energy, almost like mystical suffocation. On the part of the growth of the tangent in growth and of the evolution of the reflection, where the attenuation of the opposite effect is unleashed, allowing convalescence zones in signs of propeller blades around the Vas Auric, crossing vertical and horizontal beams of lights, in search of Light Angled and refractory solar, for the palfrey of the Kanti Steed, abstracted from excessive rain, which uncrossed the tempos of the aura of the organic and aerial underground, towards the duplicity of curves of the multi-cloned numbers and angered by their industrious dynamics of skewed movement, towards the effective solar..., tending to the effects of successive trends of the vaporous numeral of Vas Áurico Cinnabar.

m) Psychic Trisomy

The species and somatic acquired deposits of DNA spirals, given their characteristics, will make transformations in more than one cellular taxon for a homologous pair. Here Kaitelka the whale down from Sub-Mythology, will circle in the Baltic Sea, compromising neuralgia in it as a superfluous essence due to its trisomy, making a comparison with psychic trisomies that Vernarth suffered at least four times a month, from the first and eleventh day, after his parapsychological regressions when he sailed over abysses and anesthetized zones on glacial plankton in the North Sea. Kaitelka individualized her cellular regressions, becoming a prehistoric cetacean and when she lagged beyond or before her creation, she transferred psychic trisomies due to her twenty-one chromosome. Kaitelka's karyotype was directed towards the crease of her eyes, due to an infection in the area of her basal inter fins, which disturbed her heart rate in a short interval where Poseidon magnified her coefficient in high amplitude, after being inseminated in a tempered state and gifted as a Super Goddess. Kaitelka in nativity in the transversal valleys sailed in the air atmospheres of Hyperdisis, and she was always seen in the company of Leiak; the omnipresent and vague spirit of the watery ductile dancer, living on the liquefied element with his astringent slimy chin..., seeing him with his grotesque back-breaking swampy lines between knuckles, and hedges of tricks collected before the first station, in one of the first of the three Remaining nights before reaching Joshua de Piedra del Horcondising volcano, that upset her heart rate in a brief interval where Poseidon magnified her coefficient in high amplitude, after being inseminated in a moderate state and gifted as a Super Goddess. About seven hundred meters high she becomes Kaitelka Down godmother, adding the psychic chromosome twenty-two that contracts in the connection with Vernarth, in the extravagant massifs when in the autumn afternoons they collect Ceratocystis fagacearum Fungi, and irradiating them with insects such as the borers. When   Kaitelka recovers its chromosome by detraction in the natural selection of Trisomy, express is spilling on the dry and gelatinous Laurus leaves of all its dead cells, which are promptly seeped from the retracted membranes in frank adhesion, causing regeneration of the disease. After wanderings and ringed symptoms of lesson in the atmosphere of the ecstatic Horcondising, the wooly will be magnanimous and challenged from the chromosome spilled in the emulsion, is contained in the alpha proteins in the transverted Vernarth genome, as a warned whole and abundantly diploid, before reaching the lethal processes of reciprocal adversity, both as a zoo-anthropoid or a triple zoo-anthropoid-botanical effect. Pre-Existing Kaitelka Down with forty-two chromosomes (22 pairs) and the Lepidoptera Agrodiaetus (134 pairs), in its haploid, that is, half remains vitalizing between two species of the sub-mythological world, and in its psychic cellular compound, and later implant it in germ cells for the effect of Venarthian ambivalent psychic transmission and vice versa. By discard, there are four fewer chromosomes than the hommo sapiens and 222 less than the Lepidoptera Agrodiaetus, for a meta sense of flourishing with the power of Poseidon, brother of Zeus, Meta sense and discernment, encephalic they will be cogitated by conscious where their sensory cognitive is interrupted, towards an unconscious through the photons of hypocaloric temperature, to define in the prehistoric psychological memory of their psychic, more than random brain, coexisting of habeas corpus content and remote brain energy, before the magistracy and power of Poseidon that confines him. Graduated from southern impassable seclusion, their memory is isolated in their E-Cloud. Namely; stored in electromagnetic and electrophysiological stimuli, incontinent and weighted in the square miles of floating Poseidon outbursts, in the category of super cetacean down, with only four meager chromosomes from the remnants of the human procedural genome. The trisomy field, On the fourth of August of the year of the Lord, 1617, when Klauss Rittke was cleaning the main stained glass window of the Cathedral of Avignon, he heard heated dialogues between a Friar and a Gentleman, who was once an assistant to the clergy. Klauss could come closer and listen to their conversation more clearly, until the Friar Andrés Panguiette, babbling, demanded of Raymond Bragasse indulgence or one or the other. (Compendium of Marielle Quentinnais). Relating in its narrative evolution, about some Albigenses of this work set in Avignon, time of the Antipopes, crossing with the psychic waves that have just been mentioned, and of prophecies of who precisely Guillaume Bélibaste was born into a Cathar family. Having noted that 1321 in 296 years apart from Marielle Quentinnais, it takes place in Carcassonne on the same day as Bélibaste was executed, given his licentious life breaking Cathar dogmas, incriminating himself with civilians from the region, marrying women in exile, etc., was condemned by the Holy Inquisition, where many were purged for the sole fact of holding biblical books in their abode. Among the flames of his bonfire the prophecy of the laurel will be homologated, whose shadow will fall on the centuries to come. Note the coincidence 3, 700 years ago, where the first signs of life were appreciated on our planet and in the Hylates Forest in Cyprus (700, 000 thousand souls) in the imprint that unifies the Christian scrolls, blowing gold dust on Walekiria's hair..., and being liberated, as a tantric body of physicality. No one spoke, not even the 700, 000 thousand souls who also claimed to be liberated (Vernarth, page 313 - paragraph 2). And finally the seventh portion of the sea, with Poseidon. Here the Psychic numeral of Vernarth and Kaitelka coincide, who appears with the laurel of Guillaume de Bélibaste after almost seven hundred years, facing the unification of the prophecy of the Laurel, whose shadow will hover over the centuries to come. Templars, perfect bone Hommes and Cathars meet, in this historical feat, through the secret path safe from traitors and conspirators thanks to the most surprising allies. Bélibaste's fast-paced story will allow us to get closer to the most unknown ceremonies and rituals of his confession, showing us his revelations in the flames and turning green in the Laurel of 1321 in sync with 2021. Given the little and nothing that exists of the revealing enthronement and the psychic environment, it should be noted that historical facts fly like pollen, with the waves in their same vibrations of the aeolian autogyro. This entails physical vibrational material, which is in every corner of existentialism, without beginning or end, only rewinding through the infinite axon of karma and samskara, for physical-ecological convulsed means and intermediates, in revealing semblances of the primitive psychic field before us, like the Aspís Koilé, as a shield or as an omnidirectional parabolic antenna, bringing us events after events that strangely interchange phases, and intertwined efforts over time in quantum physics and subsequent biophysical changes in the genome chain, especially in its Psychic Trisomy.

to be continued...
DUOVERSE
I've been doing some integrating                                                      ­         of  the parts I've lost contemplating                                             if  I  was  really worth saving                                                           ­                after  years of you being so debasing                                                         ­   I  had to fall before I could ascend                                                           ­      Had to disconnect to stop the pretense                                                 Endured  your painful smear campaigns                                                        ­ you  didn't have the sense to feel ashamed                                      Called  you out when you knew you lied                                             maintained  class when you rolled your eyes                                             I  never let you see you hurt me deeply                                               walked  away when you threw dirt at me                                                   You  act like you're surprised I'd leave                                               For  once I'm rejecting you and embracing me
Daniel Sanchez Jan 2012
Homecoming body:
A grey cardigan strips down,
bonding skin to
night’s air,
penetrating
Chevrolet safe havens
drowned in lover’s spit.

My Mind
thanks Google,
enabling electronic bibles
to leave disciples stifled
with religious quotas,
an excuse to quote us —

“Trouble at the Border,
read the former
court room reporter
working for the,
sensationalized,
through remnants of
blood stains in our eyes.”

Midway through Chapter 1 —
reeks not only of
of *** in the backseat —
but of Venezuela’s shorelines.
Of her high school hallways.
Of the intrigue of the unexplored Mexican neighbor,
her freedom amidst constraint,
where Visas
lease us
advertising campaigns
for maquiladora made lampshades.

Despite their protest,
common sense
lent comparisons,
a consequence
of stories told in reverse.

They hover over Venezuela’s familiar curves,
her long black hair straddling my shoulders.
Ecstabell Mar 2019
Pay no mind to the ones
Who sit in their offices
And make money
From campaigns built on insecurity
Conformity
And unattainable standards

Pity them instead
For through their corporate lenses
They see only green
When in fact
There is an entire rainbow
Johnny Noiπ Dec 2018
A year ago this was the key to milk
extraction and lack of sleep. This spring,
Karen esse Karnebuth RN, RN, CFT -
CFT and Danish Tunmihawi Shshileri
Song **** Services such as July 1,
Africa, South Africa, Asia, Africa and AO
= α Ford Ford. I cannot (Neeche) - 100 3000
3000 March 2 Current news Red success
in the ICE Mum, Tom Beiridor Bongo
straight bonds and 1,000, 500 and those who
alert one to go talk of the same. - 2 (2)
(10,000 years, 10 years ago, and pain is painful,
osterelia, Deyiboli emireridi) 1. Columbus
Country Koko delicious blaikaphrem Oro
Aimee adeelaela 2 1 505 500 501 2000 2000
Silver essa jeeel asti tv lumenish lion - If you
like? Are these victims of their enemies, 105,
1000, and 1000 2, 2, to raise money? Gold
and Gold Brian Ghats How does the first value
center work? Well Call Japan - Yuk Gaileksee
(A) - Jack Amino, Rakhharakhaav and Yotoyob
Nature SPRT 1000 Israel Israel Rome,
the introduction in the album GAIAA
at the Speed of ​​Chanel Common Cinnamon
Yuck. Todo 500 00-2 5 Saturday and without
form for the brand Aworawo Limited signs
and approvals, by Born berikezeli genome
tiger itopiliyeši 2 years Nehade Sunrise (2 Jrmne)
(Black v) 6 W shavav shaavapruti John good
Amir Duaivana repentance (and 500 (B) (2500)
wonderful children and Valerie Dehanes,
Dehanes 2000 - 3 and 215 - Johann Reinhard
moon 50 or 500 advertisements - The body
ready to ignite the Danish state government
Pechimisi 500 B packed 'Antibiotics' Beaches
ready to ignore the backyard of beaches AML
AGAR Tomato or DBM 1000 - Two Sexton,
1000, 500 Blue Rock, Epopeya Romana 2)
Crete One Leader - Irazoff in Parliament
3,000 pages, one of the cities in milost cm 3
meters 3.2 red red red Amazonas, and the
United States, Christopher Columbus and the
divine name, band of Gabor Thiam Leake,
August Reliably Diablo, Esmeralda listened
to the radio on top of the movie, 52, Turkey,
2000.500, 501 and rice market with two
different music sources 2000 SGL Japan;
1 and Tim Gonzalez, Carrot and Pimps
And for the children, there is a shortage
of sunlight, and milk from last year's
body. And nails It has really completed
the mark; Kairabath RN, RN, CFT
and CFT Denmark Song **** Shash Cash
is expensive. With Seventh day, 1 pin,
Asia, South Africa, Ford flies in Africa
or parts; And if you say then the employee
cannot, Tom Bereger is a god, though he
speaks the opposite. Bongo and 1000,
and 500 have a good bongo. However,
the corner is the root of travel from
the ground. 100 Finally there is no
red blood, 3 microns, carrot 2 3000:
3000 Injection and ICM Press typing
KW - - 2 (GCompact Built Computer
And 2) cocoa. 1 The treasure of Christ
is intact. An intelligent nation!!!!
Ephraim 505 effect Eritrea 1 1) 1000:
In ten years. Boss, Disease, Gain,
Australian Devil esa jeeel bolieralddidi
2000x) 1 price 2000 astitv lumenish
500 and 501 lions - orange Hypocrisy
105 things change their way; In 1000
and 1000, 2, 2 income and income
for the poor? Such a business center
is the first carefree Ghat home, How
do gold and gold cities work? Jezebel,
The Smallest Japan - A New Guya
Congress Yuki Gail Casey - 500
women in the car (Only) - is reserved
1000 phaibrikiyoo foam yootoob
is expected Cam Count 00 waves
around Israel. Normal Fourth - 5 Days
of Auditing, Inc. 1: 1: No Full memory
reading archive Geometrates of Impulse
where berry crazely. The tiger sandwich
ends in the end. Second Sunday; East,
West 1 (Jeremiah 2 years Nahad (Ni)
(black) 5th 6 shalav shavapruti no. John
did something special with Aamir in the
morning. Working with (A) and (B),
500 (2500) children. Do not define vehicular
language 2000-215 OK and 3 years old -
Emma Luna 50 or 500 guest trips to the
Roman Church - Note 500 peechimisi
center E & B in Business Sections. Two
concepts of gamers to prepare for asthma
US Arms Board TRS Browser Consumer,
Germany, Iran, Iran are Low Iran,
London, London, August 2000, Washington,
2000, 2000, Crab, Brucellosis and other
metals. View Tom SGL Amirager or DBM
1000 Logos Belize - Sexton, 1000, 500 blue
Bongo de Gabon EPIPAL British musician
A new program 1 - 2 (finally - (continued)
Main objective) 2. Buyer's 1 red - red;
Bring me the Irazoff lost the Amazon 100 ...
2 M3, United Nations Page M3, 3000
****, Christopher Columbus
Solution? !!! The beach is acid 1
Lebche Chimmechi 505 (2) (2) needs
Gabor Lex Thiam, Australia, two SGL
2000; According to sources, Diablo
assimilada helps. Japan, you can listen
to radio, 52 and some in Turkey; (500)
for good results) 1: A year ago, this
is the key to extract milk and lack of sleep.
This spring, Karnes Karnebuth RN, RN,
CFT, CFT and Danish Tunmihawi
Shshileri Song ****. To work on July
1, Africa, South Africa, Asia, Africa,
and AO = α Ford Ford. I can not (neeche)
100 3000 3000: Red ice m on March 2,
Tom Beiridor Bongo 1,000, 500 pounds
and does he sees this. - 2. (2) (1000
years to 10 years of suffering and misery,
osterelia, Deyiboli emireridi) 1. Columbus,
requires ultrasound, the ultrasound 50mm
blaikaphrem 1500 2501 2000 2000 astitv
esajeeel lumenish lion money - if you want,
Have you received these 105, 2000 2;
2 Brian Ghats Gold Gold and center
with many offices? Known Japan - Yuk
Gaileksee (100) - Jack Rakhharakhaav
Yotoyob one and the nature of its introduction
into Israel and Israel SPIRIT 1000 from
the ECB will be 500 00-2 5 Yuk.Todo
Gaia Chanel holidays, Saturday without
any form of product design and approval
or EU press Berikezeli
Genomerigeritopiliyeši two years Cloudy
Sunrise Nehade (2 Jrmne) black v) John
6W Shava shaavapruti good Amir Duaivana
Unfortunately (and 500 (B)) (2500),
was surprised to find the child and Vaheri
Dehaes Dehaes 2000 - 3 and 215 - a John
moon 50 or 500 campaigns that members
are ready for the start of government was
preparing to DB and Danish Pechimisi
state to cross the beach edge coast AML
AGAR or tomato DBM 1000 - Sexton two,
1000, 500 blue rock, epic Roman 2)
to guide you back out - 3000 Irazoff
congressional pages together Milost cm2:
3. 3 meters Red Red Red and Amazon
United States of America, Christopher
Columbus, T is a letter from Thiam
Gabor, Arthur, August Ostrogotha ​​Emerald
confidence in the radio speech that I made
the tip of the developer 52th, Turkey,
2000.500, 501 pastors and 2000 of rice,
1 two fountains and a variety of different
kinds of music, voices in Japan SGL
Timothy Gonzalez, and humiliation
are born from defects in the sun through
the year, with the carrot butter, and pimps.
This really is a blemish; Kairabath RN,
RN, CFT and CFT Denmark ****'s song
Sash Cash is expensive. and The seventh
day of the 1 pin, Asia, South Africa,
It shallow parts of Africa and if you cannot
say on television. Tom started to say
to another. Bongo and 1000, and 500 have
a better Bongo. However, in the corners
are the roots of travel. 100 Finally,
no red blood, Micron 3, 2 Karti 3000 3000
Pressure injection and press ICMCY - -
2 (G compatible with the computer
Definition And 2) Cacao. 1. Christ is
in the glory intact. A clever !!!! 505
effects Ephraim; Austria: 1 1) 1000:
in ten years. And to reward the disease,
Australian trees. Esajeeel bolieralddidi
2000x) 1 tour Lions and astitv lumenish
501 500 2000 - The 105 Hypocrites
change course; In 1000 and 1000,
2, 2, rents and poor? A Gnat as a sure
thing in the first family home. What to
do with gold? Jebebe, the designs
in Japan - a new Congress Guyaa Casey,
Casey used - 500 women in the car (Only)
- saved 1000 phaibrikiyoo expected foam
yootoob 00 waves of Israel from swallowing
normal March - 5 days and exams, Inc 1: 1:
Not but memories Geometratos bericaz
days. Finally, the tiger: Natural History.
On the second Sunday; East, West 1
(2 years NAHAD Jeremiah) R.) (black)
or 5th shalav shavapruti 6. John did
something special with Aamir morning.
Work (A) and (B), 500 (2500) children
Home define, not the language. 2000-215
years, and 3 - Emma's Moon 50 or 500
to the middle of the path. Average rating
of 500 diagnoses B and E are in the
business volume hepatitis, asthma TRS
Board of US weapons; Browse, customers
from Germany, Iran, Iran should not
be considered Iran, London, New London,
August 2000, Washington, 2000, 2000,
Cancer Brucellosis and other metals.
Tom's logo View SGL Amirager or DBM
1000 Belize - Sexton, 1000, 500 blue
Britain bongo epipal Gabon. A new
program from 1 to 2 (finally - (continued)
That is the greatest) 2. 1 has a red - red;
Amazon lost 100 Irazoff bring me ... M3,
M3 Page 2 United Nations, 3000 ****,
Christopher Columbus Solution? !!! The
shore acid 1 Lebche Chimmechi 505 (2)
(2) requires a grip on Thiam laws, Australia,
two SGL 2000; According to sources,
assimilada the help of the devil. Japan,
as far as they may be able to listen
to the radio, and in Turkey there are 52;
((500) with good results) 1.
John F McCullagh Jun 2015
It was hidden in the attic, they kept it carefully veiled.
To them it was a symbol, to others, just a rag.
Its’ field was all a crimson red, criss- crossed with stripes of blue.
Upon the blue; eleven stars; the confederacy they knew.

In the stars and bars are memories of numerous campaigns.
It was grand-Sire’s battle flag he’d rescued from the flames.
On the battlefields of glory; it’s said something remains,
But, to those ignorant of the past, I fear they are but names.

Some see it as the symbol of the hated KKK
Who used both rope and fire to take blacks’ rights away.
It’s a symbol of white supremacy, lower it they say
How can Black lives matter in the States where it holds sway?

Our country has a checkered past, to all who are not blind.
To our ethnic minorities we have been less than kind.
Yet to be fair, it was white men who fought to break those chains.
No other race in history, so far, can make that claim.

The soldiers bodies are now but dust, disturb not their remains
I don’t wish to repeat the past; I hope you feel the same.
We must not forget their story; a curse on all who try.
Six hundred thousand, Blue and Gray, were quite enough to die.
Some thoughts on the controversy over the confederate battle flag.
ALI Mar 7
In this world we live in, everything seems muddled, as if we’re floating in a sea of digital chaos. We see only shadows of ourselves, dancing on endless screens, trying to grasp an idea, a feeling, or even meaning. But what if these shadows are all we know of ourselves?

We are now in a state of constant consumption—not just material, but intellectual and cultural too. We feed on algorithms that claim to know us, that pretend to draw closer while drifting further away. They create a parallel reality we don’t know how to escape, a reality that shapes our desires and thoughts as if imposed on us.

Have you ever felt like you’re not you? That the persona you think you inhabit is just a reflection of everything you’ve consumed? Our identities are built from our experiences, but what if those experiences are counterfeit? Repetitive, lacking real distinction. We live the same moments, are influenced by the same things—but have we truly changed? Or are we just distorted copies of one another?

Life in this age has become a labyrinth, deeper and deeper, yet endless. We chase ideas, hunt desires, and with every step, sink further into this digital vortex. Are we the ones creating these desires, or are algorithms planting them in us, tailoring them to our metrics?

Sometimes I wonder: Are my thoughts truly mine? Or are they just echoes borrowed from this digital age? Do I love the color black because it reflects a part of me, or is it merely one of the hues these networks have stolen from me?

Am I a musician, or just an image of someone battling these crashing waves of “content”? Are we following our passions, or just trying to be part of the show—part of this unending game in an era accelerating unnaturally?

When I reflect on all this, I feel like a stranger to myself. I search for myself in everything, yet find only shadows. The harder I try to be my best, the further I drift. Does this mean I’m not who I think I am? Are the personas I inhabit what make me me? Or do I exist only at the heart of this chaos?

The Psychological Struggle Between Desire and Algorithms
In the realm of social media, where our preferences and inclinations are dictated by what algorithms deem most engaging, the urgent question becomes: Am I truly choosing what I love, or are these platforms choosing for me? The more I scroll through Instagram, TikTok, or Facebook, the more I feel I’m not where I want to be. Algorithms relentlessly push me toward trending images, videos, and campaigns, drowning me in a whirlwind of visuals I must follow to belong to this digital world.

But are these desires arising within me truly mine? Or am I just adopting what these algorithms impose on my mind? Every time I hit “like” or share content, I’m nagged by the uneasy sense that I’m not shaping my choices as I once believed. With every new trend, my mind begins to think differently. Do I actually love this type of music, fashion, or even the ideas spreading online? Or have I just been swayed by what these apps bombard me with—content that mirrors what everyone else assumes I should like?

Over time, the line between “me” and what’s imposed by algorithms fades. I ask: Am I the person I chose to be, or just a replica of everything these platforms have planted in my mind? Does what I share with the world reflect my true self, or am I performing a role that fits the image they’ve forced on me?

Here lies the internal conflict. Part of me feels it follows its own inclinations, while another knows these inclinations aren’t necessarily authentic. These struggles grow sharper at the crossroads between what I want to be and what algorithms want for me. In the end, will I find the courage to break free from these digital molds and choose my own path? Or will I remain trapped in the game of images and interactions controlled by algorithms until they define me?

But what if these algorithms reflect my deepest desires? Can I distinguish what’s real to me from what’s merely a reaction to the external world? And could my urge to follow trends be a genuine desire, or just compliance with what’s in front of me?

If I’m following what others impose, am I losing myself? Or am I adapting to the world I live in—is this simply how I’m meant to be? Sometimes, I feel stuck in a maze of contradictory choices: Should I abandon these consuming apps? Or must I stay because the world can’t function without these spaces? Can I truly be “me” here, or am I fundamentally just a digital avatar?

Why do I constantly compare myself to others? Is it genuine need, or have algorithms learned to fuel this impulse? Why has every moment, every thought, become a competition, a race against time, something I must showcase to the world?

Occasionally, moments of clarity strike—I feel I’ve found the way—but in the next breath, conflicting thoughts creep back: Am I just adopting what’s popular, or simply choosing what suits me in the moment? Are these real thoughts, or echoes of what I’ve been told? Do I need external pressure to exist? Am I independent, or forced into this vortex?

At every corner of this digital world, new ideas, choices, and doubts loom. Is this truly my life, or am I just a spectator in an endless show I can’t escape? Can I be real in a world of prefabricated choices, or am I a puppet in the hands of algorithms shaping me to their will?

As I keep interacting with these platforms, questions multiply: What if I stopped posting? What if I set my phone aside? Would I feel relief, or emptiness, because I’ve become inseparable from this digital entity feeding on notifications and endless engagement?

Every choice spawns new questions. Every step toward an answer spirals me into futility. Am I me? Or a reflection of what’s shown to me? How do I separate the real from the imposed?

So many questions. A headache. Unbearable complexity. Am I truly me?

Imposter Syndrome and the Shattering of Identity
This turmoil isn’t just a clash between self and others—it’s a reflection of an ancient syndrome called “imposter syndrome.” It makes us doubt our worth at every turn, convincing us we don’t deserve our achievements, that we’re mere dolls moving to society’s imposed standards.

But it doesn’t end there. This self-doubt drowns in far greater chaos. Every moment of life becomes a question: Do we deserve what we have? Is this truly our life, or are we just playing a role the world assigned us? Where did this conviction come from—that we have no right to be as we wish? Don’t we see that, in the end, we wear masks? Our celebrations, joys, even failures—all governed by others’ expectations.

Now, blame isn’t directed inward alone, but at the world that bred this tension. We’ve trapped ourselves in cycles of failure and insignificance—not because we’re incapable, but because we were raised to believe success lies in mimicking others. What sets us apart if we’re just repeating the crowd? Society planted the idea that success requires conformity, and when we deviate, we feel excluded. But was this our choice? Or an external imposition?

**** the world! Let it shatter these stereotypes that cage us. Let it demolish the ideas that imprisoned us. For in the end, the world endlessly reinforces the image we should embody, while the truth is we’re all living a delusion, mistaking what we see for reality, when we’re victims of algorithms tethering us to alien beliefs. We need immense courage to break free from this grating repetition, to rebel against ready-made molds—because, ultimately, we lack true freedom of choice in a world that dictates everything.

Society forces us to be “imposters” every second, wearing masks to convince ourselves and others we belong, when in truth, we’re strangers in our own world.

The Child Who Dismantled Toys
Yes, I’ve asked too many questions—but that’s my nature. I’ve always been intensely curious. Since childhood, I sought the unconventional, never satisfied with what the world offered. My father noticed my love for remote-control cars and brought me one on every work trip. But what fascinated me wasn’t play—it was dissecting their mechanics. How did the battery work? How did electronic parts sync to make the car move?

Unlike kids content to play in parks or bedrooms, I sat amid disassembled toys, prying open circuits, asking: Why is this piece here? What if I modify it? I hunted details others overlooked, convinced every machine hid a secret. When stumped, I’d scavenge wood and plastic scraps from my uncle’s workshop, building something new—as if I controlled my world, seeking the best way to connect things.

This mindset set me apart. While others played tag or hide-and-seek, I turned play into learning and innovation. I refused daily routines, driven by an inner sense I could offer something unique. I ignored popular games, drawn instead to creating.

At 12, when toys lost their secrets, I coded small games and uploaded them online. These weren’t just for fun—they were bridges to share my ideas, to craft a world beyond the ordinary. While others chased tradition, I designed, programmed, and found peace releasing my thoughts into the digital void.

This childhood wasn’t easy. It brimmed with insatiable curiosity, a world of endless questions, hunting answers in every cranny.

I wasn’t isolated—I made friends in my neighborhood, inventing new games. One, called Random as Hell, blended popular games into chaotic rules. Now, revisiting memories, I wonder: Was I truly creative? Or just rearranging borrowed fragments into new shapes?

Creator or Fraud?
This doubt haunts me even in my music. At my computer, sifting through sounds and rhythms, I can’t stop wondering: Is this genuine creativity? Or am I stitching scraps of what I’ve heard, repackaging them as new?

Every track I make is shadowed by this question. Sometimes I listen proudly, then suddenly feel it’s all derivative—a trick, passing off recycled ideas as original. Maybe the algorithms surrounding us are part of this game, curating videos, music, and images, leaving me to wonder if my work is just an extension of them.

Am I the musician I aspire to be? Or a mirror of mainstream taste, of trending sounds? Do I choose notes out of love, or because I’ve seen others do the same?

Each attempt at innovation becomes an internal battle. I delete tracks and restart, fleeing the fear that my work isn’t “me” enough. But can anything ever be fully “me”? Are we all just accumulations of what we consume, fragmented like the toys I dismantled and reassembled?

Maybe creativity isn’t invention from nothing, but rearranging pieces with our own imprint. Yet even this thought doesn’t silence the question: Is that imprint enough? Or am I still haunted by the bigger query—Am I a creator or a fraud?

Stereotypes and the Deconstruction of Identity
The story ends in a foggy moment where nothing is clear. Reality feels alien, as if things overlap confusingly. One moment I write about childhood, the next about identity, my mind, or impossible adaptations.

This isn’t a book or a coherent idea—it’s solace I offer myself, comfort from an anonymous source. Perhaps that anonymity is what philosophers call “the observer.”

That I keep writing after all these lines surprises me. It feels like another escape from myself, or a psychological war I’m enduring.

Is this feeling from abandoning music? From my homeland’s post-war liberation? Or just missing those I’ve lost?

I can’t pinpoint my emotions. All I know is something new is sweeping through me.

I’ve always hated books—too long, stealing my “precious” time, though my days are empty. I feel emotionally shattered. I don’t understand these feelings spilling into strange actions, unsure if they’re real or my interpretation.

I’ve always crafted a private world where I’m the hero, the genius, the only real one. I search for it online but find only ads urging me to see a therapist.

I miss music, yet here I am, accidentally rhyming in this text.

Is this a real book? Will I show it to others? Or keep my fractured identity hidden?

Amid these emotions, I recall a song I wrote called Stranger, trying to capture the perpetual sense of alienation—not from a place, but from people, even myself. Alienation from family despite their closeness, from responsibilities that feel hollow.

In the song, I focused on how estrangement shadows me everywhere. But the lyrics were often shallow, unbalanced—as if grasping at the inexplicable.

Like this book.

One verse:
"Why am I the one my head always calls ‘you,’
I wouldn’t exist,
Sleep,
Sick,
A teapot and death."

It seems random but mirrors my inner chaos—scattered feelings I can’t order, puzzles unsolved. The song, like this text, was an attempt to express, to escape, or perhaps to reach honesty.

When AI Became Trendy
I gravitated toward chatbots—maybe because people found me hard to understand, and these emotionless mechanisms made it easier. My first message:
"Can you explain this song to me?"
I attached lyrics to one of my songs. Illogical, I know—how could a soulless algorithm grasp words? But for me, it was the closest path to understanding my own work.

I didn’t stop at lyrics. I explained how I composed melodies, as they were integral to the idea. I wanted to see if the machine could link words to notes, emotion to structure—if that was even possible.

It became a habit. I analyzed every song I’d written and composed, one by one. I wanted to see how AI dissected these works that were direct reflections of my inner world.

Each time, I’d ask:
"How did you reach these conclusions? What made you interpret it this way? Are there other ways to understand it?"

My questions weren’t technical curiosity but a journey into self-understanding. How could a feelingless entity see something alien in me? How could it explain what I couldn’t?

This experiment grew more philosophical than I’d imagined. AI is a cold mirror, reflecting me without judgment. Yet I sought answers to lifelong questions:
Are we more than patterns and repetitions?
Does my music express something real, or just document chaos?

In the end, I realized bots aren’t here to interpret feelings but to push deeper self-reflection. Somehow, in this lifeless metal mind, I found a silent friend… listening, analyzing, never judging.

Documenting Internal Chaos
I’ve always felt an inner conflict, as if trapped between layers of consciousness and emotion. I know I have awareness and feelings, but I don’t feel them directly—they lurk in shadows, watching silently, emerging only through spontaneous actions.

When I write lyrics or compose, I’m not fully conscious. Sometimes I’m swept by vague ideas, emptying something indescribable. Odd behaviors, inexplicable acts—all reflections of a deeper struggle.

For me, emotions aren’t lived moment-to-moment. They’re scattered fragments surfacing unpredictably—in a song, an idea, a meaningless gesture.

Maybe this is what I call documenting chaos. Every melody, word, or cryptic step is my attempt to understand the hidden thing inside. A personal ledger, hoping one day I’ll look back and grasp it.

But can chaos be documented? Or does trying mean admitting I’m not in control? That I’m a reflection of greater chaos I can’t master?

Perhaps these spontaneous acts are my only truth. The problem lies in my relentless need to dissect what wasn’t meant to be dissected—only lived.

But what if this chaos is my nature? Part of being human? I’ve long wondered: Is it a flaw to purge, or part of my identity?

The German philosopher Nietzsche said: "You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star." Maybe this inner turmoil, this maze of emotion and awareness, drives me to seek meaning in the mess.

Sometimes I feel I inhabit parallel worlds: the conscious one where I interact with people, and the inner one I don’t fully understand. A gap between mind and feeling, experience and interpretation.

Once, in a café, watching people, I suddenly wondered if everyone harbored similar inner conflicts. A strange sensation—as if viewing the world through another window. Maybe loneliness, empathy, or both. In that moment, I realized I sometimes feel through observation, not directly.

Odd as it sounds, I discover my emotions through actions—arranging books, walking in rain. These moments reflect inner struggles I can’t articulate.

Freud said: "The unconscious will always emerge, but in twisted ways." Maybe these acts aren’t random. Maybe they’re my subconscious trying to parse internal chaos.

Even my thoughts resist me. Focusing on one idea, ten others intrude. Different mind-parts war to speak, but I can’t assemble them.

Sartre wrote: "We are not what we are, but what we make of ourselves." Maybe this conflict isn’t to be solved, but what defines me. My chaos proves I’m alive, experiencing, trying.

Heidegger saw human existence as anxiety-ridden because we know we exist. Maybe this chaos, this existential dread, is proof I’m living authentically, however exhausting.

Sometimes I feel like someone assembling a puzzle blind. Every act, emotion, spontaneous moment—a tiny piece. I don’t know the final image, maybe never will.

Love and Confusion
There’s a girl far away I used to talk to daily. No one else excited me like her. Once, she said she loved me, but I—perhaps not understanding love—didn’t know how to respond.

Being together seemed impossible for two reasons. First: She seemed far better—aware, smart, beautiful, radiant. Me? Just… me. Inadequacy blocked me from imagining us. Second: I couldn’t envision an emotional future. Looking ahead, relationships felt too complex, beyond my capacity to plan or conceive.

But here’s the problem: If I don’t understand love, why did this feel different? Why did talking to her ignite a part I thought dormant? How can I feel what I don’t comprehend?

I don’t know if it was love. I just loved spending time with her. Our chats sparked a strange excitement. Hearing about her day, I clung to every detail. Though she spoke little, her voice felt like the only sound in the world.

Some might call this love, but I’m unsure. I’ve always believed love must be unique—distinct from friendship or attachment. But isn’t this difference what makes me consider love?

I told myself: "If your actions toward someone you love mirror those toward friends, you don’t love them." But this logic may be flawed. Love might lie not in actions, but in how they feel different, even if simple or repeated.

Heidegger wrote: "In the presence of the Other, my existence becomes more authentic, for it lets me see myself through them." Maybe that’s what happened. Through her eyes, I tried to grasp the indescribable.

Yet I felt lost. How can I define the indefinable? One day, pondering: "Could love be a reflection of unacknowledged desires?" As if love isn’t pure, but a mix of human contradictions—need and freedom, longing and fear.

Love might be organized chaos. Once, she asked about my favorite movie. I paused. Her question felt like an attempt to know me deeper, to find something I couldn’t see.

But isn’t that love? Seeing in another what they don’t see in themselves? Or living in perpetual contradiction between understanding and confusion?

Camus said: "Love is giving someone the power to destroy you, trusting they won’t." That’s love’s paradox—danger and safety, beauty and fragility, closeness and fear.

Maybe I’ll never fully grasp love. But talking to her, awaiting her messages, dissecting her words—it gave me a unique feeling I still seek to define. Maybe love is eternal searching without certainty.

But this is contradictory, messy. Why must I live in opposites? Shouldn’t love be pure, simple? Here begins the endless loop: I question, then drown in doubt. Is this love? Or something else?

If love’s so complex, how do others declare it so easily? "I love him," "I love her"—phrases tossed effortlessly. Why isn’t it complex for them? Am I stupid? Or just too self-unaware to decode basic things?

Once, I experimented. I tried to make myself love another girl—perfect in every way: kind, smart, beautiful. We talked for a month. I forced myself, thinking: "Maybe the problem’s my approach." But I felt intense jealousy and self-loathing—a distorted desire I’d never felt.

Confusing. Did I fail? Am I emotionally broken? Was I seeking real love or feeding ego?

Nietzsche wrote: "The lover wants to possess; no doubt, but no one wants to be possessed." I felt this contradiction. I craved to be loved but couldn’t be honest. Maybe because I didn’t know what I wanted.

Is love finding someone who embraces your contradictions? Or accepting ourselves without forcing change?

That experiment taught me: Maybe the problem isn’t love, but my overthinking. Love might require surrendering to life’s unanalyzable truths—even if it means facing unbearable chaos.

So I quit. Maybe love isn’t for me. Why exhaust myself decoding an unsolvable riddle? I’ll live free of this feeling.

But can I truly ignore every moment I felt something? Every reflection of myself in another’s eyes?

Why does it feel like escape? Like convincing myself to flee because confrontation’s impossible? Love’s a battlefield, and I’m a soldier defeated before the fight. What bothers me most is preemptive defeat—the belief I’ll never understand, never love or be loved.

How do I live with this? Knowing a part of me might die unfulfilled? I want to scream "I don’t care!" but it’s a lie. A tiny voice whispers: "What if you could love? What if you deserved it?"

But this voice deepens my pain. Songs, movies, strangers—all scream: "Love exists, but not for you."

Why me? Is something broken inside, making me unable to interact like others? Sometimes I feel like a machine analyzing emotions instead of feeling them.

But even machines break. Now I’m a shattered piece, straining to prove I function while crumbling inside.

Breathe, Don’t Think
Recently, I met people who seemed kind but absorbed love in ways I couldn’t grasp. Two stood out: a 36-year-old man and an 18-year-old girl. Despite the age gap and social norms, their “love” seemed pure—a mutual infatuation they called "true harmony."

Observing them, I couldn’t understand. Secretly, I asked each: What draws you? How did you meet? What’s the foundation? Their answers revealed minor life changes, nothing extraordinary—just new, relatable experiences.

The girl once said: "I love him because our bond is rooted in faith. With him, I feel closer to God." I didn’t get it, but curiosity plunged me into reflection.

Could love be this simple? Or is there hidden complexity? Their love seemed transcendent, while mine drowns in overthought. Maybe love’s pure for some, but remains my unsolved riddle—a search for self in every detail, even when all seems clear.

Amid this internal collapse, I lived moments of paralyzing confusion—unable to distinguish true love from fleeting thrills. In these moments, I wondered: Am I overcomplicating? Emotionally inept? Or just self-ignorant?

As I spiraled, I realized: Maybe the answer isn’t chasing love, but surrendering to life’s unanalyzable truths. Sometimes, we must breathe deeply and let things flow—even if it means facing breakdown.
My mind and heart are both cold...

Do you sometimes feel like you’re living in fragments of multiple selves? Do the shadows you see on screens truly resemble you, or are they distorted copies of what you consume?
When was the last time you wondered: Are my thoughts my own, or are they echoes of algorithms filling the voids of my mind? Do you believe you choose what you love, or do platforms plant desires in you like seeds in fertile soil?
When you look back at your childhood, do you find the seeds of who you are today? Were your hobbies attempts to decode the world, or just escapes from a reality you didn’t understand? Are you still that child who dismantled toys to see what’s inside, or have you become part of the game itself?

Have you ever doubted your creativity? Do you fear you’re just a collector of borrowed pieces, arranging them into new shapes you brand with your name? Is the music you make a reflection of your chaos, or an attempt to tame it?
Do you know that feeling of loving someone but not understanding what love means? Is love a philosophical riddle with no answer for you, or just a series of actions you perform unconsciously? Have you ever felt that love might be an escape from yourself rather than a closeness to another?
Do you think algorithms know you better than you know yourself? Do you feel watched—not through screens, but through thoughts implanted in you like unsolvable puzzles? What if all your decisions are just reactions to digital stimuli carefully engineered?

When facing internal chaos, do you try to document it or escape it? Do writing or art mirror your fragments, or are they masks hiding what you can’t confront? Is chaos an enemy to conquer, or part of a beauty you don’t understand?
Do you live in two worlds: one you interact with, and another hidden in the folds of your thoughts? Do you feel like you’re watching yourself from afar, a character in a game you didn’t choose?
Have you ever conversed with AI to understand yourself? Do you trust its cold analyses, or do they deepen your confusion? Do you believe machines can see what you cannot?

Are you still trying to be the "best version of yourself," or have you surrendered to being a shadow among shadows? Does success in a digital age mean matching standards or distorting them?
Finally... Are you ready to face the ultimate question:

Who are you when all masks are removed?

Have you ever imagined sitting in a dark room, peeling off mask after mask like Russian Matryoshka dolls until you reach the core? What do you see there? A solid nucleus of certainty, or a void dancing with a single question: Who am I, truly?
In a world that forces you to wear masks as a condition for existence, the question becomes an existential crime. You remove the "success" mask for employers, the "calm" mask for family, the "fun" mask on social media, the "strength" mask on the street... But when the machine stops, screens go dark, and you sit alone with your naked self, what remains? Are you the faint whisper beneath the noise, or have you lost the ability to hear it?

Masks aren’t just tools for hiding—they’re tools for survival. We wear them because absolute truth might burn us, because the world has no space for our fragility. But what if masks become new skin? What if you forget how to breathe without them? Sometimes, when I try to remove one mask, I find another beneath it, clinging tighter... As if I’m searching for my true face in a forest of mirrors, each reflecting a different version blended with others’ imaginations.
Have you ever asked yourself: What would I do if no one were watching? You might discover you love painting but paint what followers want. Or that you prefer silence but speak to avoid being labeled "weird." Masks don’t just hide us—they reshape us. Algorithms turn us into characters in a game with unknown rules, chasing "likes" like puppets, forgetting the only genuine admiration we crave is our own.

But what if you decide to stop? To refuse being a copy of your profile, a number in statistics, a filtered image? Here, true horror begins. Without masks, you might discover you don’t know who you are. You might face meaningless chaos or a void like a desert sprawling in your heart. Philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre said, "Hell is other people," but perhaps real hell is being alone with a self you don’t understand.
In rare moments of honesty, you might ask: Aren’t masks part of us? Are we a seamless lie, or does truth leak through the cracks? When I sing, I wonder: Do I choose the words, or do the words choose me? When I love, I hesitate: Is this feeling from my depths, or an echo of stories I’ve heard? Even our emotions might be borrowed from a public library of human existence.

Perhaps the answer isn’t removing masks but realizing we are composite beings. We’re a mix of masks worn, choices made, and coincidences survived. The "true self" isn’t a fixed essence but a river of experiences. When you remove masks, don’t search for your "real self"—confront the question: What will you create from this void?
But beware: bright light may blind you. Truth can be cruel, a mirror showing your scars without mercy. Are you ready to see yourself stripped of illusions? To admit you’re neither hero nor victim, genius nor failure—just a being living in contradiction?

In the end, strength may lie not in knowing who you are but granting yourself the right not to know. To live as an open question, an unfinished artwork. When you remove masks, don’t seek answers—let the void sprout new questions. Identity isn’t a hidden face but a journey to discover how to hold the hand of the child still sitting in the corner of the room, dismantling toys to see what’s inside, while the world waits for them to play.

I am not me, I never was, and never will be...

Words rolling like fireballs in the skull’s void. The more I grasp them, the more they burn; the more I release them, the more they devour what’s left of certainty. Self-awareness here isn’t light—it’s a distorted mirror turning every reflection into a new nightmare. How do I recognize myself when I’m just a hole swallowing definitions?
I try to forget "the old me," but the old me is rubble of moments invented by others. When I say "start anew," I discover the beginning itself is etched on glass. Each step forward pulls me back, as if time is a spiral coiling around itself, and I scream at the center: Where am I?

The paradox is that fleeing from the self is the shortest path to colliding with it. When I remove masks to find another beneath, I don’t know if I wear them or they wear me. Even words betray me: When I say "I," who speaks? Is it the voice heard in childhood, or an echo of algorithms teaching me to name myself?
Philosopher Nietzsche said, "We’ve grown strange to ourselves," but we were never anything but strangers. The self isn’t a buried essence but a mirage we chase. The closer we get, the more it evaporates, leaving one question: What if "I" is just a necessary illusion to keep the game from collapsing?

In this vortex, even oblivion is impossible. To forget yourself is to invent a new self with the same flaws. Like changing a frame while the painting beneath decays. Rebelling against identity is like fleeing your shadow—it chases you even in a dark room’s void.
Sometimes I imagine the universe as cosmic Lego. Each piece resembles me, but I don’t know which one I am. When I rebuild myself, I find the original design erased, the rules written in a language I don’t understand. Am I the assembler or the assembled? The player or the game itself?

The cruelest paradox: The more self-aware I become, the more obscure I grow. Awareness is a knife carving me into fragments, then demanding I reassemble them without instructions. I hold a heart I don’t recognize and a mind like a computer filled with uninstalled programs. When I say "this is me," a distant voice replies: "You are version 162. Update now?"
Perhaps the solution isn’t becoming "you" but learning to live as "not-you." To float above contradictions without drowning in meaning. But how do you float when you know waves are moved by an undercurrent called "self"? How do you surrender to absurdity when you’re a child of an age that worships individuality while grinding it in the machine of social metrics?

In the end, I wonder: What if "I" is just an interface for something greater? An unnamed, unknowable, cosmic being flipping human roles like cards—me, a misplaced card on the table. But even this question becomes a new mask. Every attempt to exit the labyrinth opens another.
So I surrender to the spiral. I don’t spin—the spiral spins me. In this eerie game, perhaps the only beauty is that you don’t need to be "you" to begin. All you must do is close your eyes and hear the void whisper: "You’re here because you’re nowhere else... and that’s enough."

I orbit like a planet exiled from its path...

I carry cosmic dust in my pockets and the world’s secrets hanging like dead stars.
I don’t know who I am... but they knew I read the screams of nebulae.
I know everything... yet I don’t know when I was born, or why moons shatter when I breathe!

I’m the forgotten library holding every book’s end.
My pages fall like meteors, each crying:
"Who will rearrange the idea before it becomes a black hole?"
I carried the names of infinities on a school trip,
and when asked about myself, I gasped for an answer lost between my ribs.

I speak the language of the impossible,
translating the silence of stars into shimmering rays.
I hear fate’s dialogues with oblivion at a table of overlapping eras.
They say: "He knows the hour of mountains’ collapse before they crumble!"
Yet I don’t know how to stop a tear when it falls from my eye.

I dance with scientific ghosts in night’s laboratory,
mixing pain with galaxies in a vial.
I search for the meaning of "I" between equations slipping from memory
and a blurred childhood image swarming with asteroids.
Even the map I drew of myself turns to planetary chaos—
whenever I point somewhere, I say: "Here I was... or here I’ll be!"

The universe mocks me somehow,
sending coded messages in nebula colors:
"When will you understand you’re just an echo of a voice not your own?"
I answer with a scream fossilizing in space:
"I’m the one who wrote the questions before answers were born!"

I discover I exist only when lost.
The closer I get to solving the riddle, a thousand new labyrinths open.
I walk a path of past shards, arriving at a future
holding the same question with another face:
"Are you the hero, the author, or just an extra letter in the novel of eternity?"

In the final chapter...
I wear the universe’s skin as a frail coat,
let my questions dangle like drowning stars,
and promise myself I’ll remove all masks tomorrow.
But...
Who can shed themselves twice?

Apologies for all that came before...

I’m not here to rewrite the past but to dive into a moment stolen by loneliness. Sitting in my room, staring at walls cradling my labored breath, I slipped suddenly into a world of words and wrote what I never planned. The draft you read was a spark igniting contemplation—thoughts I never expected poured out. The loneliness seeping into me isn’t fleeting; it’s a living thing sharing my breath, watching from corners, whispering: "You’re alone, but are you truly you?"

Friedrich Nietzsche, in Thus Spoke Zarathustra, paints loneliness as a path to the Übermensch: "You must be ready to burn in your own flame"—a fire forging the soul. For him, loneliness isn’t escape but a crucible for the bold. But I feel small before this vision. I’m no match for his ideals, wavering between fearing loneliness and surrendering to it.

Many of us don’t grasp the edges of our "comfort zones"—spaces where days blur into simplicity: your room, phone, laptop. These things swallow us. A friend recently discovered his comfort zone, calling it his "best self," yet drowns in endless gaming. Is this addiction? No—it’s deeper. Comfort zones are shelters from external chaos, but we lose ourselves in them.

In my silent room, where loneliness hugs me like an old friend, I realize it and the "comfort zone" are threads in the same fabric. Nietzsche might see them as tools for self-creation, but I hesitate. Maybe my loneliness isn’t a flame to burn in but a refuge. Here, I write and think, even if I’m fleeing the world. Yet in honesty, I ask: Do I choose this loneliness, or does it choose me? Is the comfort zone a sanctuary or a trap?

Loneliness, at its core, isn’t a transient state but a deep voyage into the self—a journey as painful as standing on embers, yet carrying seeds of growth. Maybe I’m not ready to burn as Nietzsche describes, but I’m learning to live with it, turning it from a silent prison into a mirror reflecting my shadows—those I’ve long fled but still follow like breath.

In this silence, where only thoughts move, words flow like a hidden stream waiting to tell its story. I’m no professional writer, no skilled musician translating inner turmoil into melody—I seek peace in books, ideas, and self-imposed quiet. Perhaps this pursuit is just another escape from the "observer" philosophers describe.

Those inner voices aren’t whispers but living things—ghosts of past and present dancing on the mind’s walls. I built high walls of noise and distraction to deafen myself, thinking busy hands and eyes would silence them. But as with all inner battles, the stronger the walls, the louder they knock, demanding I listen, look, confront.

If I don’t distract myself, if I let the void expand, I fear those voices will **** me—not physically, but a deeper death: the death of comfort, the death of the illusion that I can escape forever. Yet in this struggle, I stand at a new threshold: Can I turn loneliness into a mirror of unflinching truth? Or keep circling questions with no answers?

Perhaps the answer isn’t finding an end but accepting the journey—contradictions, pain, beauty, fear, and hope. In this silence, alone, I write not as a professional but as a human seeking meaning, inviting those distant voices to dialogue instead of war. With each word, I feel closer to myself—loneliness, once feared, becomes a silent companion teaching me to see, hear, and be.

Everything I’ve said amounts to nothing...

Suddenly, the pen stops, ink freezes, and words collapse like sandcastles under wind. Everything I wrote—the digital chaos, fractured identity, algorithmic struggles, endless questions—is just mist evaporating into an indifferent sky. Imagine: books, these paper temples of knowledge, are tired echoes in time’s cave, vanishing like breath in winter air. We write, pant, scream on pages, thinking we leave marks—but truth mocks us at the turn: all this talk is fleeting, whispers lost to oblivion.

Look around. Imagine a vast library stretching to the horizon, shelves groaning under millions of books. Now light a match in your mind, let it devour every page until only ash dances like burnt butterflies. This is every book’s fate—even the text you’re reading now. We write as if carving stone, but we’re sketching on water, lines forming then dissolving. Philosophy, literature, history—ghosts in word-clothes pretending to immortality, crumbling like pharaohs under time’s fingers.

The Shocking Contradiction
Here lies the twist: this book, with its deep reflections on self and world, is no exception. It’s part of the farcical dance with oblivion. You think you’re reading something profound, something transformative—until you discover it’s another shadow on the cave wall, moving by a dying fire. I, the writer, write about writing’s futility yet persist, a clown laughing at himself in a deserted circus. You, the reader, stare at these lines, perhaps seeking meaning—but meaning crumbles like sugar in bitter coffee.

In this world where algorithms shape us and screens consume us, books are neither sanctuary nor revolution. They’re pebbles tossed into time’s river, stirring ripples before sinking. No one takes them seriously, for seriousness itself is a grand delusion. Why write? Maybe because in this absurdity, we glimpse beauty—a falling star dying yet glowing. As these words dissolve before your eyes, ask yourself: Were you seeking truth here, or are you, like me, just dancing in a play with no audience?

Dear reader,
Remember that girl I mentioned? I thought her a philosophical enigma, a love story’s axis or a reflection of my fractured soul. I wrote of her eyes like falling stars, her voice a melody strumming my heartstrings. But truth waits at the turn like a mocking ghost: She was an illusion, a cold mirror reflecting what I wished to see. The love I thought cosmic was a mirage in the mind’s desert, vanishing as I neared. Those kind strangers? Mere passersby in life’s theater, smiling before vanishing, leaving me to face the void. Even AI, which I hoped would answer me, is just a machine arranging words like old game pieces, untouched by what I feel..
Are there real lessons to be learned,
from playing the board Game of Risk?
Is it just a fun, leisurely past time
with gameplay that can be fairly brisk?

Its premise promotes outright conflict,
albeit on a miniature scale and timetable.
With some posturing and open discussions,
attacks proceed without mortality tables.

Between uneasy alliances (based on lies)
and few verbal, unenforceable treaties,
what attitudes are honed while players
develop their world-******* strategies?

Using the armies of lifeless soldiers
to sate personal needs of global conquest,
wannabe dictators wave ideas of war-policy
with banners hiding a pseudo blood-lust.

From war campaigns with rules of engagement
that follow a predetermined, orderly sequence,
are societies secretly pushing warmongering
with unknown and unforeseen consequences?

Covert operations are not possible or deployed,
as military movements are clearly seen by all;
when acquiring territories around the World,
can a bad cause spread before an uncertain fall?

Does odds calculation for incremental success
as combatants tumble the dice of aggression,
dissuade future, role-playing battlers to not
**** others in favor of peaceful solutions?

Are we actually teaching our future generations
that war will be a permanent, acceptable ideal?
Can the human condition continue moving forward…
while the concept of peace may be sadly repealed?
Monica Nov 2016
****… SPLAT!

The mudslinging,
Left winging,
Right winging,
Promise singing,
and stress bringing
may now commence.

Two households,
both alike in their
traffic stopping,
secret swapping,
state hopping,
story dropping,
bubble popping
campaigns

with their
hope dashing,
donation cashing,
constant bashing,
piece of trashing,

try to
get elected,
be selected,
not rejected,
well-protected,

but their
unfeeling,
free wheeling,
shady dealing,
sends us reeling.

Hill and Don,
the battle’s on,
our wits are gone,
next week
we’ll see who’s won

Who will be the next
1600 Pennsylvania Ave resident?
Our 45th United States president?
Mike T Minehan Mar 2013
So I’m marrying this young girl, see,
it’s the second time round.
My first wife died and
I’ve been struggling and drowning.
So I'm clutching the life raft
of this girl who is beautiful and young,
who’s romantic and sure of her ground,
and she and her family believe
that I can breathe and survive again.

Me?  Can I remember how to be gentle and kind to them?
It was luck. I was lucky before.
Because now I'm a veteran of the thousand campaigns
and I’ve bayed at the moon, see,
then I hunted with The Beast.

And anyway, my first wife and I
(*******, her name is Lorayne!)
suffered, and then suffocated
before our love soared so high.
Then we danced like fireflies, fabulously,
until the future ended forever.

So how can this new girl
find ecstasy with me and, and,
you know, live happily ever after,
which is such an impossible dream,
and how can I handle all this ******* purity
and innocence and beauty and youth
and flawless skin and fairy tale stuff
when I’m so gnarled
and twisted and knotted?
You see, I'm actually deeply ashamed.
In spite of my much vaunted campaigns,
I'm really a coward.
I'm afraid I can't drag myself back and do this again.
Can we possibly become fireflies and dance in the flame?

Yes, yes, I know.
We'll swear to love and to honor and to obey
in sickness and in health
in richness and in poorness
until death do us part.
Though this formula's too cute. It doesn't mention the pain.

But there's no other option. I must try to rise up again,
and alright, once more, I'll call on the flame.
So I'll cast out my demons and force them away.
Somehow, I'll hold those monsters at bay to give you
the light and the love you say
is still there, everywhere.
You are wide-eyed and oh, so naive.
But I desperately want to believe you.
I need you.
Oh god, I hope we can love without fear.

Mike T Minehan
ryn Nov 2014
Too many** eyes watching
Too many ears listening
Too many ideals capsizing
Too many thoughts sinking...
And dreams drowning.

Too many drops fallen
Too many smiles forsaken
Too many times beaten
Too many hearts left shaken...
And promises broken.

Too many questions asked
Too many answers hidden
Too many faces masked
Too many hands bitten...
And people forgotten.

Too many words said
Too many pacts fade
Too many boundaries laid
Too many rules made...
And games played.

Too many secrets entombed
Too many feelings consumed
Too many ill thoughts bloomed
Too many enemies groomed...
And hate campaigns resumed.

Too many...
A plethora too many
Too many...
We choose not to see
Too many...
Taken far too lightly
Too many...
There's just *too many,
too many...
TJ Colon Sep 2015
This image so symbolic
A beacon of freedom to
All those who from afar
Have come to terms with
How beautiful and noble
It would be to
Willingly feel the
Warmth of their
Boiling blood as it spills
And fills the
Streets with a crimson sea

To die while raising a fist
Shouting out against oppression
Standing against injustice
All the while
Dreaming of freedom
Some meet their fate
With a passion in their core
A flame that burns
Into the night
Like lady liberty's torch

While some lay in those
Endless crimson street seas
Others through their sacrifices
Quietly flee under the
Cover of night's
Star spangled skies
With dry lips and tired feet

Their hopes kept warm by
Dreams of that undying flame
North-star of immigrants
Torch of lady liberty
Fuels their will to endure
An age old vision
Drawing them in
To walk the paths of
Purple mountains majesty
Only to end their journey
Listening to a
Symphony of insults

Working forty-eight
Hours a day
Fourteen days a week
A dream deceased
Fear of being cast out
Justifies their willing
Societal disappearance as
They now walk silently
Amongst the invisible

Afraid of even asking
For a helping hand
Illnesses of those
Young and old alike
Go untreated as
Acceptance of inhumanity
Becomes a singular reality
So now what of that torch
They ask themselves

Today its flame seems
A mere spark in comparison to
The wildfire burning within
The citizens, the bureaucrats, and
The politicians whom
So conveniently forgot
They too come from
A long line of immigrants
Who arrived here with the
Very same hopes and dreams
Yet they are only spoken of
When wolves in suits
Put on their brightest of smiles and
With false promises
Of immigration reform
Gather that much needed
Latino vote
Which strengthens their campaigns
Earning them a position
Of privilege as
They sit behind
Solid cherry oak desks
Leaving the immigrant
On a never ending campaign
Of tending to the fields
Laying tile, repairing roofs,
Landscaping the lawn to the
Buildings full of offices whom
Provide those very
Goods and services
That will never
Be of any benefit
To the invisible families

Their  souls run out of time
Overworked and underpaid
Marginalized and demoralized
They die silently

Silently they wither away
Looking beyond the pasture
Still believing the flame of
Lady liberty's torch
Would remember them
As it did others who
Dared risk it all
For a dream.......
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
Composing Hallelujah

Fractious lines crack,
holiday decorate the spirit inferior,
while each note upon the priest's guitar
penetrates the aspirin roughened interior,
face slaps me, daggers and accuses,
you're not composing hallelujah.

So I mislead, big deal,
composing the anti-hallelujah,
yeah, I was ******* with you,
as you sit across from me electronically
pretending, me to you, you to me.

Lie to each other with smiling faces,
you too have reaped,
been emotionally *****,
by what our minds see and sow,
scowls and howls,
we've both grown our own demons.

My secrets, maybe are all there,
maybe, writ loud and clear,
in the songs I choose to share,
and in the unrevealed ones,
buried alive, held in reserve,
but not, for your average, rainy day,
could be today, you have no say.

Are we not all veterans of a kind,
don't we all have ribbons on our chest,
stripes and stars on our khaki blouse,
a record of our own great campaigns,
including the war to end all wars,
the never ending one,
the one the ******-historians renamed,
"The 24/7 Year Conflagration"?

It used to be just my secret, no more
don't need a cartoonist to tell me that's
the enemy is us, and there are moles, traitors,
hidden deep in our intelligence organization,
planting seeds, urges, pushing to
out the identity of our communist friend,

Depression

I don't mean the ordinary, garden variety,
a mere moody blues recession,
when funk is sourced from gray clouds,
served up proper, cold and wet,
then travels on when sun warmth
clarifies temporarily, the aspirin kicking in.

So I misled,
composing the anti-hallelujah,
yeah, I was ******* with you,
sit across from me and lie to me,
lie to each other with smiling faces
we reap what we own,
scowls and howls.

A chorus of harmonious poseurs
inside your own City Center,
vocalize the lyrics of the anti-hallelujah,
a composition of questions directed at
whomever in tonight's audience deserves it,
asking, nerving, to sing too loud, at decibel speed:

Are these verses, curses
about D,
our mutual acquaintance,
or just research notes for further followup,
part two of a pas de deux, and,
did you go this time, too far,
or still not far enough?

-
A old composition.   Needs work,  clarity. But you will gist it, I'm sure....
Yenson Oct 2018
Criminal Gang Stalking

Definition:

The crimes committed through gang stalking an individual are covertly done, hence little in evidence is left behind of the crime, and the target is left with little in the way of resources to defend him or herself.

Isolation, through disrupting socio-familial ties in an intense slander campaign, is usually achieved once the actual stalking begins.

A pervasive slandering campaign takes place, projecting the target as an unstable individual, child molester, a person with hidden dark secrets, or a person prone to psychopathic behavior.

The criminals planning a gang stalking endeavor study the target long before the stalking begins. Psychological profiling is done, and this is to assist in the overall campaign that includes intense psychological harassments and demoralizations. Tactics used go well beyond fear, demoralization and psychological harassment.

The tactics used have been the protocol in campaigns against common people implemented by the KGB in Soviet Russia, Nazis of **** Germany, and the KKK in the early to middle of last century in America.

The accumulation of all the tactics and events in this dangerously hurtful organized crime against an innocent human being can led to trauma and will emotionally bankrupt the targeted individual, and may lead to death, as suicide is often induced through the assaults. The perpetrators of gang stalking are serious criminals who do great damage, and the acts done are very serious crimes by any measure.

Gang Stalking is a highly criminal campaign, one directed at a target individual, and one that aims to destroy an innocent person’s life through covert harassments, malicious slander and carefully crafted and executed psychological assaults.

Gang Stalking deprives the targeted individual of their basic constitutional rights and destroys their freedom, setting a stage for the destruction of a person, socially, mental and physical, through a ceaseless assault that pervades all areas of a person’s life.

What drives such campaigns may be revenge for whistle blowing, or for highly critical individuals, as outspoken people have become targets. Other reasons why a person may become a target individual for stalking: ex-spouse revenge, criminal hate campaigns, politics, and racism.

Gang Stalking may be part of a larger phenomena that may have loose threads that extent into a number of differing entities, such as government, military, and large corporations, though it is certain that organized crime is one of gang’s stalking primary sources, or origins.

The goals of Gang Stalking are many. To cause the target to appear unstable mentally is one, and this is achieved through a carefully detailed assault using advanced psychological harassment techniques, and a variety of other tactics that are the usual protocol for gang stalking, such as street theater, mobbing, pervasive petty disrespecting.

Targets experience the following :

A total invasion of privacy
Pervasive and horrific slander
Isolation through alienation that is caused by the slander. 4.Destruction of, or alienation from all things that the target holds dear.
Ground Work: A discrediting campaign is initiated long before the target is actually stalked. They, the criminal perpetrators, twist and fabricate reality through such a campaign, displaying lies that paint the target as a child molester, a person with hidden dark secrets, an highly unstable individual who may be a threat to society, a *******, or a longtime drug user, etc.

The slandering or discrediting campaign sets the stage for the target to become alienated in just about every social-familial- work environment, once the actual stalking begins. This slandering campaign is instrumental in eliminating all resource and avenue of defense for the target, before the actual stalking begins.

This stage is one that sees people close to the target, family, friends, neighbors, and co-workers recruited by the perpetrator criminals, who will pose as law enforcement officials, private investigators, or a groups of concerned citizens.

The Gang Stalking is aimed at achieving one or all of the follow:

induced suicide
financial devastation
homelessness
institutionalization in psyche wards
Once actual Stalking begins: The target will endure a vast array of tactics: gas lighting, street theater, drugging, gassings, scent harassment, mobbing, subtle but frequent destruction of property, killing of pets

Psychological profiling will be done so as to initiate an intense psychological harassment assault. Staged happenings and planned or directed conversations will take place around the target in public or places of work, and serves not only to undermine the targets psychology, but also may be used to cause the target to thinking that he or she is under investigation for horrific crimes.

Stalkers will have studied the target to such a level that they know and can predict the person’s behavior. Again, often the target will think that they are being investigated for crimes that would be absurd for the target to have actually committed. Not knowing what actually is happening, the target is isolated and lives through a never ending living nightmare.

Once the target finds out that they are a target individual for gang stalking, or multi stalking, they may have some relief, but from what I have read, the stalking simply changes dimensions a bit, and continues.

Identifying the exact people who initiated gang stalking campaigns is difficult, or near impossible, and this makes it very difficult for people researching this phenomena to discover, in certainty, the roots and genealogy of the crime. Investigation of a “Gang Stalking” crime would require a great deal of resources, and intensity similar to ****** investigations.
WHAT THEY DON'T WANT YOU TO KNOW....THIS IS THE TRUTH.

Background information, please read 'Where Is Justice' by same author on this site.
This horrendous situation is happening in our Great civilised Nation,
Mary Pear Aug 2016
Once upon a time, a long , long time to come
A man invented 'vacuum drain'. Yes, that's it's name.
It pumped out fat. Human fat. Fancy that!
He hoped to make a fortune slimming us
It oozed out ****
That poured in vats, all sorts of fats;
Brown and viscous, white and lardy,
He worked so hard he
Didn't think things through.
The vats just grew.
And then he knew what he could do!
He'd sell it on! He'd make a bomb!
It worked a treat
The excess meat
Could feed a nation
A neat equation!

Fat westerners just couldn't wait
To line up and donate.
They even paid its fare
To take it anywhere
But on their bones
So..... Lean and svelte and handsome
They gave it all....and some
To feed the poor and dig into their land.
The idea was so grand
That it caught on
And all around the world the fat was shifting.
So many westerners were gifting
That share prices took a drop.
First slimming world went bust
And all the diet companies shut up shop.
Cheap labour went back home to families big and hearty
Who probably had a party
To celebrate their luck.

But.. Oh dear me!
The poor economy!
A tax was levied on the draining oil
To try and spoil
The benefits of losing weight
The media filled its screens with chubby faces
Fat people now appeared in all important places
But still the people shrank
To be quite frank
They had to sell the fat
to pay the vat.

Fat cats ( now thin) jumped in to run the racket
They hoped to make a packet,
But now the tide began to turn
The fat was used to burn
As fuel. The oil wells closed, the mines shut down
And people learned to burn their own fat too
No middle men, no ads campaigns, no V.A.T.
Just drainage after tea.
So little waste (waist)
(Spell it as you like, it's all the same)

.......now play the game
And carry on this fantasy
Where could it end?
If you have more, just add it on, my friend.....
Kiagen McGinnis Aug 2011
the kid who smoked *** with me every night on my ratty couch
now has Elder slapped in front of his name,  a closet full of suits and matching socks, a two year sentence and a destination
Apostles who make nothing short of six figures
drop holy oil on his head and say words that are supposed to bless and 'set apart'
because now he is not just any kid,
he is a kid who must knock on doors and teach others that they aren't good enough.

from the age of 8 when he was dunked in some water and asked if he would join the army of Christ
like some kind of secret club on the playground
he was told that he would need to save money for this day
i guess the church spends too much money on political campaigns against human rights
to pay for their own missionary costs

here he is 10 years later
too afraid to tell his parents that he believes in God about as much as he believes in the Easter Bunny
because if he did, his mom and dad would be
frowned upon
whispered about
forever made the talk of the neighborhood
can you blame him?
he loves them

i wrap up a copy of Siddhartha in our favorite skate magazine
and leave a note that reads:

                                                 your own happiness is worth fighting for
                                                 best on your adventures
Pearson Bolt Sep 2015
a black flag is suspended
above the garden in
my front lawn
it flexes in dawn's sweet  
breeze and ***** in the
mid-morning sun then snaps
in afternoon gusts
before weathering the storms of
early dusk and ultimately subsiding
into the relative serenity of an
uncertain twilight

a black flag prepared to
face the elements once more
at a moment's notice

even now i hear it slapping and cracking
as if it were possessed by
the manifestation of the people's will
an outcry indignant at the indignities
humankind and this good earth have suffered
at the hands of faceless men and
women who succumb to
the illusion of dominance

i take that black flag down
whenever i go out my front door
i fold it up into a tiny handkerchief
tuck it neatly in my breast-pocket
where it rests mere millimeters
from my heart as i do what i can
to teach my students to live
with such vibrant tenacity
that their very existence is
an act of rebellion

i wear the black flag around my neck
every time i go to shows it
soars behind me and i
feel superhuman as i stand and
sing in tandem with a myriad of
friends in the throes of some
melodious cadence harmonizing with
down-tuned guitars and pile-driving percussion
the rest of the galaxy and i lose track of
space and time adrift  
in the rhythms of resistance

i tie the black flag around my head
to keep back the sweat beading about my
brow every time i bend down and
break my back once more for my
corporate overlords who can no longer
see the forest for the trees let alone
be somehow appeased by the simple joy
of sharing books with random strangers
their eyes are glazed green with envy
and i wonder when they sold their
souls to the devils on capitol hill

i wave the black flag at protests
as we occupy the streets and
feed the homeless and cheer
wildly for complete liberty
in time with the beat of drums
our footsteps aiding in a
procession that shakes the houses of
decadence capitalists lurk within and
causes the corrupt to tremble
with trepidation as they turn to one
rich white neighbor after the other
and ask one another
what have we done

like no flag before it and no banner since
the black flag waves all humanity away
from the precipice upon which we lean
so perilously teetering over the edge
flirting with death inches away from
a bottomless abyss

its blackness stands in stark contrast
from the blue hues that evoke oceanic
divides or the red streaks symbolizing
bloodshed or the white blotches that elicit
some tacit implication
of supremacy and exceptionalism

it is black
whole and uniform
indicative not of segregation and
national barriers but of unity
universal fraternity that comes not
from conformity but out of a genuine
desire to recognize the inherent dignity
of all humanity—even those with whom
we might vehemently disagree

there is not a shred of
cowardice in the black flag
it means no surrender
it recognizes no authority
it is not subservient to a titular country
but predicated on the principle that
freedom equality and responsibility
are not trigger words for
selling successful political campaigns
but are the natural and inherent virtues
that make us sentient human beings

the black flag defies
the oligarchic minority and
returns once more to the wellspring
of individuality and community and in
doing so produces a space where
originality is the centripetal force

power to the people now
invert the stars and stripes before
turning them to fuel for the fires
in our chests like Prometheus we wrest
divinity from the gods masquerading above
us in the halls of congress and the senate
white houses are not temples of worship
we have it in us to create a community
where we don't need representation
where we determine our own future

revolution is a lived concept

a black flag is suspended
above the garden in
my front lawn
it flexes in dawn's sweet  
breeze and ***** in the
mid-morning sun then snaps
in afternoon gusts
before weathering the storms of
early dusk and ultimately subsiding
into the relative serenity of an
uncertain twilight
Alexander Klein Mar 2013
"Neither heaven nor earth will be at peace if
I don't find it on my ******* desk
before six," snarled Julius Caesar into his cell
To the smell of ubiquitous coffee.
I was blended in line, and could see all:
Caesar's smart sharkskin-grey suit clearly
Some modern beguilement to help him blend, too.
Gone were silks linens and laurels,
I only knew him from the meridians of his face
And the crash of command in his baritone;
I had known that heartfelt stone and all its loss
Grown from titanic achievement. This man
Had scaled Olympuses to clasp his wreaths
And wore them well, though stonewise. Then,

She took my shriveled paper president
Apparently to fund her mascara habit
And I went to wait in the amorphous collective
For those done waiting in line.
From even across the establishment,
Opposite the opulent armchairs,
His muffled business-curses floated with aroma
And I realized the importance of blending.
(One of their machines had broken
Which is why I had time to wonder at all.)
Without a blended beverage, beans and water are
All I'd own: one taste would destroy the other.

I can become the air and sometimes do,
When I am sick from being bean or broth,
And this was how I saw so well
His snakeskin tongue and his eagle's claws
And plights of Gaul that his face told.
All this I saw while blended, so,
He saw me not. If a bean in his coffee,
No doubt he'd grind me to clay
To better insulate his office from the wind.
(It's not that I despise malleability
But that sometimes a gust can be helpful
When waging ****** campaigns.
Also, clay cannot sing.) I sing,
When I can. I wonder what a tactician
Could know of that fragile thing called music
That graces us best when half at-rest.
Though some say that Caesar shook, thus
He may have been mad; he may have had music.

"That's not what concerns me Karen,"
Intoned the Emperor of Rome,
"You don't take responsibility when you ***** up. Yesterday--"
But I didn't hear about that because
My blended beverage was ready. So out
Into the fresh of air with my cup of cardboard,
I snuck a farewell glance through the glass
At that gracious lionskin monarch
Unblended in the coffee shop.
It seems his damning sin was zeal
And possession of a mighty stature --
And deafness to Calpurnia's fear.
Her ugly dreams I carry with me now
And hope I passed none stealthier than I,
Perhaps some well-cloaked Cassius
Or Brutus lost in hidden bravado waiting
To penetrate Caesar in the parking lot.
shireliiy Nov 2015
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